Runaway Rhymers

“Inside!” I yelled, glaring at the backs of four rhyme lab kids jolting down the back staircase– their bodies jagging, their feet scuffling as they tried desperately to make a break from the penitentiary known as Rocketown Summer Sessions.

For the last week I screamed campers were not allowed outside. I posted signs on every door, hired a lunchtime “door” supervisor and announced the rule routinely, consistently–painfully repetitively. I had all but duck taped it to their shirts. Yet, despite all of that, here they stood feet beneath the sun, shadow cast toward the sidewalk.

Their heads whipped and their eyes jumped up at the sound of my voice. “Busted!” seemed to ring gloriously through the air. Their fate was blistering uncertain and now I had to deal with them.

Walking inside they did not make things easier on themselves.

“I didn’t know we weren’t allowed outside.” One yelled quickly, his voice whimpering, unsure of whether or not he was stating a fact or asking a question.

“Yeah!” another one yelled, trying to ground the previous statement into factual territory.

“I am 18,” announced the third. “I am an adult. You can’t tell me what to do. I was going outside to smoke a cigarette.”

The fourth remained silent.
…

My first day working at a homeless shelter in Birmingham, Alabama I saw a homeless man in the bathroom with a beer. Unsure of what to say I asked him how he was doing.

“I am doing great!” he said, eyes glazed and red-faced. “I feel just great. You know I am filled with the joy of the Holy Spirit. I can feel God in my heart.”
…

Earlier in the week I had caught a camper sneaking off into the offices to play on the computers.
When asked what he was doing he said he missed his sister. His brother and him had recently been taken into foster care due to their parents’ personal struggles. His sister was currently living with her boyfriend. Myspace was the only way he had to stay in touch.

“You saw her yesterday—at five o’clock!” announced another staff member, peaking his head outside his door. “We had ice cream with her less than 24 hours ago.”

“Oh yeah…” the child said. His story was sweet but slightly untrue. Once again the collective Rocketown staff had proven far superior to the mind of a 12 year old.
…

I am sucker for a good story. I admit it. Even when I know punishment must be administered, the mere whispering of Jesus, grace or personal circumstances notoriously foils me. I know the stories told are often not true. But I like to believe that they are. I prefer to forgive not convict. I love to witness grace lived out.
…

Shortly after the recapture of the runaway rhymers, they took the stage for their final showcase performance. The entire week they had been working on a song based on a topic of their own choosing. In weeks past they rapped on girls, parties and their neighborhoods but this week they chose to write about God.

What I loved most about their seven-minute rap was its transparency. Unlike the stories above, the kids did not paint themselves with a rose colored faith or a saint like devotion. Instead, they spoke to how they saw God– they were honest and raw. They said they did not go to church or read the Bible, they had real, deep doubts and they often wondered where God was in their inner-city neighborhood. But despite all their wonders, fears and struggles– despite everything that stood against them–they still believed.
…

I never punished the kids. Instead, I asked them to follow their own words. I said I wanted them to be an example to the other kids. I told I wanted them to be leaders.

I know I am a sucker for a good story. But when that story is about a kid looking, searching, seeking for God I can’t help but listen.

I often tell parents that Rocketown Summer Sessions is where kids can find their artistic voice. But lately I am learning they are finding much, much more.

-Kent-