Be Kind

Chattering, laughter, yells, hoops and hollering echoed and re-echoed, swirling with the dusty breeze between the buildings on our street. 

Our street when quiet

Our three kids had needed some outside time and the main place to get that is out on the sandy road in front of the house. Buckets, cups, and other sand toys were strewn around, but abandoned as the two oldest chased plastic bags up and down the road in the wind. The littlest happily rolled and laid in the sand propping her head on a miniature pumpkin sized ball. 

Then three dirty, snotty nosed kids walked up the road. They were obviously not in a hurry as they slowed to watch my three kids. When the spotted me they came over quickly and chattered their “Bonjour" in a sing-song sort of way. I watched their eyes as the eyed the toys. My first instinct was to put all the toys away, gather our things and go in the house. But I didn’t move. I watched. They inched closer. I knew they had been shooed a way a lot, and they knew it was not their place to touch, play with or take the toys laying around. 

I looked up and down the street, well aware that any other member of the community would have already shooed these kids from the ghettos away. These kids are poor. Living just two roads behind us, they live in little squatter like camp houses. Some are nicer living quarters than others. Yet, all are small, barely sufficient. Probably community bathrooms. There is a spicket where the residents fill jugs to provide water in their little corner. In this neighborhood, the littlest kids play in the dirt, the yucky, trash strewn dirt, with what we would consider to be trash as toys. 

More kids started up the road, carrying smashed 10 liter water jugs on their heads with other random pieces of trash they saw fit to play with stacked on top. My heart began sinking. More kids! Three was no too bad to handle, but before I could blink there were at least 10 all crowding around pushing their super dirty, sticky hands at me as they joyfully sang out “Bonjour!” The full extent of their French. The oldest knew a bit more. I asked her what her name is, she told me “Myram.” I knew enough Wolof to ask a few others their names as they didn’t understand my French. 

I decided to only pick up the toys I knew I would feel really bad about if they were broken or stollen, but upon my reaching for the toys all the kids dove in to help me collect ALL the toys and put them in my sack. I smiled at them and felt thankful they could help, instead of watch me snatch up things to keep out of their reach. They turned and started a game of soccer with Bashir. I held my breath as the noise level crescendoed. How long before someone came out and shooed the kids away? Should I do it out of respect for the other neighbors? 

My thoughts raced back to my first four years in this country. The time spent in Niaguis had been a bi-polar love/hate relationship with the kids of the village. They were ever so curious. They had no concept of giving us space to live. That would be counter cultural to them. But I didn’t understand these things then. I was overwhelmed and dealing with my own culture shock. I yelled, I shooed, I pushed away. Multiple times I even refused them water as I thought they were only curious to see or taste the water from a faucet. 

One hot afternoon though, as some little kids came banging on the door for water and I sent them away, the words of Jesus rang like an alarm through my head “In so much as you have done it on to the least of these, you have done it on to me.“  (see Matthew 25:33-46). I watched those little kids cross the hot field and I imagined how thirsty they were, and I cringed as I realized that I lost the most basic of opportunities to serve God. Also, I missed the most basic form of hospitality of my host culture. 

I would like to say I was a changed person from that time on towards the village kids. Honestly, I do not remember. Knowing who I am now, I can say I probably had moments of kindness towards the kids and still lots of moments where I misrepresented the character of the God of heaven. 

The war in my head from social pressure to send these kids away before the neighbors got irritated and the failures of my past raged as I watched these kids enjoying their play on a quiet, pretty street. I made the choice, I would let them play and I would show them kindness. It feels good to be kind, even if I know I have a long ways to go, but each effort to do the right will make the next effort easier. 

“Be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle.” John Watson

~~LaRae