"RED ROVER"

The noon-day sun glared harshly on the dusty asphalt behind the schoolhouse. Names rang out as the crowd of kids began choosing sides. I stood on the outskirts, staring down at my barely-scuffed black and white saddle shoes. While I waited, I smoothed the skirt of the printed cotton dress that my mom had sewn me for starting school. I peeked longingly at the swings, the merry-go-round, and the tall metal slide that dominated the schoolyard. They were all empty. The unspoken rule of the playground had slowly dawned on me: I was expected to play Red Rover with the rest of the kids, whether I liked it or not. I was left standing with another first-grader. One of the team leaders, a husky sixth-grade boy, scrutinized my pencil-thin limbs and short stature. After eyeing my equally scrawny classmate, he did a mental flip-of-the-coin, sighed, and muttered, “We’ll take this pipsqueak.” Then he positioned me in the line between himself and another large boy. The two teams separated by a dozen greens, then we faced each other and linked hands. Furtive strategy sessions followed before the first name was called out from the opposing team. “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Bobby on over!” Bobby was a middle-sized kid, fast and wiry. He easily ploughed between two older girls who weren’t paying attention. Score one for us. Bobby tagged the bigger of the two girls to join our side. The exchanges back and forth continued, and our side was gaining. Then our team called a hefty boy named Roger to come on over. Roger’s squinty eyes shifted back and forth, scanning for the weakest link. When they saw him focus on my tiny frame, the two boys dropped my hands and clutched onto my forearms. I watched helplessly as Roger shot toward me like a racehorse out of the starting gate. Decades later, I can still remember my teammates’ hands tightening on my skin like vice grips as Roger’s chubby bulk crashed full speed against my arm. Roger bounced back, failing to break the chain. He had to suffer the indignity of switching teams. Miraculously, my shoulder stayed in its socket and my young, flexible arm didn’t break. It hurt like crazy, but the boys took no notice. They were only focused on winning. The end-of-recess bell rang in time to save me from further pain. I don’t remember playing Red Rover again. Maybe the game was banned by the school, or the hula-hoop craze took over, or I simply summoned the courage to refuse to play. I don’t know; it was a long time ago. What I do know is that humans have always tended to take advantage of the weak. Maybe it starts with as innocent a desire as bragging rights on the playground. Who doesn’t wish their team was bigger, stronger, or smarter than the next guy’s? Who doesn’t want to win? When he walked the dusty roads of the Land of Israel, Jesus taught that winning isn’t everything. Rather than wield his God-given power, he fed the hungry, healed the sick, and comforted those who mourned. He could have demanded a throne and a crown; instead, he knelt and washed his disciples’ feet. He even chose suffering and death for himself to prove God’s love for us. When he hung on the cross, he showed compassion for those who tried to destroy him. They didn’t understand what they were doing. Not much has changed today. There are still those who think of Jesus as their enemy when, in reality, they could find no better friend. He cares for the addicts, the prostitutes, the homeless, the sick, and the most vulnerable of all, the unborn. But he loves the powerful, too. Even the strongest among us are weak in some way and desperately need forgiveness. Some days, when I read the daily news, I feel like I’m back on that playground helplessly waiting to be bowled over. How can I withstand the onslaught of chaos and suffering? But then I remember my Friend. At the proper time, God will send Jesus. All will be set right. In the meantime, I’ll do whatever I can to follow him. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. And we urge you, brothers and sisters, warn those who are idle and disruptive, encourage the disheartened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. 1 Thessalonians 5:14 (NIV)