At the Crossing, class is never completely dismissed. I was sitting at my desk today and heard Carrie* chuckle about something. Last week one of our volunteers and I noticed a cute and peculiar mannerism of hers, and I was reminded of that as well. The sounds, sights, smells and even touches of the kids are so individual, and we know who is in the room or behind us without even seeing them. I was also reminded of last summer driving back from Oklahoma, where Carrie had run away to. As I was driving, she was sound asleep in the passenger’s seat, and I remember glancing at her from time to time just to check on her and realizing she is someone’s precious child. Crossing kids often live such dangerous lives, and we shake our heads in amazement. Why? Perhaps they are so damaged that they feel they have no worth. Maybe they have a need to do the next dangerous thing to tempt fate or to prove to the gang that they are even more bizarre than the last guy who tried something. Is it perhaps that they have never been impressed with their personal infinite value, so they figure they would be of no loss if they are gone?
At the Crossing we dare to care, and we dare to express that concern—to drive to Oklahoma on a moment’s notice or to take time to speak praise and say with words the things God wishes every child could hear. We say openly and without reservation, “I love you,” and we mean it. Our kids don’t always make the most beautiful sounds, they don’t all smell like “Euphoria Cologne,” and they sometimes touch us a bit roughly to demonstrate their strength, but we choose to love them unconditionally anyway.
Returning from Oklahoma with Carrie’s mom, my co-worker, and our prize, Carrie, we were all very sure we had gone after something infinitely precious, and we were all so relieved to have found her. Carrie is just one of the many complicated lives we work with at the Crossing, but we would do it all for just that one. We make every effort to attend to each of our students with the same high level of concern.
As for Carrie, she is a bright little cookie, has almost all her coursework finished and is gliding through to graduation. She was a lost sheep for several days, and we worked hard to find her. Now she is a beautiful picture of Crossing success, the love of a staff who does not give up. I will miss the little chuckles, the individual mannerisms, and the sound of a child’s voice that we have come to love, but they are not ours to keep, just to help for a season.
At the Crossing, class is never dismissed…
Don Riley
*name has been changed to protect the student’s privacy
