Smile
"Can I walk with you?" he asked.
He was small for a 10-year-old, with fine bones, blond hair and deep blue eyes. When he smiled, his eyes were what caught my attention. Something about the way he looked at me gave me a deeply uncomfortable feeling.
I was working at a Christian summer camp for the third year in a row, as a counselor, staying in a cabin with ten to twelve girls of different ages, depending on the week. Boys and girls had separate sides of camp and were not allowed to go beyond certain designated landmarks. Everyone mingled on common ground - the dining hall, the recreation hall, the playground and the chapel.
That's where I was headed the day I was approached by the little boy, who asked to walk with me. It wasn't an unheard of request in and of itself. A younger boy had asked me if he could sit beside me in the chapel the previous year.
So, I agreed, and we made the short walk to the door.
"I'll walk slow so you can keep up," he told me.
"That's nice of you," I tell him brightly. "Are you having fun this week?"
"Not really..." he said, suddenly sounding sad. "You know, I know how it feels to have people make fun of you. I don't have that many friends."
"That's too bad," I said sympathetically. "But I'm sure you will. It just takes time sometimes."
"No, I won't. No one likes me. Will you be my friend?" he asked, on the verge of tears.
"Sure," I agreed, my training echoing in my head.
"You might be the only Jesus some kid ever sees."
If I could sense something a little off with him, maybe others could, too. That had to make it hard to make friends. I knew that a lot of kids were socially awkward. I decided to give him the benenfit of the doubt. Maybe he just needed somebody to give him a chance.
"Can I sit with you in chapel?" he asked, sounding unsure. He sent me that smile again. It made me tense up for reasons I didn't understand.
I agreed, because we, as counselors were supposed to seat ourselves among the kids anyway.
When we got inside, he sat behind me and kept talking to me about anything, all in this whining tone that seemed to implore me to feel badly for him. It didn't seem to matter that the the camp director was speaking. Eventually, the boy ended up sitting directly beside me.
Worship started, and I tried to lose myself in singing the words of the melodies I'd grown to love. To lose myself in praising God. I had mastered the art of doing that, and keeping an ear out for disruptive kids, but the 3rd-5th graders were a pretty tame crowd. Not much I had to worry about there.
Except that my new friend was making it difficult. Whenever I checked on him out of the corner of my eye, I found him staring at me with that smile. The look in his eyes could only be described as predatory. I was 24 and had never seen a look like that in a child's eyes. It freaked me out.
"I'm really glad we're friends," he whispered. "You have a really nice voice."
"Okay. Shh," I said, deciding that he clearly was misinterpreting what friends meant. I whipped out my counselor tone instead.
When he tried to engage me, I told him he needed to pay attention. When he sulked and pouted, I ignored him, feeling sickened. Now, all the pieces were coming together. I couldn't figure out why, but I knew this kid was manipulating me.
At the end of chapel, I sought out his counselor, and told him what had happened, and how his camper had made me feel incredibly uncomfortable.
That's when I learned that the counselor had been informed sometime earlier in the week that the same boy had been abused sexually. He promised he would keep his charge away from me, and he kept his word.
I never saw that child again.
But I'll always remember the look in his eyes and the smile on his face that was far too adult for his age, as he watched me that day in chapel.
He was small for a 10-year-old, with fine bones, blond hair and deep blue eyes. When he smiled, his eyes were what caught my attention. Something about the way he looked at me gave me a deeply uncomfortable feeling.
I was working at a Christian summer camp for the third year in a row, as a counselor, staying in a cabin with ten to twelve girls of different ages, depending on the week. Boys and girls had separate sides of camp and were not allowed to go beyond certain designated landmarks. Everyone mingled on common ground - the dining hall, the recreation hall, the playground and the chapel.
That's where I was headed the day I was approached by the little boy, who asked to walk with me. It wasn't an unheard of request in and of itself. A younger boy had asked me if he could sit beside me in the chapel the previous year.
So, I agreed, and we made the short walk to the door.
"I'll walk slow so you can keep up," he told me.
"That's nice of you," I tell him brightly. "Are you having fun this week?"
"Not really..." he said, suddenly sounding sad. "You know, I know how it feels to have people make fun of you. I don't have that many friends."
"That's too bad," I said sympathetically. "But I'm sure you will. It just takes time sometimes."
"No, I won't. No one likes me. Will you be my friend?" he asked, on the verge of tears.
"Sure," I agreed, my training echoing in my head.
"You might be the only Jesus some kid ever sees."
If I could sense something a little off with him, maybe others could, too. That had to make it hard to make friends. I knew that a lot of kids were socially awkward. I decided to give him the benenfit of the doubt. Maybe he just needed somebody to give him a chance.
"Can I sit with you in chapel?" he asked, sounding unsure. He sent me that smile again. It made me tense up for reasons I didn't understand.
I agreed, because we, as counselors were supposed to seat ourselves among the kids anyway.
When we got inside, he sat behind me and kept talking to me about anything, all in this whining tone that seemed to implore me to feel badly for him. It didn't seem to matter that the the camp director was speaking. Eventually, the boy ended up sitting directly beside me.
Worship started, and I tried to lose myself in singing the words of the melodies I'd grown to love. To lose myself in praising God. I had mastered the art of doing that, and keeping an ear out for disruptive kids, but the 3rd-5th graders were a pretty tame crowd. Not much I had to worry about there.
Except that my new friend was making it difficult. Whenever I checked on him out of the corner of my eye, I found him staring at me with that smile. The look in his eyes could only be described as predatory. I was 24 and had never seen a look like that in a child's eyes. It freaked me out.
"I'm really glad we're friends," he whispered. "You have a really nice voice."
"Okay. Shh," I said, deciding that he clearly was misinterpreting what friends meant. I whipped out my counselor tone instead.
When he tried to engage me, I told him he needed to pay attention. When he sulked and pouted, I ignored him, feeling sickened. Now, all the pieces were coming together. I couldn't figure out why, but I knew this kid was manipulating me.
At the end of chapel, I sought out his counselor, and told him what had happened, and how his camper had made me feel incredibly uncomfortable.
That's when I learned that the counselor had been informed sometime earlier in the week that the same boy had been abused sexually. He promised he would keep his charge away from me, and he kept his word.
I never saw that child again.
But I'll always remember the look in his eyes and the smile on his face that was far too adult for his age, as he watched me that day in chapel.