Purple Marker

Purple Marker

It was 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon.

My laundry was piled high, grocery list was untouched (also growing by the minute), and I had 108 small tasks to manage before my head hits the pillow - hopefully by 10pm. Enjoying the fact my kids were playing in the courtyard while I went about checking things off my to-do list, our sliding glass door facing the courtyard was wide open, our television and radio were off, and there was a calming stillness to the apartment allowing me to drift off in thought.

When a door is left open, someone will come in.

Maybe the stillness of the apartment drew her in.

Maybe it looked safe; peaceful.

Either way, I rounded the corner of my dining room – laundry basket on hip - to find a young, brown-haired girl I had not met, coloring at my dining room table with the chunky, old crayons someone else had left behind earlier that morning.

Quiet coloring seemed a better fit to her on that sunny afternoon than the loud shenanigans at the monkey bars and swings.

I took note of her, but my to-do list called.

As I backed away, I recalled a promise I made to myself just a few months before this scene; a promise I was struggling to stay committed to in that moment. I committed to never usher an unexpected child guest out my door without asking at least one, if not two questions of them. I promised to listen to their answers, and if it was not a time they could stay, to welcome them to come another time. I made that promise because no matter how rushed I am, whatever the appointment is I have to get to, it is not as important as the message I can send to an unexpected child in my home in under thirty seconds.

When you leave a door open, someone will come in.

On that quiet Saturday afternoon, I struggled to keep a promise. “You can’t keep that up,” I thought, “you’re too busy.” I continued down the hallway, full on attack towards my to-do list.

But the little girl.

At my table.

I took a deep breath, put the laundry basket down, and prayerfully requested the assistance of a patient spirit.

I sat down next to her.

She didn’t look up.

“Hi,” I said quietly.

As she looked up and whispered, “Hi,” a messy lock of thick, brown hair fell over her innocent eyes.

Her quietness drew me in. Unintrigued by the other children running around outside, she kept her eyes low and continued coloring broad strokes across the paper. Five minutes before, she must have heard me opening and shutting drawers, loading the washer and dryer and walking around, but apparently, was unphased by that as well.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

I was greeted by another droopy lock of thick, brown hair over big brown eyes, but this time - a tiny smile appeared. She looked up from her picture and softly replied, “Brielle.”

“Well, Brielle, that is a beautiful picture you are coloring there.”

For several more minutes, I watched her silently color.

She just seemed too quiet.

“Are your Mom and Dad home?”

“My Dad is,” she answered without looking at me, as she drew a bright orange line on a rainbow.

“What is your Daddy doing right now?”

“He is watching television. He always watches TV,” she stated, filling in the orange stripe.

“Oh, does he have a job?” I asked, debating over whether I wanted to hear the answer to my own question. My gut was telling me behind the pretty rainbow was a storm not many people knew about.

“Nope. He doesn’t have a job. And he isn’t allowed to be at my mom’s job either. She works at Chili’s and he got kicked out of there,” she stated matter-of-factly.

The wax from the orange crayon - doing what it's supposed to do - thickened the bold lines of the rainbow. But now I knew those bold lines were only covering up the storm that came before the rainbow. This storm she was coloring over always leaves wreckage behind, leading her to wander into (safe) strangers' homes to feel and color the sun and rainbows.

“Sounds like he did something they did not like,” I noted.

“Yup, he got pretty angry and now he isn’t ever allowed to go back to Chili’s, even if my mom is at work there during the day.”

One hundred questions flooded my curious and now sympathetic brain.

Whose father manages to be kicked out of a restaurant?

My mind drew drunken, vulgar pictures, but didn’t know where to put Brielle in the picture. Was she watching - or just listening - from behind a booth? Was she part of the aftermath?

As silence fell on us again, I regretted the annoyance I felt earlier. 

Did I really think my basket of laundry was more important than sitting here?

The picture became more vivid with each answer she gave. 

Ten minutes before, I had felt invaded - in time, space and routine.

Then in a quick moment, my heart was abruptly and necessarily shifted.

My understanding increased as my heart slowly opened.

I went from feeling invaded to feeling invited.

I wiped a tear from my cheek as I pulled the top off my own daughter’s purple marker. I prayed God help my uptight, task-oriented brain let go of the to-do list. With my purple marker and her orange crayon, we quietly colored a rainbow right over that storm.

Later that afternoon, my daughter Leah came bursting through the back door begging for Brielle to spend the night. I gave in to Leah’s request and Brielle went running off to ask permission from her father. Upon her return, I was handed a crusty blanket by her father.

“See you in the morning after pancakes,” I told him.

As her father walked away, it occurred to me:

I did not know his name.

I did not have his phone number.

I did not know which apartment she lived in.

There was no stuffed animal, no nightgown, no book to help her fall asleep.

There were no goodbye kisses on the forehead; just a quick drop-off and a blanket covered in shards of dried food.

The girls took a bath and I threw Brielle’s clothes and blanket into the wash.  “Can you wash my hair like that too?” Brielle asked, as I rinsed the shampoo out of Leah’s hair.

Catching Leah’s eyes while I washed Brielle’s hair, I saw and felt grace, empathy, and concern coming from the eyes and heart of my own child. In the warm bath and safe home, she sensed Brielle’s struggles.

The way Leah looked at me was as if to say, “Yeah Mommy, I’m glad you’re doing that for her; she needs it; she needs me to share my Mommy with her.” That moment might be erased from Leah’s mind already, but I’ll never forget how she was instinctively aware of the TLC her friend was craving - and she responded with grace and kindness.

With a large, buttery bowl of popcorn, the girls giggled their way through a movie. It felt as though Brielle became more confident with each laugh, speaking a bit louder as the night went on, and increasing eye contact. By the time pancakes were on the table the next morning, she was speaking as loudly as Jared and Leah. After coating plenty of butter, syrup, and peanut butter on our pancakes, and eating every drop, we walked Brielle back to her apartment.

On my way out the door, I glanced at the laundry basket spilled over with dirty clothes, and thanked God Jared had left the screen door open yesterday.

Because when a door is left open, someone will come in.

Sadly, I don’t see Brielle or many of the other courtyard kids anymore. But my promise to always ask questions of a child wandering into my apartment – or home - still stands.

My promise to Brielle is there is always a space for her.

The welcome will never be worn - whether she wants to stop by tomorrow or when she is sixteen. We will always be ready to serve buttery popcorn, whip up fluffy pancakes and color over any storm.

To be an adult witnessing a story unfolding in a child’s life is like layering in another slice of goodness in the sandwich of life.  A child’s story doesn’t detract or invade from the business we take on in adulthood;

It does the opposite.

The story of a child invites us to connect with an innocent human in their world and their struggles.

As Brielle told her story, it was as if just when I didn’t think I had time for it, God unexpectedly widened my capacity to love. I’ve had to learn for myself that when we work with God, God works back with us, opening new channels of energy, creativity, and love - for us to persevere in doing good.

I bet we all know a Brielle if we look hard enough - and when we find him or her, may we lean on the Divine’s spirit of relentless love - so we can spend less time worrying about doors being left open and more time praying about who may need to walk through.

Peace,

Annette