The Child in Me

The children turn bright, intelligent eyes my way. I enter and it's like being a celebrity among midgets. Curly pigtails, long eyelashes, tousled tow heads, buzz cuts, and big eyes all follow my movements. A room of 20 kids is varied and hyper.

I've been asked to work with kids for the time being. I never planned on this; I never wanted the title of “teacher,” and yet here I am. It's where I'm at and where I've been asked to stay a while.
I think one reason it's hard is because small children show us the worst in ourselves. If you work with kids, and don't see the ugly, selfish, pathetic, petty you... then you aren't looking or seeing the children.

Let me give you some examples.

One day a girl was given her lunch, along with all the kids. A rare silence falls as they eat a mouthful or two before going crazy again. One little girl with chubby cheeks and pouty lips looked at her lunch in disgust and refused to eat anything. I open the bun of her sandwich to show her the ham and cheese inside.

“Can you try the sandwich? There's cheese in it!” but her only response to my overexcited cheese words, was to furrow her brow and turn toward her plate. The girl looked at the offensive sandwich and began to beat the bun with the flat of her palm.

“No! No! No! No! NO!” she chanted as she pummeled the unwanted before her.

And isn't that just like me when God puts something before me that I don't like?

I want what I want. I don't what I don't. I really am just a child.

In summer, a girl with curly pigtails revealed her obsession with her sunglasses. She brought her own everyday and some days never took them off. One emotional day, the glasses fell off her face, landing between her feet. The girl stared at her teacher, eyes flooding with tears as the sob filled her throat and overflowed in sorrow. The teacher tried to get the girl to look down and find them herself. But no. The girl looked upward, sobbing uncontrollably. Finally the teacher had to pick the sunglasses up and put them on her face. Only then did the child begin to calm down.

How like me when look at heaven and rail against what I'm missing, without looking down or around to see what I have missed! I'm very adulty, but the minute a crisis hits, do I lose all control? Do I stare at heaven and weep or look around for a solution?

I want what I want. I don't what I don't. I really am just a child.

One boy liked having daily melt downs. He'd stomp his feet and take a swing at me, screaming and wailing as if I'd killed his parents. After several minutes of not getting his way, I told him, “You are not in charge. Now stop, please.” As soon as the words left my lips, the Lord interjects into my so-much-more-mature-brain, “Yeah Shaina, you are not in control. So stop having tantrums at me when you don't get your way.”

How like a child I am. I want what I want. I don't what I don't.

Nap time consists of pandemonium and hellfire. Lunch clean up and children running and screaming. Water splashing and clothes needing changing and trying to scrub food off of faces. A flying shoe or stolen blanket, or even rotating cots around the room. Eventually they all lay down. Each child is covered with their blanket and rubbed, patted, or stroked to sleep.

For several weeks one boy wanted no one but me and would lay on his cot and whine for me. His mews of “rub me!” would begin before cleaning was done and continue until anyone put him to sleep. As I was busy rubbing two kids to sleep, the boy began his jealous calls across the room.

“Shaina, rub me. Rub me! SHAINA!” over and over again. Every few calls I'd remind him I was busy and he had to wait. It never ended.

“Shaina rub me!”
“Hang on, I'm not ready yet.”
“Shainarubme!”
“Shhh. Wait til your friends are asleep, then I will.”
“Shaina rub me!”

“I can't. Shhh. You're too loud.”
“Shaina rub me!”
“Soon. Hang on.”
“Shaina rub me!”

“You need to be patient.”

“Shaina rub me!”
“Shaina rub me!”
“Shainarubme!”

“Wait. I will. Just not yet. Hang on, please.”

“Shaina rub me!”

How like me and my Daddy Upstairs. I have several prayers that I pray daily. The answer to those prayers has been, “wait.” And yet I repeat that prayer. Again. Every time that issue bugs me. I pray it. And God says wait.
“God, I want this.”
“Wait, Shaina.”

“But, God. I want this.”
“Wait, hang on.”
“Please. Now. Before I die.”
“Trust me. I've got this.”
“Pleaasseee?????”

How did I not see it before? A two-year-old determined to have their way. That's all I am. I'm not mature. I beg my heavenly father for my way as much as a two year old begs for immediate attention. Like a child, forcing their body between my legs and a counter, leveraging to get me to step back from a task. How did I not see it? I do my best to get in God's face and demand my way. How does God stand me??

Like a child, I look at God and tell him, “My turn!” The child chant this daily as they are forced to share toys or rides or games. I feel very like them when I pray, “My turn, God. My turn.”

I want what I want and I don't what I don't.

But maybe there are worst biblical comparisons.

Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." ~ Matthew 19:14

And he said: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. ~ Matthew 18:3

Maybe it's okay to see myself as the child and my Daddy upstairs as my father. Maybe not the best at my age, but I'm learning. I'm just still at a place where I want what I want and don't what I don't. Lord, help me.