By Amy Kinney
“I hate you!!” he screamed. “I hope you die! I hope bugs crawl into your throat and chew apart your neck!”
These words didn’t phase me. Not at first. It was just another day for me teaching post-pandemic kindergartners in urban Minnesota.
The boy threw a book at my head. The corner of the book clipped my ear.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I tried. “What are some things that bring you joy?”
He responded by scribbling on his assignment in front of him, tearing up the paper, and throwing it in my face.
“Flonk you,” he said to me in his kindergarten understanding of swear words. He kicked me and ran out of the classroom door as he screamed, “I WANT TO KILL EVERYONE!”
I reported that incident and followed this 5-year-old as he ran across the school and escaped to the fields outdoors. THE JOY OF THE LORD IS MY STRENGTH. THE JOY OF THE LORD IS MY STRENGTH. I said it over and over and over as I chased this angry kindergartener across several grassy fields: he is a child. He is a child of God. He is five, Lord. Please give me endurance.
What would God have me do for this boy? How can I reach this angry child through grace?
I followed around this escapee kindergarten child outside for probably 45 minutes while he threw things at me and tried to hit me with sticks. I was hot. I was frustrated. My strength was fading.
Then, everything changed.
“Come here, please,” I said as I called softly to the angry, flailing boy.
I expected him to not listen and to not heed my words because I was his jailer. I was the cop. I was authority.
But he listened.
This angry kindergarten child stopped running and inched closer to me because he could tell that I’d called him to me for a reason.
This boy was no longer screaming about killing his classmates. He wasn’t kicking me. He wasn’t spitting and wasn’t punching.
He was gazing just as I was at a small nest of baby bunnies under the playground steps. Defenseless, hairless, precious tiny rabbits. His heart melted in a beautiful moment of stillness.
The boy stared at the bunnies. Then he got tears in his eyes. This mean kid! The boy who kicks teachers, who rips up others’ artwork, who spits in kids’ hair.
Something was happening.
“I will bring carrots for these bunny babies every day, “ the boy yelled. “I will never let anything on earth hurt these baby bunnies!!”
The troubled boy sat in awe. He didn’t touch the baby bunnies but promised to care for them and to provide for them.
“I love you,” he said to the bunnies. “You are perfect little babies.”
An intervention worker came to take this kindergarten child away and off of the playground, but I was lost in thought.
I started to pray very earnestly:
Dear Father of All Things Great,
Thank You for this experience with this naughty boy, Lord. We are all naughty boys in our own ways, Jesus! We kick, we scream, and we revolt. But Lord, Your grace, love, mercy, kindness, goodness, and beauty are ENOUGH. You can change the coldest hearts and can right the toughest wrongs in Your name. Thank You for making us YOUR perfect little babies in Christ. Thank you for baby bunnies.
Amen.
