The Little Boy

            A little boy plunges his head into my shoulder as he pours the horrors of what’s happening at home into the pit of my arm that’s snuggly placed around him. His tears mixing with mine; my tears falling on a face of such innocence.

            No one prepares you for what you think in those moments. No one prepares you for what you say, or how you react, or the anger that fizzles through your every limb. Sadness, so deep and compassions that want to throw him in my backpack and shield him from the world, forever. This seven-year-old boy knew more about what it meant to be an adult than I at twenty-two.

             In my sparing moments, before I had to make that call, before I had to shed him away from me into the hands of a cold world. I grabbed his hand and placed it on my heart, I looked him directly in the eyes, and I spoke.

“You have been hurt, and I can never truly understand how you feel, or what you’ve been through, but know right now in this moment that someone in this world cares for you, I love you, your story is heard, your pain is not silent. I will fight for you. Work hard, become someone, never give up, pray, I know you know God is with you, because you feel him in me, and I see him in you.”

“Mr. P, I will, I will because God is with me, because I see God in you. I will be good, and work hard in school, I will be like you someday."

            The police came that day, after I made the call. I held his hand as the woman pealed him away from me. His teary eyed face looked back at me as the car drove away, his future hopefully brighter, but I’ll never know for sure. It’s during those moments that I have no choice other than to believe in God. God has to exists, He has to exist for me to stand during those moments, for that little boys future, and for my sanity.  

            I wasn’t ready for what happened that afternoon. I wasn’t capable of helping that child, or holding it together; but I did. My heart was filled with the love that I’ve known for years, the depth that is only in God. God held me as I held that child. I was given words when I had nothing to say. I found strength in a moment when all I could think of was weakness, and God’s arms wrapped around my soul, and around the soul of a child that I had known for years. We were brought together for a deep reason, and that child opened up to me, about the bruises, the cutting, the emotional abuse, it all had been done to this little boy that I had known for years, and he never said a thing.

I asked him before he left, as the social worker stood above us, “why, why tell me?”

“Because you care, because I know you love me”

LIsten

My writings span three years now. It’s a compellation of pains, lessons, and heartbreaking accounts. It’s narratives of truth, gratitude, grace, joy, and blissfulness. These stories are outpourings of risk. These stories are my vulnerability. They let the outside in; they peak into the inner struggles and imperfections of who I am. They declare my humanness.

Her hands reached to grab mine; her fingers interweaving around my tight clinched hands as I finished telling her a piece of my story, my narrative. “This is your story Steven, this is your one and only life, it’s all you will ever truly own, you can change the world with your stories, you can move mountains with your pains, you can help people, and even more, you can love them. The God of the universe lives in your stories, and he has given them to you. Go, Steven; move your mountains, take that leap of faith, take the creator of your universe hand in hand, and walk with him in bravery and boldness.  Change our world, because you’ve changed mine.”

Today I haven’t changed the world, but I’ve changed me. Today, I own my story. As I watched the sunrise this morning, I stood bold. I haven’t arrived in any area of life, but damn I’m growing; I’m healthier as a person, I’m stronger as an individual, I’m braver in my relationship with my creator, and I’ve learned; learned how to listen.

When you listen to the narratives of the lives that you interact with daily, you hear their reality, you hear their bittersweetness, you hear their pains and joys. People aren’t born into the persons they are at birth; people are shaped by their individual accounts and experiences. They’re a culmination of the people who have surrounded them. Their stories are important, as your story is important. No one is special, but we are all important. When someone shares their story with you, listen intently, listen for what you can learn.

Your story is all that you own, and though it must be shared, share it with those who deserve it. Don’t flaunt your story to those who won’t hear it, and resist those who tell you to share your story with everyone. Your story has meaning, and it speaks to certain people, in certain circumstances. Find those people, seek them out, hear their stories, and share your own. Listen, wholesomely with intent, listen; hear emotions, find their truth, give compassion. Save advice for someone who asks for it, what people need in this busy, consistently moving, always stimulated, culture, is someone who will listen.

Surrender
Burden

Grace
Love

Empower
Hope

This isn’t easy
 it isn’t clear
 and you don’t need Jesus until you’re here.

The Sun is Rising