Friday's child

Friday's child is loving and giving. And in that, I would say that all children are, in spirit if not in fact, a Friday's child. For despite the self-centeredness of preservation, it is the very nature of a human child to love unconditionally.

Child abuse runs rampant in our world. We may not see it in the children we know from our neighborhood, or the ones we see at Church, for they are less likely to suffer; but those the counselors see at school are too often merely players on the stage of adult ignorance and rage.

Too often these little ones come to the police station wearing ragged shirts, pants grown way too short flapping over bony ankles, shoes that fit two years ago now rundown at the back by heels that stick over, and usually clutching the hand of a younger child, who they know stands no chance in life without intervention by someone who can show love in a manner that does not include the back of a hand or a wielded belt.

And so they come, more and more each day, to stand quietly just inside the door, until someone notices them. They will clutch a stuffed bear given them by the volunteer at the front desk, and grasp a piece of candy, unwrapped because they know they'll need it later, and wait while adults they've never seen before decide their fate.

They try not to shuffle around, doing their best to remain soundless, invisible, trusting that this step was the right one, that eventually all will be well, that someone will care.

All they ask is a bed not on a cold floor, a blanket big enough to cover both feet and neck at the same time, and a world where there are no slaps in the face and no harsh words that sere their soul.

And so this day I celebrate the front-desk volunteers, the police who gently grasp little hands, the firemen who take up the unwanted child left carelessly behind and carry it to safety, emergency room personnel who find it first and alert authorities, and the teachers and counselors, the people who care daily as much for someone else's child as they do their own.