Had I known...

Had I known the end result, I would never have suggested we play What Time is it Mr. Fox?
I remembered the shiny wood floor and the shrieks of happy kids in the gym in elementary school.  What could be wrong with happily shrieking kids, playing a game together, on a day designed exactly for that?
There were about 4 left, uncaught.  The "hungry foxes" stood in the middle, waiting for the run and the capture.  They never did get the concept of staying inside the boundaries.  "It's 12:00!" they shouted, and pandemonium broke loose until they all decided to form some kind of order again at approximately the right place.
I was there, directing the game.  I was watching them run, thinking "I gotta figure out how to get them to just run to a certain area and then stop."  I missed the running, the tripping, the falling on the ground.  But I felt the tugging on my shirt.  "His hand, his hand!"  And I snapped back into reality and I was the one running.
I saw him laying there on the ground, screaming, his wrist humped at a totally unnatural angle.  "My hand!  My hand!"  he screamed.  I had a brief flashback to my own broken wrist 16 years ago and in a split second, I knew the sickening feeling my mom must have felt as she saw my unnaturally curved wrist.  I picked him up in my arms, only realizing later that I didn't even feel his weight.  I ran with him to the parent with him that day, my only explanation: "He hurt his hand."  Somehow, it didn't seem right to say that I thought he broke his wrist.  Then he was in other arms and I was surrounded by kids, shocked into silence by the horror of the moment.
"Grab hands.  We're going to pray for Rodrigo," I tried to force calm into me.  Were we going to pray for Rodrigo or his family or us?  Maybe all of it.  Their voices repeated my words.  "Lord Jesus, please help Rodrigo.  Please do a miracle in his life.  Please bring peace to him and his family.  Touch him and heal him." 
And then we walked away, the spirit of the game gone.  Josué walked beside me.  "It's not my fault, miss," he assured me.  "He was running and he tripped and fell."  Oh, how I wished for the ability to be like a child, to recognize that it wasn't my fault, to not feel responsible.  Already, the deep guilt of responsibility weighed heavy on my shoulders.  "No, honey, I know it's not your fault.  It's an accident and accidents happen."  How can those words sound so sure when my heart is saying the exact opposite?
And then I tried to figure out what to do.  Everywhere I looked, I imagined accusation in eyes, whispering voices.  "There's the teacher who was playing with the kids when the one feel and broke his wrist."  "She should never have been playing that game with them."  "What was she thinking anyway?  She's so irresponsible."  "You're guilty."
And in my heart, I heard another voice.  "There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."  "You could not have possibly known what would happen."  "His dad was right there watching.  A bunch of parents were right there watching and no one was saying anything or giving any indication that the game was not appropriate."  "You are not responsible for accidents." 
And yet, the guilt-voices seemed so much more logical, so much more RIGHT than the other one.  I WAS right there.  It WAS my idea.  And now a kid was hurt on his way to the hospital and there would be medical expenses and it was ALL MY FAULT.
A mom from my class came up and gave me a bag of fried pork rinds to share with all the teachers.  I gave it to someone else to give to the teachers as I realized that we had doctors on the grounds and there was something I could do.  Running, I tried to connect all the involved parties, only to find that the child and his family were already on the way to the hospital. So I just went and stood, feeling like I deserved neither the pork rinds, nor the company of the other teachers.  I didn't even deserve the now-smashed piece of bread or the apple I'd packed in my backpack for my snack.  I deserved anger, deserved to feel every ounce of the weight of the guilt piling on my shoulders, deserved the shouting voices of condemnation in my heart.
And yet, they called me over, that circle of teachers sitting on the ground.  I swallowed deep inside the tears that wanted to slide out.  I could let no one see how much of a horrible teacher I was.  But I had to tell the director.  And her calm was amazing, compared to the torment in my soul.  My calm as I talked to her amazed me also.  Those tears stayed deep in their hiding place.
I deserved condemnation (at least in my mind), but it never came.  Instead, I received pork rinds, paneton (fruit cake) and bottled juice.  I received the support of the director.  I received understanding and sympathy.  I received the encouragement of my mom as I relayed the incident to her later.  I received, in short, grace.
Eventually, after a few hours and several retellings of the incident, after talking on the phone and hearing that the boy was fine and "Accidents like that happen", I realized that the condemnation was being overpowered by the love and grace of a God whose truth I could finally begin to believe.
And I heard His voice saying two things in my heart:
 - If anyone wants to enter into the kingdom of heaven, he must become like a little child.  Josué recognized that, logically, it was not his fault.  The kids, after a few minutes, were playing again as if nothing had happened.  As long as I get stuck tripping and falling over condemnation and accusation, I'll never be able to receive grace, love and mercy.  I'll never be able to trust God or just trust that what He says is truth.
 - And had I known what would happen, I would have been God.  If I make myself responsible for the entire world, I am putting myself in the place of God.  And He doesn't exactly need (or want) a replacement.
Not saying that I've learned these things yet.  Just saying God's spoken them and I've heard them.  They're THERE. 
Had I known...I wouldn't have suggested What Time is it Mr. Fox.  But then again, accidents don't require games or teachers to happen and bones break even under the hawk-eyed stare of parents.
Had I known...I would have been God.  So I guess I can maybe think about letting Him worry about His own job and just do mine.  I think that's what He wants me to do anyway.
Oh grace...will I ever understand you?