Ah, Prescott – where people in Phoenix who can’t afford to go to San Diego go to feel cooler in the summertime. I parked on the pine-needled gravel of a campground in the hills high above the town and stepped out into … blazing mountain air.
For a full hundred miles, I’d been cheerfully basking in the thought of brisk breezes, a nip in the air, a change. What I’d found was 90 degrees – and 150 little girls.
The girls represented the accumulated young ladies of several Southern Baptist churches, biding this warm and wilty week of their childhood at something called “G.A.” (Girls in Action) camp, a sort of Christian Girl Scouts excursion brimming with missions study and mostly benign mischief. I was part of the “mission study” division, summoned among the 12-and-unders to share a few of my eccentric experiences as a Christian on foreign shores.
This, I’d thought, on accepting the invitation, should be interesting. I’d never been immersed in young girl society before. Could be instructive, perhaps, and fun, surely, to observe the “sugar and spice and everything nice” crowd from inside the ranks.
Took me all of a minute to find out “sugar” was apropos. Three little girls, eight or nine years old, came skidding down a nearby slope, pine cones flying in all directions, to welcome me. Each carried a can of pop in one hand, a gigantic candy bar in the other. Thirty feet away, their leaders and peers were still finishing breakfast.
“Hey!” these three yelled. “You’re the missionary, huh?”
“Oh, sort of,” I said.
“We knew you were coming,” one told me, in that tone of superiority peculiar to observant children.
“That candy bar’s bigger than you are,” I said, in that tone of jest peculiar to disapproving adults.
“Yeah!” she said, beaming. “I got it at Snack Time. Today, I’m gonna get two more!” This drew sharp intakes of breath from her companions, who apparently lacked the financial resources to bring off such a sugar-smacking coup. Encouraged by their awe, she proceeded to show us a tiny hole in the top of her pop can.
“See? I drink through there. That way, it lasts all day.” She took a happy swig.
They escorted me to the cabin porch where my class was to meet; we admired the sundry critters crawling the cabin confines ‘til the rest of the girls descended upon us. They came scampering in by twos and threes, cute and squirmy and covered with Pocahontas T-shirts and Care Bear barrettes, most clutching candy in one hand and money for “Snack Time” in the other.
“Are you really a missionary?” one asked.
“Well … no. But I’ve been lucky enough to go a lot of places.”
“Have you been to Disney World?”
“N-no.”
“Oh.” I watched my credibility go spinning down in flames.
Still, I tried. For the next few hours, I recited for varying ages, enthusiasms, and attention spans the marvels of sharing Christ in China, Russia, Brazil, and the Caribbean. Some eyes lit up at tales of baptisms in shark-infested waters, solos in backwater Brazilian jails, jail threats in Oriental classrooms … but most dozed through honey-glazed, half-shut eyes, or exchanged excited stage whispers about the sweet ambrosias to be purchased during “Snack Time.”
Of course, we had to get through lunch first.
Unless your particular cabin happened to draw an early-round draft pick, lunch involved a good bit of standing in line … outside, in the noonday sun, the dust and the flies swirling about, as little girls challenged me and each other to thumb-wrestling and Indian wrestling and pine-cone-juggling contests. All of which made the cool inside the dining hall and the ice at the bottom of my Dixie cup of fruit punch all the more refreshing, once I got to them.
I languished through a sandwich, sagging in the intermittent breeze of a fan, nursing my third cup of fruit punch, listening to the general din of little girl conversation … until I was gradually dragged into a freewheeling playground carnival of cutthroat tetherball, impressive jungle-gymnastics, and a particularly spirited game of keep-away involving my favorite hat.
I soon realized that a milieu I’d always associated with the Calvin and Hobbes crowd – rough-housing and body humor and some mean-edged trash talk – was as happily and easily inhabited by the little sister set.
Sugar and spice.
Streaming sweat, wheezing like a racehorse, and hanging on to my hard-garnered hat with both hands, I stalked back up the hill for another round of mission talks. These churned along well enough until the girl with the Little Mermaid watch realized that it was only six more minutes ‘til “Snack Time!” – and sent the news swinging down the grapevine. Whatever tiny spark of mission conviction might have been lighting little-girl kindling immediately vanished in a wildfire of whispered, excruciating suspense: “It’s al-most t-i-m-m-m-m-e.”
Defeated, I dismissed them – and in seconds, was left standing like Gary Cooper in the dusty streets of Hadleyville. Trudging down the hill, I saw a violent mass of future co-eds grappling for position in front of the snack bar – yelling for the lineskeepers’ justice, pushing, pinching, tugging, shoving, flashing cash and coins.
It looked like the last helicopter out of Vietnam.
After a while, when only a dozen or so girls were left, I deemed it safe to bring my own thirst up to the back of the line. Heads instantly swiveled my way.
“Hey – who’re you?” the girl in front of me demanded.
“He’s the missionary!” the girl in front of her yelled, swatting her.
Half-a-hundred eyes lit up.
“HEY! Can I have five bucks?”
“Mister! Can I have a quarter?”
“Hey – give me a dollar!”
They were coming on the run now, from every corner of the compound.
“Buy me a pop!”
“Gimme 10 dollars!”
“Let ME have some!”
“How much y’ got?”
“Can I –”
“I want –”
“Gimme –”
“Gimme!”
“GIMME !”
I fled. Away from the squealing mob of adolescent avarice, back to where all they wanted was the hat off my head. I felt angry, and outraged, hot and bothered and parched.
A Frisbee hit me in the face. I picked it up and threw it back. Pushed somebody on a swing. Watched what one little gal told me to watch her do on the monkey bars. Threw the Frisbee back again. Looked back at the Snack Time line, at all those girls bandying candy.
A tiny pang of guilt pinched my conscience. Should I have a bought a round for the house? Would that have left a better impression of missionaries? “When you do it to the least of these little ones …”
Something tugged at my shirt.
I turned, and looked upon a thin little waif of a girl with short blond hair and somber blue eyes. All dressed in pink. She was holding out a bottle of water.
“What’s that?” I asked. I didn’t remember seeing her before.
“It’s for you.”
A strange wonder began to build way back in my head: “… and everything nice.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I bought it.”
“You … uh … you didn’t have to do that.”
She nodded.
“I was watching you,” she said. “You’re hot and thirsty.” She held the water toward me.
I took it. “Thank you. It’s very sweet of –”
She turned and ran away.
I stood there for a good, long moment.
It is always good to give ... but it can be a rare and moving thing to receive.
A Frisbee flew past my nose. Someone yanked the hat off my head.
A cool breeze began to flicker my shirt.
And on that breeze, I might have made out the faraway tones of Maurice Chevalier:
“Thank heaven for them all
No matter where, no matter who
Without them, what would little boys do?”
コメント