"How is it, being back?" Many people asked me this question during my few months home this past summer -- my downtime bridging two years of teaching in Madrid. A quick and light reply of "great!" was always given. Sometimes, depending on whom I was talking to, I would provide more insight and confess that being home made me realize what I had been living without for the past year. That I had had more days of compromise than I had realized at the time. That, suddenly, once I was home, I felt like a cactus in the midst of a deluge. The moment I stepped off the plane, my soul was being restored and nourished.
Being home put me into what I call "sponge-mode", leading me to soak up and contain in my heart all the embraces, Sunday dinners, and conversations with loved ones. All those moments alone, driving slowly in my car with the windows down, talking to or, sometimes, just listening to God. Soaking in all those moments I felt the loving reassurance of being surrounded, once again, by people who know me (while, in Spain, the longest someone has known me is a year).
Everyday my mantra was "Never again will I take these things for granted." I volunteered to drive to the grocery store. I let the dog lick my face. I picked my sister up from school and drove her to art, hoping for a chat. I watched sunsets in a hammock by our pool, hands grasping a book to my chest, beaming as the sun sank away for a few, short hours. The day's end was never sad. I always knew the night held a different type of light, a net of stars cast for my wonderment. A moon to illuminate our farm until the sun reappeared. I took it all in, all the light, all the love. For two months, my heart soaked.
Then it was that dreaded day... a day of tearful goodbyes, a long, uncomfortable plane ride, and, as if by the hand of the executioner who flips the switch, it became a day of feeling absolute disconnect. I was no longer home. Later, on my way back to my apartment, I laid my head back and absorbed the metro's vibrations as I stared ahead at my reflection, consumed by the tunnel's darkness. I was back, and I felt utterly alone.
And that word -- "felt" -- is very important, I now understand. Because I wasn't.
I was never alone. I never am. And I never will be.
My heart's prayer for the past few years has been this: to let myself be romanced by God and to see Him in everything around me. In every person's eyes. In every leaf falling to the ground at my feet. That I might have an ever-present sense of wonder. To understand, more and more each day, that I am alive. I am held by Him.
After that seemingly-endless metro ride, I sat in a Starbucks half-listening to the dear friend who had met me at the airport, and I observed the hustle and bustle in the streets below. I hated it. I hated being back, I hated flippin' Starbucks because it was American but I wasn't in America, and I hated that all I wanted to do was cry in a dark, closed room. I hated that I suddenly wasn't enjoying life. So, I went back to my apartment with the full intention of soaking in my misery.
My flatmates had a different plan. I spent all day (since this day was longer than 24 hours) somehow awake, laughing and talking with friends, new and old. Way to mess up my plan!
The first few weeks continued to be rough, but my flatmates never failed to be that sunshine I was missing. At night, I sometimes sat on my tiny balcony and craned my neck, wishing for the twinkle of one star or a glimpse of the moon above the buildings and through the smog. Then I would know God loved me. That He hadn't forsaken me.
School started, and with that, my prayer -- my heart's desire -- was answered.
Do you understand the love of a child? Because I don't. It baffles me every day.
I'm bewildered every time I walk down the hall and a chorus of children call out my name. I'm still surprised when they fly up from their seats and run to me the second I've walked through the door. And they hug with no intention of letting me go. They are little cling-ons, tilting their heads back to grin up at me as they squeeze me tighter than before. I'm talkin' six year olds and sixth graders at the same time! Boys hugging me like they'd hug a mother. Older girls stroking my hair, telling me I'm lovely. An entire class of third graders who, each day, throw down their pencils to run and almost knock me down with their powerful embrace.
This love is amazing. It's so freely given and beautiful.
I see Christ all around me.
Sometimes, it makes me want to go into that dark, closed room, and cry until I understand it. Just let me understand this love, then I can go out and share it! Other times, it makes me so giddy, I feel like one of them. A carefree child.
Yesterday, while taking a group of third graders out of class to watch a video on the skeletal system, a girl slipped me a hoop of pink paper. "For you, teacher." The past week, the girls of 3B had discovered that zipping scissors down a ribbon of paper would make it curl. Soon, this mania had to be stopped. I assumed this rebel curl was one she had just made on the sly. When I started to pocket the paper, the girl cried out, "No, no! It's a, uh... anillo!" A ring. A ring that said, "Debon is beutiful." She watched with great satisfaction as I pulled it back out of my pocket and slipped it on my ring finger. Then she took my hand and led me back to the group. These children don't know how close I was to crying as I pointed out a model skeleton's femur and patella. My heart was swelling again, the Grinch scale being popped wide open. Boing!
What I'm coming to understand is, I'm always home, even when I'm not in my childhood home. I can be at home with Him, and know He is always sheltering me, even when I feel so far away from all I know and love. I understand now that I can be a sponge wherever I go because His love abounds, in me and around me. I may feel a certain way, but that doesn't mean it's my reality. He is always reminding me, I'm a new creation. His mercies are new every morning, and I can't even use up His daily portion. I'm not a cactus, storing a supply of love until the next rain. I have it within me, the wellspring of life (Proverbs 4:23).
It's so nice to be back, or rather, understand I never left. I never can.
Nov 11, 2011
Sep 21, 2011
Penelope
She sits, rocking, on the front porch,
Snapping tough green beans into sections,
Dropping them one, two, three
Into the wooden bowl between her skirt-covered knees.
Her hands, the color of the barn floor,
Look surprisingly nimble.
The beans make pleasant thumps in the bowl. The rocking chair
Creaks with each push off the ground.
The setting sun stops just short of her slippered
Feet and illuminates a dragonfly’s wings hovering
Above the front stairs. She watches
The lacy wings with casual fascination, working in the rhythm
Of pick, snap-snap-snap, drop.
She gazes at the bobbing insect and thinks:
She needs to fry more chicken. Get some biscuits in the oven.
The field workers are like hungry
Dogs waiting outside the kitchen.
She always serves them quietly, using the plates she’s had
Since her wedding day. Cold lemonade, a drumstick
And a hot biscuit with dripping honey.
Reaching hands and loud men talk. Lewd laughs. Dirty dishes
And dirty boots. The same every day.
They eat, compliment her dress, nudge one another
Then leave.
Her mind focuses on the place the dragonfly has been.
It has zipped away, scared off by a dust cloud. Someone
Is coming up the drive. His face is weathered, and
His shoes look worn out, as if he has
Trod more roads and fields than she can imagine.
She waits for him to stop at the bottom of the steps,
And introduce himself. But he doesn’t. She stops mid-snap
When she realizes – it’s him.
He slowly climbs the old stairs, shuffles across the porch
And gives her a tired nod. He pushes open the screen door
And goes inside to wash up for supper.
She snap-snap-snaps the final bean.
Moves the wooden bowl from the cradle of her legs
To the cradle of her left arm. Rises to go
Ask him about his day.
Snapping tough green beans into sections,
Dropping them one, two, three
Into the wooden bowl between her skirt-covered knees.
Her hands, the color of the barn floor,
Look surprisingly nimble.
The beans make pleasant thumps in the bowl. The rocking chair
Creaks with each push off the ground.
The setting sun stops just short of her slippered
Feet and illuminates a dragonfly’s wings hovering
Above the front stairs. She watches
The lacy wings with casual fascination, working in the rhythm
Of pick, snap-snap-snap, drop.
She gazes at the bobbing insect and thinks:
She needs to fry more chicken. Get some biscuits in the oven.
The field workers are like hungry
Dogs waiting outside the kitchen.
She always serves them quietly, using the plates she’s had
Since her wedding day. Cold lemonade, a drumstick
And a hot biscuit with dripping honey.
Reaching hands and loud men talk. Lewd laughs. Dirty dishes
And dirty boots. The same every day.
They eat, compliment her dress, nudge one another
Then leave.
Her mind focuses on the place the dragonfly has been.
It has zipped away, scared off by a dust cloud. Someone
Is coming up the drive. His face is weathered, and
His shoes look worn out, as if he has
Trod more roads and fields than she can imagine.
She waits for him to stop at the bottom of the steps,
And introduce himself. But he doesn’t. She stops mid-snap
When she realizes – it’s him.
He slowly climbs the old stairs, shuffles across the porch
And gives her a tired nod. He pushes open the screen door
And goes inside to wash up for supper.
She snap-snap-snaps the final bean.
Moves the wooden bowl from the cradle of her legs
To the cradle of her left arm. Rises to go
Ask him about his day.
Mar 30, 2011
It's About Time...
When it comes to my poetry, I rarely get that feeling of "Ah! It's finished!" No. It's usually more like, "This is okay...it sounds pretty much there...but what if I changed this one little thing...?" That's what happened with "Legazpi".
This poem popped into my head back in October after an unusual metro ride. Suddenly, I was itching to write. For weeks, I worked through drafts in my mind and eventually in my Moleskine journal. Then, in November, I made it into a Word doc (which, for me, means I'm actually going to write this poem!). I wrote a few more drafts, sent a copy to family and friends, got their feedback and then...left it alone. I completely abandoned it for about two months so I could get some distance from it. Finally, the other day, my roommate asked me after seeing my Gmail to-do list, "You still haven't posted that poem?!" So here goes.
My life in Spain has been my constant struggle with the Spanish language. My tongue is clumsy and doesn't pronounce the soft Cs properly or will tap too hard on the Ts. I speed through words with Rs and Ls since I've had problems with those beastly letters since I could talk.
On top of the normal frustration of learning a new language, I'm also an English major, through 'n through. I spent most of my college career reading and writing fiction, poetry and essays. I was a tour guide, meaning I had to be ready to talk to anybody and feel comfortable doing it. Basically, I'm a pretty good communicator, and I enjoy it, too. Therefore, when I want to say simple, useful phrases in Spanish like "How do I get from here to here?" or "I'd like the cheaper chicken," I get...grrr! But what if I couldn't talk at all? What if, instead of 50% of the Spanish spoken to me, my ears picked up none of it? Then, what would my daily life be like?
A month ago, I collapsed into a seat on a train heading back into the city after tutoring my headmaster's son, English irregular and phrasal verbs still bouncing around in my head. Two girls boarded, speaking loud, gossipy Spanish. Then a group of young German boys sat to my right. I couldn't understand a word of their guttural exclamations other than "yah!". I pulled out my novel (in English) and began to drown out the language cocktail. A few minutes later, I realized my two neighbors to my left had been awfully quiet. Then I noticed them signing. Instantly, I had a dorky moment of "I'm surrounded by 4 languages!" I believe this trip contrasts in an interesting way to my journey described below in "Legazpi".
I'd love any and all feedback. I'm not sure if this is finished, but it's time I shared.
Legazpi
Deaf to the words in Spanish floating
over the click-clack-screech and squeal
of the metro, yellow line south,
I sit,
headphones wedged in my ears.
We slow then stop.
An old man, the color of café con leche,
unbends from his blue
plastic seat across from me, hikes
up his trousers with a jerk
of his thumbs and exits.
My eyes follow his slow form
until the passengers
waiting on the Legazpi platform
outside my car’s automatic doors
board – a mother taking her
daughter to primary school.
My school is on the Southside, full
of Moroccan immigrant children shouting
in the stairwells, always trailing their rolling
backpacks that smack, with
purpose, each and every concrete
stair.
And this girl, now seated in the old
man’s warmed plastic chair, clutches
her own cursed contraption. A snap
of her head, and she stares into my
light eyes with one, uncovered
dark eye. A sterile, skin-toned
patch covers the other. Her pink,
bottle-thick glasses magnify – pink,
like her headband, backpack, and
sweatpants with grimy cuffs.
Clutching a pole as the metro lurches
forward, the mother leans down and
speaks into the plastic shell encircling the girl’s
ear, attached to the pink glasses. I push my
earbuds in deeper and look across
to the dark tunnel wall outside the window,
to my reflection, until a blur catches
my eye, and I focus on an African
boy, maybe sixteen, standing
further down the car, telling a grand
story with swoops and splashes
of his hands in the air for his sister’s
benefit. His sister nods. I pluck
out my headphones. A suction pop
and only the sound
of the metro scraping the tunnel walls
fills the vacuum. The sister nods again
and signs back. Across from me, the daughter
tugs on her mother’s free hand.
One look around the rocking metro
car, and I realize I am
the only passenger without
glasses, patch, or hearing aid.
The sudden sound of the recording
announcing the next stop makes me start
– Hospital 12 de octubre –
An hour later, as I watch
a fellow teacher smack the back
of an eraser against the blackboard
to silence a rambunctious class
of 2nd graders, I recall
the lines of mute children
queuing at the slowing metro’s doors.
Mar 20, 2011
Some Spring in Your Step
Hip hip hooray for Spring!
Sometimes, your life feels like it's stuck in winter. Everything's gray and people are cold. Icy shoulders, chilly glances. Not to pummel this metaphor to death, but sometimes, you just feel...lifeless.
I've had my share of bad. A precious student of mine passed away, unexpectedly, last week. Friends let me down. I come home to find people literally pissing on my doorstep. I can't see the stars at night for all the pollution. My dearest loved ones are an ocean away. I search for relief by sitting in a pew, only to feel like a robot performing commands.
I'm sure you have your own list, ready to pull out and compare, but let's not do that now.
I want to refocus, realign. Repent. I want metanoia, a changing of the mind.
When I do this, I realize everyday is Spring for those hidden in Christ! (Side note: of course, in our lives, we go through "seasons" due to emotions and the world we live in. In Christ, however, we do have eternal "Spring". "This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is Thy faithfulness." - Lamentations 3:21-23) Every single crappy (or happy!) day is full of Life and Love. More than I can imagine. Overflowing. That's part of the "Good News".
How quickly we forget that now is the year of Jubilee!
Now is the champagne celebration.
Now is the time to love and be loved.
Now is the day the Lord has made. God is now because God is I Am. If my God is now, why can't everything I've been promised through that Life be mine now?
Well, it is. All I have to realize is that now is Spring. (And tomorrow, too!)
And do you know what's the best part about this time, this "Spring"? We don't make it happen! What I mean is, we don't tighten our bootstraps, grab the shovel and go out to toil in the soil in the hopes that maybe one flower pops up. No! The sun shines, the rain falls and we sit back in wonder as Life takes hold and everything begins to bloom. All is in a marvelous state of rebirth. And we can't start it or stop it. We enjoy it.
In one of my favorite books (which you already know if you've read my blog), Brennan Manning quotes Donald McCullough in the following:
“Grace means that in the middle of our struggle the referee blows the whistle and announces the end of the game. We are declared winners and sent to the showers. It’s over for all huffing, puffing piety to earn God’s favor; it’s finished for all sweat-soaked straining to secure self-worth; it’s the end of all competitive scrambling to get ahead of others in the game. Grace means that God is on our side and thus we are victors regardless of how well we have played the game. We might as well head for the showers and the champagne celebration.”
Life isn't supposed to be pounding the pavement to work, passing blank faces, feeling nothing inside your bubble except the weight of the world. Life is a ticker tape parade! You can't help but have some spring in your step when you realize spring has sprung.
Newsboys - Million Pieces por wanzea
Mar 8, 2011
Brussels = Carbs
According to some friends, you don't need more than a weekend to see Brussels, so two weekends ago, me and my friend Jack took a quick trip up to Belgium. My mental "to do" list was quite short since I knew our time would be limited. This "to do" list was, in a word, carbs.
- try several Belgium beers
- eat a Belgium waffle
- eat Belgium fries
- eat chocolate
- try to combine all of the above if possible
- see the cathedral or royal palace if they are open/there's enough time
Check check check! Actually, our 1st night in the city, Jack and I each had a waffle, covered in vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and whipped cream, with a beer to wash it down. We both laughed when we finished and said, "Mission accomplished!" Brussels did not disappoint.
The next day was rainy 'n cold, but through restaurant/bar hopping, we managed to keep ourselves warm 'n toasty and the mood light. While we walked from place to place, we also got to see the breath-taking Grand Place, the cathedral and the palace's front door. Unfortunately, the rain kept us from idling in front of these gorgeous buildings for an extended length of time, but I did snap some quick shots. Most of the day, we were inside a warm room, sipping a beer, having long conversations and letting our coats dry.
FYI, before Brussels, I didn't really enjoy beer. Cheap, watery American beer always made me think of fat, sweaty men watching a baseball game. A Young's Double Chocolate stout felt like trying to down a loaf of bread. A Corona with lime was great when chilled and served with something spicy, but I couldn't take more than one. And no one likes a warm, sandy beer on the beach. So, when I tasted hints of nutmeg, caramel and sour cherries in my different beers in Brussels, I finally became a beer fan. See the slide show below for pictures of Brussels, the beers Jack and I sampled, and all the other wonderful carbs we ingested that weekend!
- try several Belgium beers
- eat a Belgium waffle
- eat Belgium fries
- eat chocolate
- try to combine all of the above if possible
- see the cathedral or royal palace if they are open/there's enough time
Check check check! Actually, our 1st night in the city, Jack and I each had a waffle, covered in vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and whipped cream, with a beer to wash it down. We both laughed when we finished and said, "Mission accomplished!" Brussels did not disappoint.
The next day was rainy 'n cold, but through restaurant/bar hopping, we managed to keep ourselves warm 'n toasty and the mood light. While we walked from place to place, we also got to see the breath-taking Grand Place, the cathedral and the palace's front door. Unfortunately, the rain kept us from idling in front of these gorgeous buildings for an extended length of time, but I did snap some quick shots. Most of the day, we were inside a warm room, sipping a beer, having long conversations and letting our coats dry.
FYI, before Brussels, I didn't really enjoy beer. Cheap, watery American beer always made me think of fat, sweaty men watching a baseball game. A Young's Double Chocolate stout felt like trying to down a loaf of bread. A Corona with lime was great when chilled and served with something spicy, but I couldn't take more than one. And no one likes a warm, sandy beer on the beach. So, when I tasted hints of nutmeg, caramel and sour cherries in my different beers in Brussels, I finally became a beer fan. See the slide show below for pictures of Brussels, the beers Jack and I sampled, and all the other wonderful carbs we ingested that weekend!
Mar 7, 2011
Feb 14, 2011
Not Just on Valentine's Day...
“The Lord says that there is nothing that you can do that would make Him love you more there is also nothing you can do that would make Him love you less. He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you, because that is what He is like, it is His nature to love, and you will always be the beloved. And His love is unchanging, and He loves you 100%, He won’t love you any better when you become better. He loves you 100% right now, and even if you have no plans to become better, He will still love you 100%; because He loves you, because that’s the way that He is, and even if you don’t want to change, He will love you 100%. Even if you have no plans to walk with Him, He will love you 100%, because that’s his nature. He loves all the way all the time. His love is unchanging. What will change says the Lord is your ability to receive my love, and this evening I want to cram some more of that ability inside you. So I challenge you says the Lord, open your heart to me, open your heart to me and you will receive more of my love than you’ve ever experience before, I dare you says the Lord, come on, open you heart to me, give me your heart, give me whatever your obstacle is, I’ll take it, I’ll remove it out of the way, because I love you as you are right now. I love you 100% as you are right this moment. I love you as you are, so be loved. You are the beloved, it is your job says the Lord, to be loved outrageously, it is why I chose you, and it is why I set my love upon you, that you would live as one who is outrageously loved. That you would receive a radical love, so radical it will blow all your parodies of what you think love is. And know says the Lord, I will love you outrageously all the days of your life, because I don’t know how to be any different, this is who I am, and this is who I will always be, this is the I Am that I promised you, I am He that loves you outrageously. And you may love me back with the love that I give you; you may love Me back outrageously, with the outrageous love that I bestow upon you. And know this says the Lord you can only love Me as much as you love yourself. So My love comes this evening to set you free from yourself, to set you free from how you see yourself. To set you free from the smallness of your own thinking about yourself, My love comes to set you free from rejection, and from shame, and from low self-esteem, and from despair and from abuse. Because when I look at you says the Lord, I see something that I love, and I see someone that I can love outrageously. And I have so much to bestow upon you, so much to give you, so many places to take you in My heart, but you can’t go there unless you allow Me to love you. And my love for you, will break every barrier, bring every wall crashing down, and know this says the Lord, My love damages fear, My love hates fear My love will fight fear it will fight fear in you it will fight fear around you, and if you have fear this evening says the Lord, then know that you have a treat in store, because My perfect love casts out fear, there is no fear where I am present, because My love casts out fear. Beloved, you are My beloved, you are My beloved, and in My love I want you to feel good about yourself.”
-Graham Cook, “Inheritance”
Happy "You Are Loved" Day!
-Graham Cook, “Inheritance”
Happy "You Are Loved" Day!
Feb 2, 2011
All the Little Children
A few days ago, in my 2nd session of infantil, the class bad boy (we'll call him "Javier"), sat at my feet for story time. Normally, I'm surrounded by the girls in the class. They constantly play with my hair, reach up to hold my hand or give me stickers. The boys rarely sit with me, and certainly not Javier.
The first thing I noticed was his hair -- his jet black hair had white flecks speckling the top. My mind automatically thought the worst... "He probably has something crawling around in there, too!" This inner monologue made me gasp aloud, ashamed, and Javier turned around and looked at me with curious, wide, dark eyes. I smiled back at that perplexed face, suddenly feeling nothing but warmth toward him. He grinned, having realized that I was okay, and he was in the clear. Then he faced forward again and pushed his head back between my legs, so that his cheeks were even with my knees. Something inside of me jumped, giddy, at this sudden offering of trust. The other children watched me and him carefully, gauging my reaction. I slowly started to sway my knees side-to-side, his face caught in between. He laughed at this game. Then I noticed his smell. Tears prickled in my eyes as I continued rocking him left to right, and I looked around at the other children. Neat smocks. Clean hair. Why hadn't I noticed before? He sat that way, his warm little body between my feet, for five minutes or more, the best behaved I'd ever seen him.
When it was time for the children to return to their tables to color, I asked the two teachers in the classroom, "Javier?" I didn't know what else to say. Their faces grew stony. They proceeded to tell stories of infamous siblings (also unattended), horrible parent-teacher conferences, and "gypsy ways".
My eyes filled with tears again. The week before, I had lost my patience for the first time and had told him harshly, "Javier! Just sit down!" I had spat out his harsh name, the "j" a hacking, guttural "h" sound. He had probably only caught the word "sit," but my meaning had been perfectly clear. My face and voice needed no translation. Students had been all around me, shouting, "Teeeacher teeeacher! Feeenished!" and waving worksheets in my face, while Javier had been throwing crayons and making another child cry. He had deserved to be reprimanded, I realized that, but now I knew a little bit more about his situation. Why he needed attention, be it positive or negative.
When the class ended, and I quietly shut the door behind me, I couldn't shake the image of an expectant, quiet Javier sitting at my feet. I didn't notice a teacher walking toward me in the hall until she stopped me, catching me mid-thought.
"Que paso?" she asked.
"Javier," I stated.
"Oh..." she said softly, squeezing my shoulder with a smile before continuing down the hall.
In one of my favorite books, The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning retells the story in Mark of Jesus stopping during one of his journeys to bless the children. Now, I'm not Mother Teresa, but I do believe that I have the same Love inside of me, ready to be given, no strings attached. Everyday, I have the personal choice of whether or not to respond to those around me out of love and grace. Should I give others what they deserve? Do I favor the best behaved? Do I kiss the dirty child's cheek, too? What if things get icky? What if I'm pushed outside of my happy, safe bubble? I want to share a passage from this book that came to my mind after my encounter with "Javier":
Mark records that a group of parents, who obviously sensed something of God's love in Jesus, wanted Him to bless their little ones. The irritated disciples, fatigued by the long day's journey on foot from Capernaum to the district of Judea and the far side of the Jordan, attempted to shoo away the children. Jesus became visibly upset and silenced the Twelve with a withering glance. Mark notes carefully that Jesus picked them up one by one, cradled them, and gave each of them His blessing.
My friend Robert Frost comments:
I am so glad Jesus didn't suggest they group all the children together for a sort of general blessing because he was tired. Instead he took time to hold each child close to his heart and to earnestly pray for them all...then they joyfully scampered off to bed. One is tenderly reminded of a beautiful messianic passage from the prophets. "He will feed his flock like a shepherd, he will gather the lambs in his arms, he will carry them in his bosom, and will gently lead those that have their young" (Isaiah 40:11). I think there is a lesson here for anyone who would seek to set any kind of false condition concerning just who should be the recipients of God's grace. He blessed them all.
I'm sure I'll continue to be challenged by what I encounter at my schools. I will lose my patience. I will see more situations that will make me want to go home, throw myself on the bed, weep into my pillow and shake my fists because the world isn't fair! Thank goodness, though, that we have ALL been "recipients of God's grace"! Put a Javier in my path. I want to become so weak to myself and my selfish desires, so small, and my comfort zone to grow so large that the ever-strong Love within me will simply flow out to each and every one.
Mark 10:13-16 (NIV)
The Little Children and Jesus
13 People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. 14 When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 15 Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” 16 And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.
The first thing I noticed was his hair -- his jet black hair had white flecks speckling the top. My mind automatically thought the worst... "He probably has something crawling around in there, too!" This inner monologue made me gasp aloud, ashamed, and Javier turned around and looked at me with curious, wide, dark eyes. I smiled back at that perplexed face, suddenly feeling nothing but warmth toward him. He grinned, having realized that I was okay, and he was in the clear. Then he faced forward again and pushed his head back between my legs, so that his cheeks were even with my knees. Something inside of me jumped, giddy, at this sudden offering of trust. The other children watched me and him carefully, gauging my reaction. I slowly started to sway my knees side-to-side, his face caught in between. He laughed at this game. Then I noticed his smell. Tears prickled in my eyes as I continued rocking him left to right, and I looked around at the other children. Neat smocks. Clean hair. Why hadn't I noticed before? He sat that way, his warm little body between my feet, for five minutes or more, the best behaved I'd ever seen him.
When it was time for the children to return to their tables to color, I asked the two teachers in the classroom, "Javier?" I didn't know what else to say. Their faces grew stony. They proceeded to tell stories of infamous siblings (also unattended), horrible parent-teacher conferences, and "gypsy ways".
My eyes filled with tears again. The week before, I had lost my patience for the first time and had told him harshly, "Javier! Just sit down!" I had spat out his harsh name, the "j" a hacking, guttural "h" sound. He had probably only caught the word "sit," but my meaning had been perfectly clear. My face and voice needed no translation. Students had been all around me, shouting, "Teeeacher teeeacher! Feeenished!" and waving worksheets in my face, while Javier had been throwing crayons and making another child cry. He had deserved to be reprimanded, I realized that, but now I knew a little bit more about his situation. Why he needed attention, be it positive or negative.
When the class ended, and I quietly shut the door behind me, I couldn't shake the image of an expectant, quiet Javier sitting at my feet. I didn't notice a teacher walking toward me in the hall until she stopped me, catching me mid-thought.
"Que paso?" she asked.
"Javier," I stated.
"Oh..." she said softly, squeezing my shoulder with a smile before continuing down the hall.
In one of my favorite books, The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning retells the story in Mark of Jesus stopping during one of his journeys to bless the children. Now, I'm not Mother Teresa, but I do believe that I have the same Love inside of me, ready to be given, no strings attached. Everyday, I have the personal choice of whether or not to respond to those around me out of love and grace. Should I give others what they deserve? Do I favor the best behaved? Do I kiss the dirty child's cheek, too? What if things get icky? What if I'm pushed outside of my happy, safe bubble? I want to share a passage from this book that came to my mind after my encounter with "Javier":
Mark records that a group of parents, who obviously sensed something of God's love in Jesus, wanted Him to bless their little ones. The irritated disciples, fatigued by the long day's journey on foot from Capernaum to the district of Judea and the far side of the Jordan, attempted to shoo away the children. Jesus became visibly upset and silenced the Twelve with a withering glance. Mark notes carefully that Jesus picked them up one by one, cradled them, and gave each of them His blessing.
My friend Robert Frost comments:
I am so glad Jesus didn't suggest they group all the children together for a sort of general blessing because he was tired. Instead he took time to hold each child close to his heart and to earnestly pray for them all...then they joyfully scampered off to bed. One is tenderly reminded of a beautiful messianic passage from the prophets. "He will feed his flock like a shepherd, he will gather the lambs in his arms, he will carry them in his bosom, and will gently lead those that have their young" (Isaiah 40:11). I think there is a lesson here for anyone who would seek to set any kind of false condition concerning just who should be the recipients of God's grace. He blessed them all.
I'm sure I'll continue to be challenged by what I encounter at my schools. I will lose my patience. I will see more situations that will make me want to go home, throw myself on the bed, weep into my pillow and shake my fists because the world isn't fair! Thank goodness, though, that we have ALL been "recipients of God's grace"! Put a Javier in my path. I want to become so weak to myself and my selfish desires, so small, and my comfort zone to grow so large that the ever-strong Love within me will simply flow out to each and every one.
Mark 10:13-16 (NIV)
The Little Children and Jesus
13 People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. 14 When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 15 Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” 16 And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.
Feb 1, 2011
City vs. Country
You are so young; you stand before beginnings. I would like to beg you, dear friend, as well as I can, to have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer ...
Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Right now, I'm sitting in the computer lab at my city school, my ears filled with the sounds of children shouting and teachers gossiping in their impossibly-quick Spanish. I sit here, mulling over the same decision that's been on my mind for the past few months -- am I coming back next year? Do I want to teach these children, in this country, for two years of my life? And, if so...which school will I choose? If I decide to renew, I must fill out the paperwork this month and pick one school in which to remain. The latter decision, to me, looms just as large as the former, more general question of whether or not to return at all.
I work in two, very different schools. My Monday-Tuesday school, the city school, is in a low socioeconomic area of Madrid, full of Moroccan immigrants and the occasional ¨gypsy¨. The school is twice the size of my country school, with two homerooms for each grade level, and a staff of 25 or so people. The scenery: a drab apartment complex with concrete sidewalks littered with dog droppings, surrounded by tall, graffitied walls.
My Wednesday-Thursday school, in contrast, is in a quiet village, nestled in a forest of pine trees and large, white tile homes (supposedly belonging to some of Spain's top military brass). This school has only one class per grade level, and the staff is like a small family. I tutor the secretary and headmaster's respective sons once a week and carpool with the Deputy of Studies with whom I practice my Spanish while she practices her English. During those car rides, I smile as the rolling hills swallow my view of the skyscrapers and smog. I smile at the sight of stork nests, tractors, the occasional cyclist and the sun warming my face through the windshield. I love the feeling of leaving the city in the mornings as the sun rises and then returning to such a cool, urban landscape as the stars come out. Without a doubt, I prefer the "feeling" I get from my country school. I admit, it's my comfort zone -- the manageable size, a more intimate group of co-workers...and, it´s in the country! (I am a farm girl, after all.)
There are other factors to consider other than setting, of course:
At my city school, the other assistant, a good friend of mine, had to return home and has been replaced today by a new guy from the States. At my country school, I work with two other girls, both Irish and hilarious. We're thick as thieves.
At my city school, I eat lunch with a mixed group of five teachers and mostly listen to their forced conversations. At my country school, I eat lunch with about ten other women teachers, and we swap stories about students and giggle over guys.
My city school is at the end of a metro line that has a stop three blocks from my house. My country school is about 25 kilometers south of the city, which means a metro and car ride.
But what about the children at each school? What about the work I do? The teaching?
The children at both schools are equally lovable and unforgettable. How can I choose to leave half of them? I simply can't make my decision based on which children are sweeter. They're all wonderful to me.
There is a noticeable difference, though, between their behavior at the city school vs. the country school. It probably won't influence my decision, but I think this observation is worth sharing: The city school children (unfortunately, living up to a stereotype) are more violent. No doubt about it. Daily, I break up fights. I'm talkin' about 1st graders shoving, kicking and slapping each other because they want to be 1st (or even last) in line. Anything to be special or get what they want. Last week, I spoke in Spanish to children for the 1st time when two boys got in an all-out brawl over who's last in line. I separated them, and as they squirmed to reach the other, I told them in my most serious voice that they knew better than this, and no, I didn't care who'd started it. The looks on their faces, after the initial shock of my speaking Spanish, was replaced by a look of confusion. Why can't you push back after being pushed? These children live in an environment where they must take what they want, morals aside. The city school students snatch erasers, pencils and toys from nother classmates without a thought. They need/want it, so what's the problem? This...culture, I guess, has been weighing heavily on my mind and heart recently. I love these kids so much, the angels and the little demons. (Maybe I'll give more thought to this topic later, in another post.)
So now I'm left with the actual work aspect. At my city school, I come into the classroom (infantil, 1st or 2nd grade), stand beside the teacher and continue the lesson in their class and activity books. The teachers are kind of winging it, therefore, so am I. But it works, somehow! Just today, a teacher complimented me on how, when I see that the children aren't getting something, I regroup and change how I present the data. I can change my teaching tactics fluidly. The teacher then nudged me and said, "You're gonna be a teacher, no?" I blushed, laughed and said, "Oh, gosh, one would hope not!" Then we both laughed. But that's why I like this school... it provides me the opportunity to get my feet wet, so to say. I present the day's topic, answer questions, dish out some necessary discipline, sometimes make mini lessons and even correct work in class alongside the teacher. I teach science, English and PE, and I've found that I enjoy teaching all of these subjects. I simply like being in a classroom. I've always loved being a student, and a teacher certainly is a student, too (no?).
At my country school, I go into all the classrooms, 1st-6th grade. I rarely, though, teach. (One 2nd grade teacher, Toni, is really good about letting me read part of the lesson to the children and allowing me to interact with the class as a whole. Other than her class, nada.) 95% of the time, I enter the classroom, walk straight to the back and sit at a table, pull out my folder of British English exam questions, and work my way down the roster of children, a pair at a time. Each pair sits with me and answers the same, mind-numbing questions such as "What's your name?", "Where do you live?", "Have you got any pets?" (crazy British English...it's "Do you have any pets?" but don't get me started!) and "What are you wearing today?" Sorry, but hearing them describe their school uniform (which never changes, duh!) 25x a day, everyday, gets kind of old. Yet, the children need this drilling to pass an exam in May. Ironically, I have realized that my city school's children actually are mastering English quicker than the country school children, who are drilled daily by native speakers. Perhaps the organic interaction of teacher-to-student holds their attention better; they're truly learning, and not just memorizing? I'm not sure, but the fact that my 2nd graders at my city school have better English than the 4th graders at my country school makes me chuckle out of frustration and confusion.
It looks like I've got a loooot of things to think about...
Jan 25, 2011
What's Popular in Madrid
Over a year ago (wow, how time flies!), I wrote a post entitled "What's Popular in Peru" (http://djwthisside.blogspot.com/2009/09/whats-popular-in-peru.html). Now that I've been living in Madrid for over 4 months, I want to create the Spanish version. Let's begin with...
Music:
1. "We No Speak Americano" by Yolanda Be Cool - During our 1st month here, Nicole kept telling me, "I hate that Moroccan-sounding song they always play here!" I would ask her, "Which song?" wondering how she could identify the song as Moroccan. Did it sound Arabic? She'd reply, "I dunno. The one they always play at the clubs. It's annoying and makes the same high-pitched noise over and over." I would laugh at her then because I doubted the song was specifically Moroccan (sorry, Nicole). I assumed it was techno. I ended up being correct because, several days later, Nicole shouted to me in a bar, "This is the song!" I laughed again while nodding my head to the absurdly-catchy techno tune. This song was played all autumn, an Australian techno remake of a 1950s Italian song. Check it out here:
2. What's on the radio in America - I didn't realize when I left the States that the same music would be waiting for me here. I don't need to look at my iTunes Store Charts to know what's the Top 10 in the States because it's what is popular here, too!
3. Kiss FM (pronounced Kees Eh-feh Eh-meh)- I listen to this radio station - based out of Madrid - every Wednesday and Thursday during my car ride to my school in the country. This station plays a 50/50 mix of music in Spanish and English, which I appreciate. Their song selection, though, must consist of about 50 songs because at the same time every week, I usually hear the same group of songs. Songs like "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield, "New York" by Alicia Keys, lots of Shakira and "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay. I like these songs, but, come on! Let's invest in some new tracks!
Clothes:
1. Boots - For girls here, boots are a necessity. Whether they are knee-high, Ugg knock-offs or ankle boots with skinny jeans tucked inside, you can bet 90% of the women around you are wearing boots. The only clothing item I've purchased in Spain are my fabulous black boots. Very smart buy.
2. Neutrals - Blah, Spain. BLAH. Couldn't you branch out a little? Try some color? Neutral scarves, coats, shoes, pants...everything, from top to bottom, lacks color! And you mix your neutrals, too! Forget the words of wisdom from mothers in the American South. Apparently, it's perfectly fine to wear brown, black, gray and navy together. A few "mix your neutrals" days are fine by me, every now and then. Really. It's quite fashionable. But everyday with every neutral in your outfit, to me, is just lazy. My 1st few weeks in Madrid, I thought, "European = tacky." Now, I'm less harsh on Spanish fashion, but I still can't get used to being the only colored M&M in the metro car's pack of brown. (Side note: Sometimes, people don't wear neutrals. They may have a Purple Day instead, and every article of clothing on their body is some shade of purple. Lord, help us.)
3. Coats - Women, stop with the long 'n puffy coats. After you've had a baby in Spain, you will be the only people with any body fat because the rest of the population smokes or hasn't had a kid or both. Even though you may have picked smoking back up, you shouldn't have bought that coat just yet...
4. Scarves - Also fashionable with the middle school skater kids in the States, everyone here wears the scarves that are more like a handkerchief. You make a triangle in front of your neck, take the two ends behind your neck, cross them and let them hang down in the front, like this:
I caved in and bought Savannah one for Christmas. But hers was purdy!
Hair:
1. Girls - You must have, in the words of my fellow auxiliary, Jeanette, "The straight-across, china doll, four-year old bangs." Most girls keep their hair a gorgeous, natural, espresso brown, but some venture into the dangerous bleaching zone. I always stand out with my long, naturally light-colored, no-bangs (or fringe, for my British friends) hair.
2. Guys - Dudes, just because Ronaldo (Pause: If you, Dear Reader, don't know who he is, just Google "soccer." He's who you'll see.) has a gelled mo-hawk, that doesn't mean you should, too. Not everyone can pull off metro-sexual. From my 1st graders to guys in their 30s, they're spiking up their hair in the middle of their head, and it ends up looking more greasy than attractive. Or, the males choose the classic rattail. Lovely. Even better is when they decide to make that rattail one big dreadlock. Perfect, chicos. Exactly what I had hoped for in a Spanish man. *sigh of disappointment*
3. Old women - Purple hair. Wine-colored hair. Red hair. All signs that you should stop buying a box at the grocery store and go to a salon. Or just go au naturale, please. Gray is better than Easter-egg lavender anytime.
Transportation:
1. Vehicles - Europe = tiny cars. Like Smart cars. Nicole, with her F150 sitting in her driveway at home in Maryland, squeals every time she sees a dinky pickup truck here. They're that rare.
2. The Metro - The best way to get around Madrid. I love the Metro! It's clean, reliable, easy to figure out, and ideal for people-watching. There are also taxis in the city, usually utilized after the metro closes around 1:45a. If you find yourself out 'n about like a typical Madrileño on the weekends, these are always around...or, you could just do what they do and wait for the 1st morning metro at 6. Whew.
and, finally,
Food: I had high hopes for Spain's gastronomy when I arrived. I had read the week before my departure in Newsweek that Spain was ranked #1 in the WORLD for food. Wow! Then I got here and started to buy what I could afford, meaning cereal, veggies, sandwich makings, and soup. The few times I go out to eat, the most I'll pay for a meal is 20€, but normally I stick to 10€. Here, though, is the food you´ll find everywhere you go:
1. Bread - It's a white, French loaf. Gets old reeeally quickly, especially when you prefer whole grain. Dang, I'm such a picky American!
2. Paella - Eh. Find it at a good restaurant and not at a chain.
3. Bready, cakey things - Spain loves these things, whether it's a plain cupcake muffin thingy with no icing, a croissant (with or without chocolate chips), donuts or Little Debbie-like foods. There's an entire grocery store aisle devoted to these, as well as digestive biscuits (*gag gag¨*) and tostadas.
4. Churros con chocolate - Right on, Spain.
5. Meat - It's everywhere!
a) Ham - Entire pig legs hang from hooks in many store and restaurant fronts. It's awesome...if you're a ham lover.
b) Weird stuff - The reason why I eat mostly soups, fresh fruit and veggies when I bring my lunch to school. I don't particularly enjoy Spain's wide meat selection like its people does. Blood sausage on toast? Calamari in its own ink? That durn ham leg? I've tried it all, liked most of it, but wouldn't eat it most meals like some people do here.
That's about it for now. I hope you're as amused by some of these bits of Spanish culture as I am! Ciao xoxoxo
Music:
1. "We No Speak Americano" by Yolanda Be Cool - During our 1st month here, Nicole kept telling me, "I hate that Moroccan-sounding song they always play here!" I would ask her, "Which song?" wondering how she could identify the song as Moroccan. Did it sound Arabic? She'd reply, "I dunno. The one they always play at the clubs. It's annoying and makes the same high-pitched noise over and over." I would laugh at her then because I doubted the song was specifically Moroccan (sorry, Nicole). I assumed it was techno. I ended up being correct because, several days later, Nicole shouted to me in a bar, "This is the song!" I laughed again while nodding my head to the absurdly-catchy techno tune. This song was played all autumn, an Australian techno remake of a 1950s Italian song. Check it out here:
2. What's on the radio in America - I didn't realize when I left the States that the same music would be waiting for me here. I don't need to look at my iTunes Store Charts to know what's the Top 10 in the States because it's what is popular here, too!
3. Kiss FM (pronounced Kees Eh-feh Eh-meh)- I listen to this radio station - based out of Madrid - every Wednesday and Thursday during my car ride to my school in the country. This station plays a 50/50 mix of music in Spanish and English, which I appreciate. Their song selection, though, must consist of about 50 songs because at the same time every week, I usually hear the same group of songs. Songs like "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield, "New York" by Alicia Keys, lots of Shakira and "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay. I like these songs, but, come on! Let's invest in some new tracks!
Clothes:
1. Boots - For girls here, boots are a necessity. Whether they are knee-high, Ugg knock-offs or ankle boots with skinny jeans tucked inside, you can bet 90% of the women around you are wearing boots. The only clothing item I've purchased in Spain are my fabulous black boots. Very smart buy.
2. Neutrals - Blah, Spain. BLAH. Couldn't you branch out a little? Try some color? Neutral scarves, coats, shoes, pants...everything, from top to bottom, lacks color! And you mix your neutrals, too! Forget the words of wisdom from mothers in the American South. Apparently, it's perfectly fine to wear brown, black, gray and navy together. A few "mix your neutrals" days are fine by me, every now and then. Really. It's quite fashionable. But everyday with every neutral in your outfit, to me, is just lazy. My 1st few weeks in Madrid, I thought, "European = tacky." Now, I'm less harsh on Spanish fashion, but I still can't get used to being the only colored M&M in the metro car's pack of brown. (Side note: Sometimes, people don't wear neutrals. They may have a Purple Day instead, and every article of clothing on their body is some shade of purple. Lord, help us.)
3. Coats - Women, stop with the long 'n puffy coats. After you've had a baby in Spain, you will be the only people with any body fat because the rest of the population smokes or hasn't had a kid or both. Even though you may have picked smoking back up, you shouldn't have bought that coat just yet...
4. Scarves - Also fashionable with the middle school skater kids in the States, everyone here wears the scarves that are more like a handkerchief. You make a triangle in front of your neck, take the two ends behind your neck, cross them and let them hang down in the front, like this:
I caved in and bought Savannah one for Christmas. But hers was purdy!
Hair:
1. Girls - You must have, in the words of my fellow auxiliary, Jeanette, "The straight-across, china doll, four-year old bangs." Most girls keep their hair a gorgeous, natural, espresso brown, but some venture into the dangerous bleaching zone. I always stand out with my long, naturally light-colored, no-bangs (or fringe, for my British friends) hair.
2. Guys - Dudes, just because Ronaldo (Pause: If you, Dear Reader, don't know who he is, just Google "soccer." He's who you'll see.) has a gelled mo-hawk, that doesn't mean you should, too. Not everyone can pull off metro-sexual. From my 1st graders to guys in their 30s, they're spiking up their hair in the middle of their head, and it ends up looking more greasy than attractive. Or, the males choose the classic rattail. Lovely. Even better is when they decide to make that rattail one big dreadlock. Perfect, chicos. Exactly what I had hoped for in a Spanish man. *sigh of disappointment*
3. Old women - Purple hair. Wine-colored hair. Red hair. All signs that you should stop buying a box at the grocery store and go to a salon. Or just go au naturale, please. Gray is better than Easter-egg lavender anytime.
Transportation:
1. Vehicles - Europe = tiny cars. Like Smart cars. Nicole, with her F150 sitting in her driveway at home in Maryland, squeals every time she sees a dinky pickup truck here. They're that rare.
2. The Metro - The best way to get around Madrid. I love the Metro! It's clean, reliable, easy to figure out, and ideal for people-watching. There are also taxis in the city, usually utilized after the metro closes around 1:45a. If you find yourself out 'n about like a typical Madrileño on the weekends, these are always around...or, you could just do what they do and wait for the 1st morning metro at 6. Whew.
and, finally,
Food: I had high hopes for Spain's gastronomy when I arrived. I had read the week before my departure in Newsweek that Spain was ranked #1 in the WORLD for food. Wow! Then I got here and started to buy what I could afford, meaning cereal, veggies, sandwich makings, and soup. The few times I go out to eat, the most I'll pay for a meal is 20€, but normally I stick to 10€. Here, though, is the food you´ll find everywhere you go:
1. Bread - It's a white, French loaf. Gets old reeeally quickly, especially when you prefer whole grain. Dang, I'm such a picky American!
2. Paella - Eh. Find it at a good restaurant and not at a chain.
3. Bready, cakey things - Spain loves these things, whether it's a plain cupcake muffin thingy with no icing, a croissant (with or without chocolate chips), donuts or Little Debbie-like foods. There's an entire grocery store aisle devoted to these, as well as digestive biscuits (*gag gag¨*) and tostadas.
4. Churros con chocolate - Right on, Spain.
5. Meat - It's everywhere!
a) Ham - Entire pig legs hang from hooks in many store and restaurant fronts. It's awesome...if you're a ham lover.
b) Weird stuff - The reason why I eat mostly soups, fresh fruit and veggies when I bring my lunch to school. I don't particularly enjoy Spain's wide meat selection like its people does. Blood sausage on toast? Calamari in its own ink? That durn ham leg? I've tried it all, liked most of it, but wouldn't eat it most meals like some people do here.
That's about it for now. I hope you're as amused by some of these bits of Spanish culture as I am! Ciao xoxoxo
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