Of Games and Cinderblock

White washed cinderblock walls climb three stories up. Hanging above us a green glow hovers from the fluorescent light, static and artificial. Nothing good ever came from a tube suspended in mid air. A shiny gym floor squeaks with the sound of rubber soles running back and forth across the boards.

It’s all so drab. So lackluster. So manmade. And yet we are lucky to have this place. In a land where the alternative is a harsh, wintry environment six months out of the year, a big warm room to let them run is nothing to take for granted. But today the room itself has this longing filling the air. Everything from the lighting, to the walls, to the shoes made across the Pacific Ocean seem cold and imperfect. It’s all this feeble attempt to make something nice from this crude world. Something to soften its blow. And it’s excentuated by the only good thing in it: the boys.

My son races around the gym, weaving and dodging, trying to outrun his friend who is chasing him in a friendly game of tag. He is six–almost seven–and his friend just a bit older. Watching two school-aged boys play tag is really a site to behold. Incredible, actually.

Their legs pump up and down, blood flowing swiftly to the long fibers that connect their muscles together and animate their movements. Their chests expand, heaving and broadening, a miniature image of how they will look in just a few short years. They are agile, quick, and full of life. Breath. But perhaps most beautiful is the smile on their winded faces. They know no limits, no care. Their world is complete for a moment because they are doing everything they were made to do. Running from one place to another, they look as if any moment they will just lift off the ground and go chase each other around the moon. For a fraction in time there is no limit to their world; nothing holding them back from everything they are suppose to be. In here, in this cold, manmade cage, it is so plain to me how captive they are.

This may be the only world they know, but it is starkly obvious to me that this is not their home.

Later, I watch my princess gallop around the room. She dodges the furniture, giving a whinny here and a neigh there, as she rounds the corner by the dining room table. It’s a daily occurnace, her pretending to be a horse. We indulge her terribly, playing along and calling her “Sparkling Lights,” her splendid pony name. I’ll often feed her carrots by hand, or pretend to brush her sleek coat. I wrap scarves around her middle, a make-shift saddle to add to her delight. After all, how many years of your life do you really get away with fully believing you are such a majestic creature? She prances by, toffee hair floating behind her like a beautiful sun-kissed mane. “Good girl. Easy girl. You’re a beautiful horse, Sparkling Lights,” I soothe. That night I tuck her into her little bed and sing a song of horses running free, and tell her to dream of the day He comes back, riding on His white horse, ready for her to go riding with Him. Her eyes glass over and she says she can’t wait.

And for the second time that day, I see again how inadequate this place is and how exiled we are.

These precious stones of mine are brilliant. They are shining beacons in a world of bitterness, injustice, and cruelty. And for now–thankfully–they do not know much of those things. And until that day comes, they are my evidence of hope. They remind me how someday the Restoration will come, and our home will be a paradise. Our bodies will not break down, never decompose. Our joy will be complete, perfected in being everything we want to be. In everything we are made to be: completely and uniquely human. Royalty. Sons and daughters of the King, reigning and ruling in our real home.

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