Playing Father

This is Motassem, a beautiful Arab boy with bright blue eyes.

Every Tuesday night, our school hosts prayer meetings. On average, thirty people attend, half of whom are students. Last Tuesday, at 10 PM, as the thirty of us were leaving the building, a 13-year-old boy named Mohammed gave me a huge hug and joked, “Carry me! Carry me!” I laughed and signed, “You’re too old, and I’m too weak.”

A few seconds later, Motassem tugs on my sleeve. 

I turn to face him, and he signs, “I’m only ten.”

His hands are neither timid nor pestering. Now, as always, he exhibits a quiet confidence that suggests maturity beyond his years. 

Only a brute could have refused the implicit request. 

I scoop him up in my arms, and he clings to my body. We slowly make our way to the boys’ boarding house, around forty yards and forty stair-steps away. Besides a few short giggles, he is silent and still. 

What kind of ten-year-old boy finds comfort in being carried?

The kind of ten-year-old boy who didn’t find it when he was five.

The kind who is old enough to know that his father has failed, but still young enough to delight in pretending.

The kind who approaches me the next morning and asks, “Are you going to the prayer meeting on Thursday night?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Will you carry me to the boarding house afterwards?”