Wednesday, July 8, 2015

The Princess and the Boy's Bike



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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