My first night back at Micah also happened to be the first
night of our newest boy: Marcos.
Sometimes sweet, often whiney. Sometimes giggly, often murmury. Sometimes smiley, often frowny. Marcos. This eleven-year old kid—fresh off the streets, now in our home. Kicked out by his mother, received by our Father. Marcos.
The initial days begin like a predictable routine. On his first full day with the Micah Project, Marcos steps out of our van with a grimace, wrinkled nose, and smelly attitude.
I attempt conversation, “Did you like the Villa Olympica?” (Where the boys go for their various sports practices).
“No,” he snorts and storms off.
I don’t even need to ask what triggers him—part of the newbie procedure: showing him the pool. Though swimming is something these kids enjoy, learning how to is not. Patience isn’t exactly something that comes naturally to a parentless kid. Marcos, like the others, has been used to running his own life. Nevertheless, every Micah boy needs to take swimming lessons before pursuing another sport. I. E. Marcos doesn’t have a choice. Hence, the tantrum. If ever we say to a street kid that he needs to do one thing, he automatically thinks we are withholding the better option. In this case, we are, in fact, holding out for something better: the ocean. Deeply fun yet ferociously dangerous (if you don’t know how to swim, that is).
This week, we are going to the ocean. Our annual Semana Santa beach trip—a Honduran tradition to celebrate Easter by getting sloshed on the beaches. We skip the sloshed part while still honoring the cultural tradition to hit the waves (before the masses arrive) and leaving plenty of room to celebrate the heart of the holiday.
Sticky with sweat from our sardine-packed van ride, we unload at our first destination: our hotel. Thankfully the heat draws our boys to the pool as opposed to the free wifi (an Easter miracle). The older boys immediately practice various unsafe dives, flips, and flops into a not-deep-enough-for-this-activity pool (according to my motherly American mindset, that is).
Roger, one of our veteran caregivers, notices Marcos in a kiddy pool far from all the action.
“Come on in here with us,” Roger motions over our curious onlooker.
“You can touch here,” I affirm. “And we’ll be with you.”
“No,” Marcos shakes his head; he is stubbornly decided. Although we could easily prove he has nothing to fear, logic never wins an argument with this kid.
Meanwhile, fourteen-going-on-eight year-old Noe, who is always up for play and adventure, calls for my attention. With Marcos’ entrance to the project, Noe is no longer the youngest—a role he misses dearly anytime it is taken away from him.
“Jugamos landa!” Noe eagerly pulls me away from the newbie to play a round of tag. Absolutely! Laughing, tagging, dunking, chasing, Noe and I immerse ourselves in careless play.
Slowly, slowly, curiously, curiously, Marcos inches his way into the pool. And yet, even though he has gotten his feet wet, he still rigidly grips the edge.
Suddenly, something greater than our two person water-dance catches Noe’s eye. The rest of the boys are huddled in the middle of the pool with their not-so-mom-cautious leader Roger giving them their eagerly awaited battle orders. After a grand countdown the boys know what to do—the youngsters are lifted up on the shoulders of the elders, and together all are chucked backwards into a flying group headdive. Clumsy choreography paired with a powerful soundtrack: laughter. Noe quickly ditches our round of tag to join the Cirque de Street-punks (whom I love and adore, of course).
Marcos watches. His hard expression changes. His hand still clutches the edge of the pool, but loosely. I recognize the longing look in his eyes: he wants to join.
Noe-less, I wade over to the boy who no longer wants to be an outsider.
“This is why we have the boys take swimming lessons,” I smile—explaining, not condemning. “So we can do things like this. One day you’ll know how to swim, too.”
He nods, his attention still drawn into the huddle of play. I notice my opportunity.
“¿Quiere juntar?” I ask if he wants to join. Though wordless, his response is affirmative.
“Agarre mi brazo,” I extend my arm for Marcos to grab, which he does, and pull him over to the group relajo (where, even if he let go, he would still be able to touch).
As if someone had just performed a cannon ball in his heart, joy splashes through Marcos’ once-dead attitude and bursts through his now-sparkling eyes. He is laughing.
Just a splash, however. Once the play settles down, his attitude resurfaces.
When the time comes to leave our hotel and head to the beach, we encounter one small yet predictable problem: no Marcos. One of our leaders has been called to go retrieve him… We wait… still no Marcos. I climb up the hill and head for the cabins, from which I hear a multitude of voices all talking to… you guessed it: Marcos.
He refuses to join.
I sit on the steps before walking through the door. Please, Lord, give us wisdom. Give me wisdom in what to do.
Not sure if I will be adding help or harm, I enter anyway. Marcos is sitting like a dead fish on the couch, pouting. The boys are angry and annoyed as they irritatedly attempt to explain how much ‘fun’ the beach will be. When explanations don’t work, they pick up his arms—which flop like dead weight—and tug.
I remember the pool.
“Vayanse, chicos,” I firmly instruct all the boys to leave. Marcos is not about to be coerced. He wants to go where the group goes. If the group gathers around him, he gets what he thinks he wants: their attention… minus the fun.
“A la fuerza—no,” I tell them not to force him. The other boys look at me dumbfounded and continue their aggravated attempt to persuade him. I repeat the command to leave us alone. They see that I am serious and leave, reluctantly.
I can tell that Marcos is already drawn outside—where the group is. But in his pride he has to keep up his stubborn refusal—how can he get what he wants and still win?
His internal debate has instantly given new leverage to another lovely female staff member who has been attempting to utilize her mommy-coaxing skills. “If you want to stay, let’s go down to the vans and ask permission,” she suggests.
Marcos agrees. He gets to go find the group as well as keep up his appearance that he is winning the battle (at least somewhat).
I draw near to Marcos as he drags his feet out the door (he at least least has to look like he doesn’t want to come).
“We aren’t going to force you to have fun,” I say. “It’s more like… an invitation.”
Marcos nods and starts running ahead of us. He sees the other boys, takes one of their lime-green plastic sunglasses, puts them on, and hops in the back of the ‘adult car.’
I slide into the seat behind Junior, one of our older boys who had been in the huddle of irritated convincers.
“How did you get him to come?” Junior asks, even more dumbfounded than when I had instructed the boys to leave us alone.
I lean in and say with a hushed tone, “Remember the pool when Marcos was at the edge?”
Junior nods.
“Convincing him didn’t work," I remind him. "He had to see the group having fun, and then he wanted to join in on his own.”
Junior raises his eyebrows and nods—I’ve gained his respect.
“Oh, and—” I lean in further and whisper, “The real key is… I prayed for wisdom.”
I grin, so does Junior. Gotta give credit where credit is due.
You know, sometimes I wonder if we spend too much time frustratedly focused on everyone at the edge of the pool. Convincing, coercing, dragging… "Let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith,” Paul advises us. Maybe the best way to love those on the outside is to love well on the inside—then those on the edge will be drawn in, too. That way no one is left behind. The invitation is open, so let’s live the kind of life that others want to be invited into: a life of love.
Sometimes sweet, often whiney. Sometimes giggly, often murmury. Sometimes smiley, often frowny. Marcos. This eleven-year old kid—fresh off the streets, now in our home. Kicked out by his mother, received by our Father. Marcos.
The initial days begin like a predictable routine. On his first full day with the Micah Project, Marcos steps out of our van with a grimace, wrinkled nose, and smelly attitude.
I attempt conversation, “Did you like the Villa Olympica?” (Where the boys go for their various sports practices).
“No,” he snorts and storms off.
I don’t even need to ask what triggers him—part of the newbie procedure: showing him the pool. Though swimming is something these kids enjoy, learning how to is not. Patience isn’t exactly something that comes naturally to a parentless kid. Marcos, like the others, has been used to running his own life. Nevertheless, every Micah boy needs to take swimming lessons before pursuing another sport. I. E. Marcos doesn’t have a choice. Hence, the tantrum. If ever we say to a street kid that he needs to do one thing, he automatically thinks we are withholding the better option. In this case, we are, in fact, holding out for something better: the ocean. Deeply fun yet ferociously dangerous (if you don’t know how to swim, that is).
This week, we are going to the ocean. Our annual Semana Santa beach trip—a Honduran tradition to celebrate Easter by getting sloshed on the beaches. We skip the sloshed part while still honoring the cultural tradition to hit the waves (before the masses arrive) and leaving plenty of room to celebrate the heart of the holiday.
Sticky with sweat from our sardine-packed van ride, we unload at our first destination: our hotel. Thankfully the heat draws our boys to the pool as opposed to the free wifi (an Easter miracle). The older boys immediately practice various unsafe dives, flips, and flops into a not-deep-enough-for-this-activity pool (according to my motherly American mindset, that is).
Roger, one of our veteran caregivers, notices Marcos in a kiddy pool far from all the action.
“Come on in here with us,” Roger motions over our curious onlooker.
“You can touch here,” I affirm. “And we’ll be with you.”
“No,” Marcos shakes his head; he is stubbornly decided. Although we could easily prove he has nothing to fear, logic never wins an argument with this kid.
Meanwhile, fourteen-going-on-eight year-old Noe, who is always up for play and adventure, calls for my attention. With Marcos’ entrance to the project, Noe is no longer the youngest—a role he misses dearly anytime it is taken away from him.
“Jugamos landa!” Noe eagerly pulls me away from the newbie to play a round of tag. Absolutely! Laughing, tagging, dunking, chasing, Noe and I immerse ourselves in careless play.
Slowly, slowly, curiously, curiously, Marcos inches his way into the pool. And yet, even though he has gotten his feet wet, he still rigidly grips the edge.
Suddenly, something greater than our two person water-dance catches Noe’s eye. The rest of the boys are huddled in the middle of the pool with their not-so-mom-cautious leader Roger giving them their eagerly awaited battle orders. After a grand countdown the boys know what to do—the youngsters are lifted up on the shoulders of the elders, and together all are chucked backwards into a flying group headdive. Clumsy choreography paired with a powerful soundtrack: laughter. Noe quickly ditches our round of tag to join the Cirque de Street-punks (whom I love and adore, of course).
Marcos watches. His hard expression changes. His hand still clutches the edge of the pool, but loosely. I recognize the longing look in his eyes: he wants to join.
Noe-less, I wade over to the boy who no longer wants to be an outsider.
“This is why we have the boys take swimming lessons,” I smile—explaining, not condemning. “So we can do things like this. One day you’ll know how to swim, too.”
He nods, his attention still drawn into the huddle of play. I notice my opportunity.
“¿Quiere juntar?” I ask if he wants to join. Though wordless, his response is affirmative.
“Agarre mi brazo,” I extend my arm for Marcos to grab, which he does, and pull him over to the group relajo (where, even if he let go, he would still be able to touch).
As if someone had just performed a cannon ball in his heart, joy splashes through Marcos’ once-dead attitude and bursts through his now-sparkling eyes. He is laughing.
Just a splash, however. Once the play settles down, his attitude resurfaces.
When the time comes to leave our hotel and head to the beach, we encounter one small yet predictable problem: no Marcos. One of our leaders has been called to go retrieve him… We wait… still no Marcos. I climb up the hill and head for the cabins, from which I hear a multitude of voices all talking to… you guessed it: Marcos.
He refuses to join.
I sit on the steps before walking through the door. Please, Lord, give us wisdom. Give me wisdom in what to do.
Not sure if I will be adding help or harm, I enter anyway. Marcos is sitting like a dead fish on the couch, pouting. The boys are angry and annoyed as they irritatedly attempt to explain how much ‘fun’ the beach will be. When explanations don’t work, they pick up his arms—which flop like dead weight—and tug.
I remember the pool.
“Vayanse, chicos,” I firmly instruct all the boys to leave. Marcos is not about to be coerced. He wants to go where the group goes. If the group gathers around him, he gets what he thinks he wants: their attention… minus the fun.
“A la fuerza—no,” I tell them not to force him. The other boys look at me dumbfounded and continue their aggravated attempt to persuade him. I repeat the command to leave us alone. They see that I am serious and leave, reluctantly.
I can tell that Marcos is already drawn outside—where the group is. But in his pride he has to keep up his stubborn refusal—how can he get what he wants and still win?
His internal debate has instantly given new leverage to another lovely female staff member who has been attempting to utilize her mommy-coaxing skills. “If you want to stay, let’s go down to the vans and ask permission,” she suggests.
Marcos agrees. He gets to go find the group as well as keep up his appearance that he is winning the battle (at least somewhat).
I draw near to Marcos as he drags his feet out the door (he at least least has to look like he doesn’t want to come).
“We aren’t going to force you to have fun,” I say. “It’s more like… an invitation.”
Marcos nods and starts running ahead of us. He sees the other boys, takes one of their lime-green plastic sunglasses, puts them on, and hops in the back of the ‘adult car.’
I slide into the seat behind Junior, one of our older boys who had been in the huddle of irritated convincers.
“How did you get him to come?” Junior asks, even more dumbfounded than when I had instructed the boys to leave us alone.
I lean in and say with a hushed tone, “Remember the pool when Marcos was at the edge?”
Junior nods.
“Convincing him didn’t work," I remind him. "He had to see the group having fun, and then he wanted to join in on his own.”
Junior raises his eyebrows and nods—I’ve gained his respect.
“Oh, and—” I lean in further and whisper, “The real key is… I prayed for wisdom.”
I grin, so does Junior. Gotta give credit where credit is due.
You know, sometimes I wonder if we spend too much time frustratedly focused on everyone at the edge of the pool. Convincing, coercing, dragging… "Let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith,” Paul advises us. Maybe the best way to love those on the outside is to love well on the inside—then those on the edge will be drawn in, too. That way no one is left behind. The invitation is open, so let’s live the kind of life that others want to be invited into: a life of love.
“Father, I desire that they also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory that you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world. O righteous Father, even though the world does not know you, I know you, and these know that you have sent me. I made known to them your name, and I will continue to make it known, that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”
—Jesus’ prayer over us, the night before he was led to the cross (John 17:24-26)
