When we arrived in Africa we inherited a number of items
from the families that had occupied our compound in the past. One of those objects
was a small red bicycle. Our children were still too young to ride it
initially, but over several months our daughter took interest in it and
eventually rolled it off of the porch and into the driveway. With the training
wheels attached, she would scoot and wheel the bicycle over the stone surface
of our parking lot. In time, she learned to remove the small rear wheels that
offered additional support and was able to navigate around the property on her
own.
As she continued to grow in height the bike became less and
less conducive to her continued development. As she pedaled her knees would
scrape against the metal handlebars and her thin, lengthy frame would scrunch
together as she lowered herself in the seat. Eventually she stopped riding.
Because finding a bike for myself had proved so difficult I
didn’t think much of looking for one my daughter might be able to ride. She
hadn’t shown interest in one in several months, having been deterred by the
tiny one at the house. But one day God smiled upon us while I was in town and I
stumbled across one that was her size. I inquired as to its price before eventually
agreeing to trade an old workout bench in exchange. The bicycle was in decent
shape physically, but cosmetically it had seen better days. The green and white
paint was chipping off in places and the stickers that had once detailed a
shiny frame were all peeling back and cracking. I stuck the bike in the
backseat of the car and returned to work for the remainder of the day.
I sat at my desk that
afternoon considering my daughter’s potential reaction. You should know that she
is a princess. She lives and breathes a world of pretend kings and queens. She
dresses herself in bright pinks and purples and has, since moving to Africa,
worn dresses exclusively. She refuses to
wear jeans; and she accessorizes with only the glitziest fake jewelry. Every
available space in her room is adorned with colored pictures of princesses and
ponies. She refuses to play with certain toys, proclaiming them to have
specific gender assignments, “That’s a boy toy.”
She would never sink to the supposed level of participating
in an activity she deems too masculine. I’ve tried challenging this on multiple
occasions in her life and we’ve specifically raised her to experience things
from both sides of what some would consider typical gender attributes. But she
is, and perhaps always will be, ingrained at some very deep physical level to
be a pink loving princess of a woman.
For this reason, the more I thought about the lime green and
white bicycle in my car, the more I was convinced she would hate it. She is
also strong willed, so if she immediately saw the bike and didn’t like it,
she’d be hesitant to ever ride it at all. She has very specific tastes. I
considered these facts for the rest of the day and even as I drove up to the
house later than afternoon. While there was, what I believed to be, a strong chance
she would dislike my gift, I had decided to present it anyway.
That evening after dinner I asked her to come outside with
me. I had washed the bike when I had returned home and left it sitting in the
garage. Under the overhang she noticed the somewhat glistening piece of
equipment.
She looked at me in surprise. “Is that for me?”
“It sure is honey. I knew you were too big for the other
bike and I found this one in town today,” I replied.
I knelt down beside her as a huge smile appeared across her
face. She pulled me in for a hug and yelled in my ear, “I LOVE IT!” She raced
to grab her helmet before darting off to try her new bike. Soon she was flying
around and circling the driveway. For weeks afterwards not a day went by where
she wasn’t riding well into the evening hours.
Later I talked with Deanna about my initial fears. I
explained how I was worried about our daughter’s reaction and how the bike
definitely wasn’t what you’d consider “girly.”
We started looking back at the last couple of years we had
spent in Africa and I realized that I hadn’t given my little girl enough
credit. In America she was showered with presents. Birthdays, holidays, and
sometimes for no reason at all she’d be loaded down with gifts from her parents,
her grandparents, and her aunts and uncles. In those days, the quantity was so
large she had no choice but to be picky. When a heap of toys is lying at your
feet on Christmas morning it’s only natural to pick out the one that has your
favorite color or your favorite character. It’s easy to be choosey when you’re
surrounded by selection.
But here, on the other side of the world, those gifts simply
aren’t available. The selection of goods is minimal when compared to the
western world. It’s the reason you see African men wearing bright pinks or
shirts that would be associated with a woman in western culture. Those are the
items that were available to them. It’s why you see houses painted in vibrant
purples. That was the only color that fit their price range or was passed down
from a friend. It’s why village kids only have homemade toys, small wire
creations or the lids of buckets pushed along the ground with a stick.
Granted, I’m not talking about necessities when I speak of my
daughter’s bike. Even if we wanted, we could go to a major city and find toys
or items that matched our children’s primary interests. We’d be able to afford
them, unlike many of the village children we work with. We can pay extra for
clothes that fit or for paint colors that don’t blind us.
For our family, life doesn’t depend on just accepting
something because that’s all there is. Still, as I watched my daughter circling
around the driveway, I began to appreciate another of the small lessons she had
learned while living in East Africa. She was appreciating a gift, not because
it was a color or the exact item she had requested, but because it was given to
her in love.
When the gifts are few and far between, a chipped and peeling
“boy’s” bike can be pretty special.
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A note about Children of Promise…
Each time you support a young boy or girl with Children of
Promise you are speaking that same message of love to an underprivileged child
on other side of the world. Your gifts are far greater than a small bicycle. Not
only are you providing tangible resources to these children and their families,
but you are equipping children with the tools necessary for a lifetime of
success. You provide food, clothing, and healthcare, but you also give
resources that will continue with a child long after they’ve graduated from the
program. You’re giving the gift of education and spiritual nurture.
Believe me, your gifts are making a huge difference in the
lives of children here in Tanzania. I wish for a moment you could experience
the joy that comes in watching a family hear that their child has been
sponsored, knowing full well that their life is now forever changed. I wish you
could see the smiles on the faces of your kids when they receive letters and
pictures from you. And I want you to know, just like my daughter, their joy
really comes from simply knowing that someone loves them.
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