I was sitting outside today (on quite a lovely day, by the way) listening to the chatter of my 1st graders as they played on the playground. I never tire of hearing their little voices (yes, that's true). If they aren't saying something funny, usually they are saying something pretty deep.
Nothing deep was being sad as they flitted from play area to play area, but one distinct voice I heard over the other children, repeating the same thing several times. These group of girls were playing house. Now, I'm sure you are picturing sweet little girls, who are pretend-wearing aprons, cooking dinner, cleaning house, running errands, changing diapers, feeding baby, etc, in a pretty little white house with a picket fence. No harm done in thinking that...I used to play like that. But there is something distinctly different about these children and me. I am white. They are black. I love them like the precious treasures they are, in my sight, in their parent's sight, and in God's sight. But we are very, very different. It has nothing to do with the color from which our skin was made. No, it goes a lot deeper than that.
These precious children were born and live in some of the roughest, toughest, most dangerous parts of town (aka the ghetto). Here's a staggering fact for you: the three mischievous little boys in my class? Boys like them, who grow up where they grow up, are usually (by age 16) either in jail or murdered. Murdered. Did you hear that? My precious little ones....murdered? It brings me to tears even to think that could be what happens to them. Every ounce of my being wants something better for them. Hopefully, this little school is a step in the right direction, Praise Jesus!
But I'm not talking about snips and snails and puppy dog tails. My boys are precious. But this story is about a little girl. We'll just call her Bee. She's sweet. She's very amiable. She's very agreeable. She's feisty and full of sass, too. There is no more obvious place to see that than on the playground.
At this particular moment, one little girl was asking Bee, well, was harassing Bee, "Are you going to be my mamma?? Are you going to be my mamma?" I smiled, listening to the banter.
Then my thoughts began to drift back to a similar scene a few days earlier on the playground. Little girls were running around, playing house (you know, most little girls do that), and above the banter and noise, I heard Bee being called "Mamma".
The wheels in my mind began turning. This little girl, who's home life is pretty rough, is doing what she knows she can do - play Mamma. Whether she's seen a good example of "mamma" or not, that is what she knows she can do on the playground. She knows how to be a mamma, in her eyes. And what's saddest of all, is that, in rough places like where my little ones live, sweet little girls turn into young mammas all to easily.
After watching a few more minutes, I noticed she was a fairly good little mamma. In reference to the children, I didn't hear her yell too much, there was no violence, and she seemed to be very aware of what was going on. However, the gravity of the situation hit home, and I couldn't help but think, for the rest of the day, that my sweet little Bee would be a momma some day. I am praying that the Lord protects her and lets her grow into an adult before she is burdened with that responsibility. But more importantly, I am praying that she learns how to be a good woman, make good decisions, and protect herself.
Please be praying for my sweet Bee and all my other sweet treasures that the Lord has plans for. Let His Will be done in their life.
Joshua 1:9
"Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest."
Proverbs 22:6
"Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it."
