Big Love From Little Strangers

Today’s venture into The City was far from ordinary. It was only supposed to be a bring-your-book-to-read-in-Central-Park kind of day but instead it took a particularly interpersonal turn. The day began as all of our New York visits do: explore part of the city we’ve somehow missed (today it was Wall Street and the Stock Exchange) and then meet up with very good friend Abby for coffee and pastries at the Hungarian shop on 110th and Amsterdam. Everything went as planned. On schedule. So, off to Central Park we went to rest our feet and indulge in some light, non-academic reading. (me “A Generous Orthodoxy” and Matt “Understanding Fundamentalism and Evangelicalism”. I know… we’re pathetic.)

We perched ourselves atop some flat rocks jetting out over the park’s bay, which even though shaded were still warm from the sun. Just as I began settling into Brian McLaren’s elaborate disclaimer about why his book is “absurd and ridiculous” and how I might just want to “abandon this book right now” before the inevitable shock of whatever he’s going to say about orthodoxy, I felt my personal space being invaded. And since the only thing I could hear was my iPod (full blast) I shot a glance to my left to see what was going on. It was a little girl who had settled in next to me, about 12 inches away. I gave her a quick smile to show my approval of her unusually close proximity, lowered the volume on my iPod in case I was summoned and went back to my dangerous reading.

After some warnings by her grandpa about not falling into the water he left the scene to smoke a cigarette about 20 feet way. I felt her looking at me. So, I looked her way. “Hi!” she said. I returned her greeting and before I knew it she was telling me what she observed about the ducks swimming by the various people in the canoes. Eventually, I pulled the earphones out of my ears and joined her observations. Before I knew it I was fully engaged in the “color game,” which, apparently, is the process of pointing out the colors that surround you.

“I don’t know your name,” this small girl said to me.

“Well, I’m Grace,” I said.

“Well, hello, Miss Grace.”

I smiled, loving her addition to my name. “And, I don’t know your name,” I replied.

“Tanaiya,” she says with a certain tonal sass, moving her head from left to right, then left again. I knew right then that she would be in charge of the conversation but nothing could have prepared me for what she said next.

“Sing me a lullaby, Miss Grace.”

Flustered by the sudden request (demand?) to sing aloud in public, I racked my brain for any lullaby tune that I could make up words to. After a long pause I sheepishly tried singing, “Go to sleep. Go to... sleep.” (long pause) “Uh, I don’t really know any lullabies.”

“Okay, I’ll sing to you,” she said. She paused, staring at me. “Well, lay your head down!” “OH!” I laid my head down noticing the warmth of the rock on my cheek and the way that her eyelashes curled all the way back and touched her lids. “Rock-a-by, baby, on the treetop…” she sang, stopping only once to remind me to close my eyes and go to sleep. “… and down comes Miss Grace, cradle and all,” she concludes.


“Thank you, Miss Tanaiya. I forgot all about that song.”

“Can I lay next to you?” she asked. “You sure can.” So, she snuggled in close by my side. Then, she ran her dark ebony hand over my pasty white arm and said, “You’re soft.” Then, she stroked my hair and said, “I like your hair, too. It’s pretty.” Overwhelmed by her sweetness (and loving the hair compliment) I was taken off guard again when she said, “Tell me a story, Miss Grace.”

“Uh… Okay.” I momentarily flashed back to childhood when I would say the same thing to my dad, partly to prolong my bedtime and partly to bask in his presence. He faithfully told me stories about great biblical heroes, such as the strong man whose strength came from his long hair and the woman who cut it off or about the woman who rose to leadership at the right time and place to save her people from certain death.

“Okay,” I began, “this is a story about a woman named Esther.”

“Is she your kid?”

“No. She is a woman who lived a long time ago and she didn’t have a lot of money.”

“MmHmm.”

“She didn’t have a lot of money and…” I thought more about this story I realized that my dad had not edited out any of the racism, sexual assault, murder and general scandal-ity of the plot. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed that her grandpa had gotten off his cel phone and was now listening to me. “… and so… she married a King and got lots of money and lived happily ever after.” Crap! I thought to myself. Not exactly the story I wanted to tell a 5-year old girl - any girl for that matter!

As her grandpa walked over to collect Tanaiya he expressed hope that she hadn’t been bothering me. “Not at all!” I assured him. “She is so great!” As, he put the shoes on her little feet he told me that Tanaiya had already undergone two liver transplants at her young age.

She stood to her feet and hugged my neck. She gave me the longest hug I had ever received from a person so small... and then she kissed my cheek. I suppressed the tears in my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat as she stood there looking into my eyes for a moment, saying nothing. Then, she limped away beside her grandpa, looking back once more to wave goodbye to me - Miss Grace.