Lately it has felt like the weight of the world’s problems are too heavy to
bear. Too much sadness. Too much disappointment. Too much pain from the
news and the pain in those we love from watching the news.
I’ve felt tired, heavy, and doubtful of if any of the work I am doing makes a dent.
It can seem sometimes like there are too many worthy causes, and not enough
energy. I want to end poverty AND help kids in the criminal justice system
AND make sure survivors of sexual assault are heard AND that kids with
pediatric illness have a chance for more birthdays.
And it can be exhausting.
The propensity I have for pouring into others makes it difficult to feel
like any small act of kindness makes a difference, because it is never
enough.
I can never feed enough people on the freeway.
I can never be in ten places at once at work to make sure every child has a chance to talk
about why they’re upset.
I can never give enough money to the causes that I care about.
But today I was reminded about the good that every day advocacy can
achieve, and my two passions collided in a way that made me remember why
the good is worth fighting for.
In juvenile detention centers across the country, kids are spending most of
their day in some sort of unstructured time. I’ve worked for facilities
where kids spend 4 hours in school, and I’ve worked in some where kids go
to school for an hour. Aside from these times, kids get varying amounts of
leisure time in the gym, common areas, and most of their time in their
individual cells.
Kids become bored in detention just like anywhere else, well, because
they’re kids. I often wish that more programming was available, and while
our facility does a great job holding groups and trying to engage the kids,
it just seems that most days, my kids do not get to act like kids.
But today as I walked across the floor I saw movement out of the corner of
my eye that was different.
As I walked over to the window to a group of
kids, I started to hear the growing sound of a catchy, jumpy, poppy song.
It was music therapy day, and I had forgotten.
Today was not like most music therapy days. Typically, you hear the kids banging drums and laughing, which they enjoy-but you also hear them begging for “real music” to be played.
But today when I looked through the window, I saw my kids dancing in unison with the small, frail
volunteer who dedicates one Tuesday each month of her time to helping our
kids be kids.
I could not help but smile with everything in me as I watched these goofy,
joyful, childlike residents of mine bounce around and dance with this
small, elderly volunteer.
In that moment, I would have challenged anyone to step inside that room and
doubt the unique childlike spirit in any of those kids.
Yes, they are wearing jumpsuits.
Yes, they are anxious about court next week.
Yes, they have made decisions that will likely take away a large majority of their
childhood with their families.
But in that moment I was reminded that at each of their cores, they are still just kids.
They are children who yearn to run and jump and play. They are fearful kiddos who cry themselves to sleep wondering what their futures have in store for them.
And suddenly it hit me-
The fears and hopes of these kids who are moved in handcuffs are the very
same as the kids that I love who sit in hospital beds awaiting positive
news about their conditions.
The kids who are not sure if they will spend their next birthday outside of their hospital beds are not that different from those who wonder if their next birthday will be spent behind bars.
Children’s Miracle Network and the Dance Marathon community have been so
close to my heart since I first entered college. As I entered the world of
social work, I felt my heart being torn in so many different directions.
Like I said, it always just felt like there was too much to do and not
enough opportunity.
The kids who long for assurance of more birthdays have always felt like
they hold a special place in my heart. When I began my work with the youth
in juvenile detention a little over a year ago, it felt right. It felt like
this group of kids was who I was supposed to be working with, but I could
never quite put my finger on the reason why.
This week, my passions for kids collided in the most beautiful and surreal
way as I was brought to tears watching my kids dance. In the same way that
we stand for the kids who can’t in hopes that they will be able to leave
their hospital beds and dance one day, I stood in the halls of detention in
awe at how badly I wanted my kids to dance like children.
As its read in Ecclesiastes, there is “a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4); the past few weeks
have felt like so much mourning has needed to take place, but today my kids
reminded me that it is soon time to dance.
Every child, in handcuffs or hospital gowns, deserves the chance to dance.
In a line, with friends, with arms high to the sky, off-beat, to pop or hip-hop, good or bad- kids, and everyone for that matter, deserves to dance.
Maybe advocacy this week means dancing for joy over small victories for our kids and families. Maybe it looks like dancing in the kitchen as we say a prayer for the oppressed and the sick who can’t shake their hips with joy like we can at the moment.
And on the days where it feels too difficult to do good, I will remember
that there will always be a time to dance.