Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

She didn't look like an average enemy.

Sweet smile. Dimples that did not betray her lie. Rather, they feigned innocence.

I had no reason not to believe her. Except that I didn't.

If I hadn't been a teacher who had questioned 100 kids her age before her for lesser evils, her lie may have been believed. But, it wasn't. Quite honestly, it ruined my day to know what I knew, and to choose not to confront it directly.

I knew this age well. 6th grade, I guessed. Direct confrontation was not always the best route to the heart. And, not in a highly public spotlight location like this small-city arcade.

It was a long time ago, but I remember her unusually steady unblinking gaze, deep brown eyes, and tufts of unruly dark ponytail braids that were on their last straggly hour before falling out completely.

Her walk had a glide to it. Her hand gestures that peeked out from behind long-sleeved arms were less jittery and less self-conscious than the average pre-teen.

These few traits were gathered in peripheral vision and in the moment, considered virtuous. Virtue faded quickly. 

She threw that skeet ball with confidence and showed little external preference for a bad toss vs. good.

When the ball sunk into it's highest-point goal, her eyes squinted, elbows stayed high. Fingers reached and wrapped around the next ball and the next.

When the ball ricocheted and flunked to the lowest point level...still...her eyes squinted and elbows stayed high. Fingers reached and wrapped around the next ball...and the next. It was as though she knew a default lied within her that the odds would play in her favor...eventually.

Now that I look back, her premature composure may have been because actions were choreographed and premeditated. And, I'm not talking about her wind-up-like-a-pitcher skeetball toss.

The routine she pulled was smoothe.

It had been done before.

This was not her 1st rodeo.

As young as she was, a sense in me whispered that this girl could go far in life if all she aimed for followed the path of her Olympic-bound skeet ball tenacity.

Then, she tied her shoe, and my rosy view changed. 

Like the very skeet ball she held in her hand that bobbed and bobbed to a lower and lower level, I was quick to dismiss her as a lost cause. "One of those kids...", I heard my anti-optimistic heart whisper.

As a teacher, I prided myself to believe the best in every student despite track record or likely patterns of an "interesting" home life. But, those sentiments are harder to swallow authentically when...I became a victim.

Maybe it was a small thing. But, small things turn to bigger things. She was on a path to bigger things. This, I knew. 

------

My little son was with me. We don't often frequent busy flashing-light arcades. But, we were on vacation and it looked like a fun memory.

I pulled out my last $5. The kid at the cash register behind the glass case covered in small greasy pizza fingerprints and full of sawdust-stuffed neon prizes handed me a tiny red plastic disposable picnic cup full of gold tokens. We headed to the skeet ball tracks.

At age three, his eyes lit up at anything that looked like a round bouncing orb. He would love this! (Today he is a 6-foot basketball star).

We played a few rounds. He got the hang of it quickly and was soon full of high-pitched bubbly laughter.

A dark-haired thin girl strided up, inserted a few coins, and began playing the skeetball track next to us.

After a couple rounds, she nonchalantly stepped her ankle onto the high bumper that divided our track from hers, leaned forward, tied her shoe with a lazy sigh, and kept on playing.

When the final ball of my son's game rolled to a stop, I reached into our little plastic picnic cup that I had rested on the same high bumper to pull out more tokens for another game.

It was empty.

We had a half-cup of tokens left! Where did they go?

There was no other explanation. In a flash download, I knew more had happened on this bumper in the 5-second shoe-tying episode than...just tying a shoe with a lazy sigh.

We stood close enough to bump shoulders. She kept on playing her game (which by now was my game) without even a glance in my direction.

I sensed my eyes raise to the ceiling as my head threw back. This was my common physical motion to push my personal reset button. Anger is not much of a thing with me. But, I was angry. I'm on vacation--just trying to have a good time with my little boy. Really? Did this need to happen?

"Excuse me." She seemed to not hear me. The chaos was palpable in this place. But, clearly I was being ignored.

"Excuse me!?" I twisted in and leaned closer to her to catch the eye contact she was trying to avoid. "My red cup of tokens was half full just a minute ago. Did you see where they went?"

Most caught-kids would have avoided eye contact. Most less confidant kids would have fled moments after the tokens were stolen...before they were discovered to be stolen.

The fact that she lowered her elbows and slowly turned her head towards me for a full-face soft-dimpled smile was a surprise. Her voice was windy, slightly raspy and softly breathless, "I don't know."

The gaze over her shoulder lasted a little too long as if she suddenly cared to know the type of person she had victimized, but didn't care enough to change the end result. With a shrug, she went back to tossing and tossing and tossing...while I stood there with a little boy whose eyes were pooling up with tears.

He didn't understand, but he understood enough. I didn't understand, but I understood too much.

This would be a losing battle. She knew that I knew and she knew that I knew that she knew. Yet, she kept on playing?

It was probably against the rules, but this mama-bear twirled around and sat down with a firmly-planted plop on my now-dormant skeet ball runway within dangerous inches from where her elbows were steadily unfurling pitches. I scooped my tired, droopy and sad son onto my lap. Somewhat loudly, I hugged him, comforted him, and told him the truth.

Someone had taken our tokens. We didn't have any more money to spend today, so let's sit here and have fun watching this nice girl next to us play her game. Let's cheer her on. Isn't she a good skeet ball player!?

No words. No glances. No tears. No apologies.

She turned around and disappeared into the crowd...with a back pocket bulging with more tokens than she had come with.

------

Hours later, back at the hotel, I admitted to myself that I had allowed that event to ruin my day. I couldn't find my smiles any more and my family was suffering for it.

My faith-in-humanity barometer had taken a plunge by several notches and I didn't seem to have the power in me to pump it back up. I second-guessed my actions. Maybe I should have taken a stronger stand or confronted more directly, then I might feel better about it? I had to let it go.

So, empty of my own self-coaching, I prayed (funny, too often, this is a last resort instead of a 1st go-to. Oh, how slowly I learn).

"What do I do now, God. I can't shake this down feeling."

There was no delay. A phrase entered my head, "Pray for your enemies."

"Enemies? She is not my enemy." I thought.

"Isn't she?" I heard.

It seemed like an old-fashioned term, but the suggestion was a quote from the Bible, "Pray for your enemies."*

I did not feel like praying, but I began praying for this chameleon girl-child in the same way I might pray for one of my students.

I didn't want to pray for her. I wanted my tokens back and I didn't want my son to have experienced the truth that sometimes people steal.

"Why am I praying for her?" I said. I'm not sure if this question was part of my prayer or not. I'm not sure if I directed the question to God or myself. But, again, there was no delay.

"Because no one else is." The words were as clear as day in my mind---as present and neon as those saw-dust-filled stuffed animals in the greasy display case at the arcade.

Is this Truth? Was I selected this day to be stolen from...so that hours later, this girl would receive (my son's tokens) and...prayer? (It still felt like a not-nice arrangement to me, and human sentiments did not soften quickly.)

With the same downloaded assurance that I knew she had stolen the tokens, I knew that this truth was also true.

To be honest, I still don't understand it. It still seemed like an unnecessary offense, and my heart was still cringing.

I do, though, try my best to wake up in the morning and ask, "God, if there is one thing you want me to do today...let me know. And, then help me to do it." Today, He took me up on that offer?

A girl needed prayer.

There are always greater stories in play than we ever know from our view. But, this I do know--there is power in prayer.

This girl needed something in heaven to be set in action for her cause. Or, something on earth needed leashing. Much of what goes on in this world that we see with our eyes or experience with our hearts, has a story in the spiritual realm we know nothing about.

I do not know and may never know what difference that prayer made for her life that day. What I do know, though, is that it changed me more than a few more unforgettable games of skeetball ever could.

There have been many many times in my years of teaching, and simply years of living life, when an offense comes my way and I am reminded of this girl. I see her every-which-way braids in my mind. This person today...this offense today...maybe this person this time...needs prayer, too.

With God's perspective, I can handle a lesser evil for a greater gain and come away with a little more grace in my toolbox. Is this not also the start of forgiveness--the forgiveness inception?

With this perspective, my tiny plastic cup of tokens was not half-empty that day. It was half full.

------

“You’re familiar with the old written law, ‘Love your friend,’

      and its unwritten companion, ‘Hate your enemy.’

I’m challenging that.

    I’m telling you to love your enemies.

Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst.

When someone gives you a hard time,

    respond with the supple moves of prayer,

for then you are working out of your true selves,

    your God-created selves." -- Matthew 5: 43-44

*Illustration by Artist, Ginni Schmidt, mixed media. Used by permission.