Maybe it is because I grew up with a little brother and all his friends around me.
Maybe it is because I spent my summers surrounded by kids who were celebrated by adults who care.
But the idea of an open field where kids (mostly boys) come play just sounds normal.
Between the hours of 3:30 and 5:00 p.m. you will find my team and I on the field near our house. There will be running and screaming and soccer and volleyball. You would see hair being braided and piggy back rides being given. That place feels like home. During the day we walk past this field and every time we walk by, there is an anticipation in my heart for the joy I know will greet me at 3:30.
I am usually greeted by kiddos running full force at me, fully expecting and believing that I will pick them up the second they get within arms length away from me. As they run at me, the thought that I will not pick them up, doesn’t even cross my mind. Of course I would stick my arms out, pick them up, and give them all the snuggles. Even on the weekend, when we don’t spend time at the field, sometimes the kids are there. This weekend on Saturday and Sunday I had my boys run up to me at full speed just to give me a hug and tell me “see you on Monday.”
Boys are boys, no matter what language you speak. English. Afrikaans. It doesn’t matter. They pretend to be lions or baboons or sharks. We break up fights and every ball MUST be kicked with as much power as their little bodies can muster. But they are still just little boys. They snuggle and let me kiss their cheeks, even when they make a face afterwards. Their desire to be loved is strong and I’m okay with loving them.
When I leave the field I am both exhausted and energized. I leave full of a joy that cannot be explained when I should feel absolutely ready to collapse into bed. But from the top of my head to the tips of my toes I am filled with joy that the next day I get to come back and see these kiddos and do it all over again.
