She sat completely still in her chair. I guessed her age to be about eight. Soft curls hung loosely around her face. She didn’t smile back when I smiled at her. In fact, she looked utterly miserable. An invisible cloak of shame hung about her thin shoulders, like an ill-fitting coat. Her enormous hazel eyes spoke secrets too difficult for her tongue to share.
It was my scheduled day to read to children at a city homeless shelter. When I was buzzed into the interior, the director met me at the door and walked with me to the prearranged reading area. As we passed the office with the sad little girl, the director mentioned that her family had just arrived and had gone through the intake process. It was discovered that the girl had head lice and was waiting to be treated before being allowed any further into the facility.
Ah. No wonder she looked unhappy.
Despite her obvious discomfort, a toy tiara sat comically atop her head; its once-silver paint partially rubbed raw from usage and age. Tarnished and tattered. But in an inexplicable way, it gave her certain aura of regality. Despite her environment, she tenaciously held to an inner stoicism that kept her head held high. Homeless, desperate, and physically dirty, she clung to an inexplicable sense of pride.
I have thought of her often. In many ways, she represents the many homeless children I have encountered over the years. Scared, confused, longing for stability.
A few years back, I received a call from a desperate mother who had found a coveted spot at a shelter, but they had to report immediately, or they would lose it. With nowhere else to go and desperate to have a roof over their heads that night, she meekly asked if I would give her bus fare to get across town. With my boss’ blessing, I left work and drove to where they were being evicted. I quickly shoved them and their few meager belongings into my van. We pulled into the shelter with no time to spare. I helped them unload and sat with the children while their mother went through the registration process.
Those sweet children’s eyes… how they haunt me still. They sat rigidly around me in the lobby, fear pulsing with every heartbeat. Yet another move. Another new place to adjust to. Unspoken questions with no answers.
I sang to them softly and assured them it would be alright. Their mother reappeared and began to gather their belongings. She hugged me and thanked me for my help. I hugged her back and, like her babies, assured her it would be alright. She smiled weakly and hoped so. It stabbed my heart to walk away from their broken hopelessness.
Homeless children need much. Physical necessities, yes of course. But they also need (and deserve) respect and dignity. They need to understand their own sense of agency. They need to be given safe spaces to be heard. Really heard. And they need unconditional acceptance.
Whatever the decisions and ultimate consequences of their parents, none of the responsibility lies with the children. They are the innocents.
Psalm 82:3-4 thrums through my head like an incessant beat. “Defend the weak and the fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked” (NIV).
If you have encounters with transient or high-risk children, be unfailingly kind. If you teach them in your classroom, treat them with dignity and reach deep for extra patience. They already feel like outsiders. Make them feel included and normal for the few hours you have them. If you have the means, give generously of your time and resources. I call it transmutive compassion. Acts of compassion that literally change, not just the receiver, but the giver as well.
It takes so shockingly little to stir the soul of a child in crisis.
There are tarnished princesses everywhere.
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