Once Upon a Time . . .

On the third floor of our courthouse, in a wide and bustling waiting room, there lay two little round cherubs. She, the older, with fringy blonde bangs skittering across darker eyelashes. He, the little; a willing student. There they are – Round and Rounder. Round faces. Round fingers holding round crayons. Laying on round bellies. Round sausage legs kicking up behind them. Round feet in round shoes tapping a quiet cadence on their on their own round bums.

They were sharing a coloring book on the floor. The wiser instructing Round giving careful direction as to color choices and the value of staying within the lines. Then, the student Rounder, with a tongue that would not stay within the confines of such a concentrated face. If only this was the completeness.

Exchanging the zoom lens for the wider angle reveals two steel-toed shoes; sentries standing post on either side of the teacher cherub. A perfectly creased uniform stretched upward, complete with a bullet-proof vest pressed inside a bailiff’s shirt. No roundness here. No soft fringyness; only starched lines, wide, straight shoulders, hard handcuffs, a gun, some unknowns, no crayons. His arms looked to be at rest on his belt, but his squared, rigid shoulders did not. A warrior standing guard. Stoic, until one widens the lens one more time, and turns on the sound.

There were two. One supposed to be a mother. Another presumed to be a grandmother. There were war cries; screachings, screamings, indictments, accusations; all the pointed and sharpened weapons of war intended for the father of the roundnesses, but raining down, piercing through the soft rounds laying on their bellies beneath.

This is just one story on one day. Brief moments before the Warrior Bailiff spoke in low serious tones and became a Peace Keeper too.

The spectators in attendance may have clucked their tongues or rolled their eyes. They had time for little else because each was sharpening weapons for their own wars; more carefully orchestrated wars. Maybe they would even be called ‘civilized’.

In the years since this day of the little Rounds and the Warrior Peace Officer, I’ve wondered, ‘what ever happened to the little Rounds’? I was even drawn to tears as I have wondered about how they would be forced to process such days. I did not wonder about the Warrior – because this was all just a part of his job, right? Was it because he was an adult, trained to serve and protect – and to do it with calm integrity?

So, I’ll wonder now. I’ll wonder if Bailiffs who stand guard over little Rounds come home to their own little Rounds who just got sent to ‘time-out’ because they spread their crayons all over the new carpet. Did he remember to stop by the cleaners to pick up another starched uniform for tomorrow? Is there a lawn to mow or a garbage disposal to unstick? Science projects to finish? Bills to pay? Is there a vestige of adrenaline causing unseen tremors in his marrow? How long do Warrior Peace Officers need to process the wounding of little Rounds? Will he have that time before tomorrow?

GOD only knows. So, we pray GOD will stand guard over all of him. Over all of THEM.