A few days ago as I was walking with a few of the neighborhood kids, one of my girls holding my hand looked at me and said, “I ain’t tryin to be racist or nothin, but you’re a real good white girl”. I tried to suppress my laughter while graciously accepting her very unique compliment. I’m not sure what qualifies one as a “really good white girl”, but I’m pretty sure if this little girl could see how messy and selfish my heart is most of the time, she wouldn’t place me in this category. Lucky for her and me both, I’m able to mask my depravity behind a smile or a quick witted joke much of the time. On one particular day I spent with the kids a couple of weeks ago, however, I had a much harder time disguising the true nature of my heart.
It was our last day with our last mission team, and it also happened to be one of the hottest afternoons Chicago had seen in six years. I met the team, a group of Texas teens visiting Chicago on a choir tour, in the park and prepped them for the service project we were about to undertake. As I explained that we’d be visiting local businesses offering to clean their toilets for free, several of the younger street kids I know ran up and asked to join. Sure, what a great idea to let the kids take part in our service! Ha. Unless you’re as naïve as me, you can probably guess what’s going to happen next.
I enthusiastically set off from the park, holding the hands of four sweet kiddos ranging in age from 4 to 8, with a group of about 30 teens trailing behind me, feeling something like General Grant leading the troops. Did I say Grant? I meant Custer. We were immediately halted by a film crew that had blocked off the street we were on, inadvertently trapping us in the scene, and the director wasn’t too excited that he would now have 30 kids in matching bright blue mission team shirts in his shot. So, we waited and looked on as a stunt driver sped a police car past us. We waited. And we perspired. The sun beat down and I watched as my team’s spirits wilt in the heat. Finally, I persuaded the director to let us move on and we marched onward. Armed with their potty polishing weaponry, my group split off and began making their way from business to business offering their free services.
By this time however, my little tagalongs were feeling the heat and getting restless. Four year old Richi tugged on my arm over and over in an effort to make me acutely aware of his discomfort. The girls initiated a three-way competition for my attention, clamoring for my free hand, or my arm, or my back. When they realized that the mission teams were getting a brief respite from the heat by entering air conditioned businesses, they rushed into an upscale clothing boutique on the heels of one of the groups. Within seconds Dooka was in the display window pounding on the glass, Richi was dodging beneath racks of shirts that probably cost more than my car, and Toochie and Tee-tee were jumping on a couch. I wish I was exaggerating. I frantically grabbed their little wrists and attempted to direct them back out the door. When that didn’t work I started begging. Store owners took one look at my little clan of hooligans and anxiously looked around for the adult responsible for these street urchins. Their gaze landed on me, the unexpected leader of this ragtag crew. As I apologized and urgently hauled the kids back outside, I was hit by the stark realization that no matter how much Gilmore Girls I watch, I am not ready for motherhood. At least not if it involves adopting four small children all at one time and parenting them entirely on my own. Needless to say, the next hour involved much re-enacting of this same scene as we worked our way down the street. By the end of the afternoon, the mission team was exhausted, the kids were dehydrated, and I was exasperated.
As we trudged back to the park, I passed an actress walking through the set, and we made eye contact for a brief moment. Suddenly her flawless make-up and perfect hair made me painfully aware of my sweat drenched face, frizzy hair, and cotton sundress which no longer seemed as chic as it did when I put it on that morning. She sauntered off towards stardom, and I looked down at the wet plastic bag and used toilet brush I was carrying. Cue Bananarama’s "Cruel Summer".
I am positive that in that afternoon, my mask of being the capable, compassionate leader was utterly shattered with every stress-filled sigh and short response to a team member that I uttered. Anyone within ten feet of me must have felt tension and frustration radiating from me like heat waves. In fact, I’m pretty sure that no matter how hard I tried to disguise it, it became pretty evident that day that I’m human, and not a particularly “good” one at that. I’m thankful that the Lord gives us days like these and somehow gives us a desire to repeat them. I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded of my limits and incapability, but I’m thankful that the Lord reveals them so clearly to us anyway. And I’m very thankful for the hearts of the kids that came up to me later that afternoon and apologized for being so difficult. Sometimes they do a better job of imitating their Father than I do. Glad the Lord gave me enough sense to take a hint and learn from them.
