Knuckles to Bone

I feel the first punch hit my stomach. I was ready, so it doesn’t do anything. A few more land on my ribs before my attackers take out the back of my legs, and I fall to the ground. I can’t see how many of them are attacking me; maybe 20, I think. It’s just a flurry of kicks and punches. I protect my head well; they have their fill. I don’t know how long I lay there, taking the beating, maybe 5 minutes. Then I feel one of the attackers grab my hair and pull my head up. I open my eyes to see a soccer kick headed straight for my temple. Okay, I think it’s time to get up before someone gets hurt. I pull my head down; the kick just grazes the back of my head, breaking the grip of the boy holding my hair. I roll over to my back, grab the ankle of the attacker closest to me, throw him into the rest of the attackers holding on to me, and jump up. I run and smash through the rest, then run into the open field to escape. I turn to see how many are still chasing me. It’s not 20, more like 70. They corner me, and I begin to block the endless punches.

Now one wouldn’t think that being chased by 7 to 10-year-olds would be so intimidating, but recess here in South Africa is vicious. Of course, we are only play-fighting, and no one actually gets hurt. Still, every now and again, one of the kids lands a good punch to my liver or jaw, and we have to stop and calm down for a minute. Instead, the kids make a line, and I go down the line, throwing each in the air. They all laugh and go back to class, but there is something deeper to this than just some kids play-fighting. It’s a need for their survival.

Here in South Africa, there is a large gap between those who have and those who don’t. The rich have everything, and the poor have nothing. The kids in the school we have been working in come from the side with nothing; most live in sheds of sheets of metal roofing nailed together. And most don’t have fathers, whether dead or strung out on drugs, begging in the streets. Life for the poor is not pretty. The threat of being mugged is always lurking. It was just the other day that Rain (one of the members of our host organization), Malichi, and myself had to go retrieve Lidya’s stolen phone. We got it back without any problems. But still.

These kids, every day of their life, is a fight. They live knuckles to bone. Most don’t think they will ever escape the life they’re born into. In their minds, athletics is the only way out, and the school only takes 8 from each grade to compete. These kids have never been thrown into the air by their dad. And yet, in their blind trust, they will run up to you and give you a hug, and all they need is just a minute to know they are safe and it’s safe to play.

There is another side to this as well—the side of peace. Every now and again, I will take a second and sit down on a picnic table to catch my breath, but the kids still want to play. It’s at this point that I become a human jungle gym. I am used to this, so I just sit and let them crawl over me. At some point, a girl by the name of Dineo was sitting on my shoulders when she grabbed my hair and said, “Your hair is different; I like it. I am going to braid your hair.” It was a statement, but I didn’t see any reason to refuse, so she got started. This started something I never saw coming—the wrath of elementary school girls. Call me Ken because I was their doll before I could blink, and it wasn’t long before they grabbed Braden as well but got frustrated his hair wasn’t long enough to braid as well. Whether it’s “playing karate” and basically getting mugged or letting the girls braid my hair it’s all simply about showing these kids the love of Christ. As I write this, we only have 2 more days working in the school, then I will most likely never see these kids again. This is a reality of short-term missions; we leave, and we must trust in God for their sake. I don’t know how much impact we have made in these kids’ lives, but I will trust in God and let them play, let them know they are safe for the 2 days I am still here. Amen.