a child's cry.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

This has to be, what, my 5th? 6th year at Go-Camp? I have been touched and man-handled by Jesus every time. However, none can possibly compare to the past two days. All week I have been praying earnestly for brokenness; for deliverance from my past mistakes and relationships and self-inflicted guilt and shame, because I know without a doubt that I cannot be healed from that past unless the walls which I so diligently built up have been mercilessly torn down.
I began the week, this year as staff rather than a camper, focused solely on setting an example to the younger kids which surrounded me- mostly in worship. I looked around me, observing some of the other staff far ahead of me in my spiritual walk and praising God with such animation, and naturally did the same. Too bad I didn’t know any of the songs and felt like an idiot the whole time rather than focusing on the words that were coming out of my mouth and what they meant. I was too busy making sure my harmony was on, that I was sucking in my stomach and swaying back and forth on beat. It wasn’t until half way through the week that I realized that this is not how I worship. I am not this animated person who dances, who sings at the top of their lungs. I can’t sing! My worship is looking around me and God breaking my heart for the people- His children- that I see hurting and longing for the same fullness of the Spirit that I do. Prayers surge out of my mouth and tears stream down my face and I beg in desperation for God to acknowledge and bless His kids as they throw themselves at His feet. He meets us as we are, in all our filth and grubbiness.
As Friday rolls around, I get a text message from Whitney saying that we lost our house, the one I was supposed to be moving into the week after Go-Camp, because Danna backed out of the deal. Anger is aroused and the landlord rips me apart when I call for more clarification. I notice bumps in places they shouldn’t be, as I try and prepare myself for the reality that I might have something which will stay with me for the rest of my life, making my housing situation seem miniscule.
Today was our carnival, the outreach we have been practicing for all week and finally are able to perform and minister to people who live right next to the church. We went to Manitou Park. A little after dinner, I found a quiet sunny spot on the grass and just lay down for a couple minutes, and prayed. I prayed for peace, for strength to find joy in my trials and rejoice in my weaknesses and tribulations. Pastor Lance leaned over as I opened my eyes for a second, and simply asked if I was ok. I assured him yes.
The swings seemed to be my main attraction. As the rest of the camp began to tear down the carnival we had been running since 2pm, I took little Rebecca to the kiddy swings and the second I set her in that swing, a little girl who would change my life ran up from out f nowhere, and with a beaming smile, asked for ‘up’ and lifted her arms as I picked her up and set her in the swing right next to Rebecca, and began to push.
First, please let me tell you of my love for children. Children are the one group of people- little people, in their case- who can make a heart such as mine that has been calloused and hardened for ages completely melt in an instant. I have a list of my top ten favorite things: conversation being number one, laughing being second, and children being third. I won’t go into the other seven, but trust me, they’re good. Children were always drawn to me too, latching themselves onto me, claiming me as their best friend. Yasmeen, for example, is my five year old best friend. She is my old assistant basketball coach’s daughter and well, very possessive. She calls me, leaves me voicemails, everything. And I could not ask for a more loyal best friend.
Kayvon and I talked about a lot of things as she swung. She was a smart and absolutely gorgeous 3 year old, who looked exactly like Yasmeen, and her name was Kayvon. Kayvon loved to swing. She always insisted on ‘higher, higher’ as she laughed. The ice cream truck served as a main topic of conversation for a while and she strained to try and see it at each high point of her back-and-forth motion, screaming for joy if she could spot the bright yellow speaker atop a similarly colored roof. We expressed a common love for Spongebob ice cream, and decided that if we both had had any money, that is what we would get. Music started behind me, as the worship team was getting ready to start the second session, and she insisted upon dancing, the only thing that could have possibly gotten her out of that swing. Like I said, the girl loved to swing.
We walked hand in hand over to the little patch of pavement where the worship team was set up and as the music started, we began to, naturally, get our groove on. She mimicked my every move. She clapped when I did, and wherever I clapped. We must have gone through the whole ‘head, shoulders knees and toes’ motions over and over again. She grabbed both of my hand as we danced in a circle of two. Ethan kinda scooted over, returning my smile [which, by the way, hadn’t left my face since I had met her] and asked where she came from. Over there, I rolled my head in the direction of the swings and the playground. He looked around, watching for a searching parent or guardian and, confused, asked me again. This time I stopped dancing, realizing that I hadn’t seen her with anyone really. I led her back over to the playground, asking her who she was here with and where they were. Gramma brought her, with Auntie Denise and her brother Keanon- he was big, she said.
We began to walk around the perimeter of the park, as she made comments which truly disturbed me, comments saying that oh man, she had been left again. I was sure the black woman in the front row was her gramma and Kayvon just must have not seen her. I had seen the woman sitting right by the swing set as I had pushed her before, she even commented in on part of Kayvon’s and my conversation. But the woman denied any relation to my new little friend. This confirmed the sick feeling that was starting to well up in the pit of my stomach.
I set her back in the swings as I told Liane that Kayvon didn’t know where her gramma went. She and Warren watched Kayvon as I went to go do my dance, although I never took my eyes off of Kayvon the whole time. I went immediately back to her after the dance was finished, as she ran to me after being surrounded by strangers for a good 5 minutes. Liane had called the police and said they were on their way. I began to pray. Hard.
People began to surround the little “lost” girl, asking her questions and crowding around us. Her eyes got bigger and stared only at me. I asked for people to clear out, that Kayvon was getting scared. I saw a police car pull up and Liane motioned for me to bring her over as she gave the officer the information I had told her. Her full name was Kayvon Katherine McField, age 3, turning 4 in September. She didn’t know her preschool’s name but her teacher was Miss Tanya. Mommy had broken her leg, when I asked how, she told me flatly that she ran into a car. Turns out that Mommy had been crossing Tacoma Avenue the night before at 11pm with Kayvon in the stroller to get her fix of heroin when she was hit by a car, missing Kayvon by only inches. Custody was transferred to her gramma that night. Only 14 hours later, Gramma didn’t realize she was missing.
When we finally coaxed her out of the swing, Kayvon clung to my neck after hitting her mouth on one of the chain links. Warren came over to take her to the officer and she screamed, her little hands grasping tighter to my shirt and burying her face in my shoulder. I held her for what felt like hours, I don’t know how long it really was. Teresa Atkins brought over some graham crackers for Kayvon to eat. She’d been by herself for hours and was starving. Teresa touched my arm and asked if I was ok. I thought I was. Moms surrounded me, watching this little girl cling to me amidst a whirlwind of confusion, ignorance and fear. I gave the officer my contact information in case CPS were to do an investigation, as vans came to take campers and staff back to PSCC. Eventually, Liane and I stood alone with the officer, the rest of the park deserted except for a few people tearing down amps and sounds equipment, and I gently- as well as reluctantly- handed Kayvon over to the officer to go in the front seat, heading back to Gramma’s. Well, Gramma’s was the last place I wanted that child to be. A 77 year old woman who had just left her in a park where we had found 100 sex offenders lived by did not, by any means, sound like a plan to me. I wanted that girl to never leave my arms again, much less go straight into those of a woman. He said he was going to see the reaction and sense the ‘alarm factor’ when he showed up on her doorstep. Alarm factor? She had enough time between the phone call letting her know he was coming and the time he got there to build up the sufficient ‘alarm’ necessary to be convincing! My heart was breaking for this little girl, so desensitized from the situation that had happened to her less than 24 hours before that she was willing to take love in any form it would come, even if it meant some random chick wearing a seemingly common t-shirt in the park that was willing to push her on the swings.
As Liane and I walked back to the car, she asked me how I was doing and set her hand gently on my back. Tears poured down my face upon contact, as I said anything, they can do anything to anyone, but NOT children. That was the one thing that I cannot tolerate. My heart continued to break, and not only for her, but for God’s children. Just the suffering and wrongs that must be endured that not did they not deserve, but weren’t even self-inflicted. For as long as I can remember, every hardship that I have ever gone through I believed to be self-inflicted- a result of a situation that I had gotten myself into either by choice or due to failure to do the right thing. but this child, this innocent and beautiful little girl who had just been taken from me to be sent back into the hands of someone- and I can say that yes, it could have been anyone’s accident leaving a child somewhere due to miscommunication, but when the stakes were so high is when I get a little flustered. Kids are my soft spot. End of story. And this one just so happen to have had enough time to make a big enough impact to where I saw myself in her. There she had been, wandering aimlessly around in search of some form of love in the midst of extreme danger, completely numb to the complete horrors she witnessed to those who were supposed to play that role in her life, when she has no choice but to succumb to the love of someone who sees her for what she is truly worth.
I can honestly say that if given the chance, I would have taken Kayvon home with me and kept her as my own, showing her what it is liked to be loved for what she is. Her mom, while she’s shooting up in the bedroom while her gorgeous daughter plays alone in front of the TV, has no idea of the beauty and intelligence that she is missing out on. She has absolutely no clue that the child she may see as a burden and a cut from her heroin savings to buy food for, is really an actual human being who is desperate for love.
I will continue to pray for Kayvon Katherine McField. I pray that no matter where she is or who she is with that she will always be reminded and assured that Someone loves her and has His hand on her life, keeping her protected from those who dare to refute the fact that her life is precious, that the daughter of a woman who hurts so much that she needs to remove herself mentally and emotionally from situations that she cannot herself take responsibility for would always be a precious child of God.
I don’t know that I’ll ever see Kayvon again, or if she’ll remember who I am or that Saturday even ever happened. But as Liane and I prayed over that little girl, we planted a seed in her that can only grow, and that I firmly believe will grow, and flourish too. My heart will continue to break for the children of God. This week I was reminded of two different passages which mean a whole lot more to me than they did before. The first is 2 Corinthians 12:7-10.
And lest I should be exalted above measure by the abundance of the revelation, a thorn in the flesh was given to me, a messenger of satan to buffet me lest I be exalted above measure. Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me. And He said to me “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in your weakness.” Therefore most gladly I will rather boast of my infirmities that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in my infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, He is strong.
The second in 1 Peter 5:10.
But may the God of all grace, who called us to His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after you have suffered for a while, perfect, establish, strengthen and settle you.
I learn to rejoice in my sufferings, because while not only does it strengthen me, is strengthens my testimony, allowing me to relate and minister- even if they don’t know it- to a wider variety of people. This week ends an extremely long spiritual dry spell for me, and begins an ongoing cycle of being completely submerged in the love of God, forcing myself to be dunked continuously underneath the surface of my flesh and in search of something deeper. For there is no greater gift than love, nor a greater weapon to fight a loveless world with.