A Few Reiterations, or, Another Update

I know I have mentioned this before--or, at the very least, my family members have, under my direction, mentioned this to my acquaintances back home--but I would like to remind my dear friends who are following along that I treasure every response to my blogs. Receiving an email from people home is one of the greatest blessings a day here can hold. Those of you who have dropped me a line via comments or emails are recipients of my most sincere gratitude. Thank you.

I know I have mentioned this before, but I have been all but dumbfounded at how much I love teaching. Let a short short story or two illustrate. First off, sitting at the football awards the other day, I struck up a conversation with a mom of one of my seventh graders. She kindly informed me that I am her daughter's favorite teacher. I maintained a calm exterior while internally I hit the roof; little things thrill me a whole lot. Second, during class the other day, we guided our discussion of a great American novel to a discussion of Malawian societal norms and prejudices. I hadn't anticipated comparing the Radley house in Maycomb with a particular sector of Lilongwe, but that happened.

I know I have mentioned this before, but my Journalism class has been one of the more interesting challenges of the past few months, as I have encountered lack of motivation, forgetfulness, power outs, and, well, locked computer labs. Ha. Our first student newspaper was released last week, which thrilled my heart and soul. I've talked about it incessantly with a few too many other teachers; I think I need to move on. (But I'm still very excited.)

I know I have mentioned this before, but I am increasingly dependent on God's daily grace. I make so very many mistakes over and over again. On Monday I was horribly short-tempered with a challenging student, who didn't react to my over-reaction but instead calmly looked at me and asked, "Why are you yelling?" I was so convicted for being ungracious, as well as reminded that if I really understood God's grace to me, if I really valued its constancy and abundance, I could be nothing less than generous and gracious to the people in my life.

I know I have mentioned this before, but I have been increasingly appreciative of poetry (and that's putting it mildly):

...Passing away, saith my God, passing away:
Winter passeth after the long delay:
New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,
Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.
Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray.
Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,
My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.
Then I answer'd: Yea.            {christina rossetti}

Secret

I know I had quite a strict no-pictures/no-names policy going on in this little corner of internet on which I jot my thoughts, but sometimes there is a sweet littl'un who changes that.

Her name is Secret.

I met her three weeks ago at a village ministry I was semi-participating in (really I was just watching and holding the hands of a small army of kids), when she plopped on my lap as I sat in a dust cloud and wrapped her arms around me. She was charming--absolutely expressionless, no smiles, no frowns, no speaking, but so very sweet.

This Friday, I was surprised when, as I handed out crayons one by one, a little girl walked up behind me and held on to my hips. As I walked, she kept following, almost tripping on my feet as I went. When I finished handing out stubby sticks of bright color, I sat down and pulled her on to my lap. I traced her hand on paper and drew a string of hearts. She was so unresponsive that I thought she wanted to go off on her own. I stood her up and stood behind her, but she didn't want to leave: she wanted to be held. I don't know why this emotionless, beautiful little girl craves hugs, but she does. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her feet around my waist, laid her head on my shoulder and did not let go until I had to go back home. I carried her around as I admired all the other girls' hand drawings; I had to switch hips as some others walked me to the well and pumped water for me to [pretend to] drink; she held on as other girls tickled my sides and called my name (which comes out "Balbla").

That's Secret. She has a sister named Love. She's so easy to hug. She's so precious, friends; I can say it no other way.

How things have changed

I've changed. I now spend money on lunches and baby formula. I kill spiders in my bedroom and watch lizards creep around my classroom without shuddering. I don't keep every area over which I have control impeccably neat, clean, and organized. I wear skirts a lot and wear my hair down up to three times a week. My only beverages are water and coffee. It's different, but it's no big deal.

Other changes are a big deal; if you don't believe me, read this post about the lies I used to tell. Beyond that, I now embrace joy as a way of life rather than a reaction that depends on good things happening to me. This Wednesday morning found me running late as I left my house (I'm pretty much never late to school, ever), about to spill my coffee out of a borrowed mug (I had left mine, of course, in my classroom), with my hair in every direction and my skirt unfortunately revealing my horribly scraped up knees (on which I knew my students would comment, which is just weird), with neither a prepared devotional for my homeroom nor a printed quiz for my 9th graders nor my laptop. I was about to get my "This is awful and I want to disappear" face on. I couldn't. The morning was too lovely. Nothing had gone well other than finally getting my email to load and making coffee/breakfast with all three of my housemates, but still I couldn't help but be joyful. 

Maybe even mistakes, failures, and flubs can be enjoyed, for they remind me of the fact that I am a human dependent on Someone who loves me immeasurably. For this I thank God and seek the faith to move right along, embracing what he's called me to do. 

Inexplicably idealistic? Yes. Wonderfully so. 

Mulanje, or, witness of a wonder

Name one of the seven wonders of the world. Name something you recently said starting with, "I wonder..." Name a Bible verse with the word "wonderful" in it. (Hint: think Handel's Messiah.) Anyway, just now, I can't help but give that word a bit more credit than I have before.

I returned home on Saturday from a sojourn on Malawi's highest mountain. It was wonderful. Rocks and dirt and trees and scrub piled high against an ever-changing sky, a wondrous testimony of the creativity of a God who, wonder of wonders, loves us more than landscapes he designed.

Every new day is the best day ever. This all but morphed into my personal motto during the four-day vacation with eleven other ABC staff members. The physical challenge of hiking; the determination required to reach the peak; the thrill of coming slowly, cautiously, prayerfully back down; the inspiration provided by an unexpected thunder storm; and the fellowship with these cool people all contributed to the revelation of God's goodness. The wonder of the mountain--its form, its climate, its unpredictability, its magnitude--was terrific to witness, and could do nothing but inspire awe of the mind and heart that created it, the heart and mind of a God who says:

"Fear not: for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine." {isaiah 43.1}

Redeemed, called, owned by the Lord--and you thought mountains were wondrous.

The point of the picture below is the waterfall, not the minuscule people beside it. One of the people is yours truly, but that's not the point of the picture; I hope that's clear. 

Below see me with fellow hiker (and cook) Sydney.

One of the highlights of the trip didn't occur until today: every class I teach wanted to hear all about it. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal to anyone else, but it was a big deal to me. They cared, and they laughed when I sat down very slowly because of my sore muscles, and they asked if I loved it, and they wanted to hear my answers.

The best comment came from one of my whip-smart 7th grade boys: "I was praying for you all the whole time, because Mulanje? Eesh!"

Quick update, quick list, quick thought or two

Ever sit down and wonder when you'll be able to use your legs again? That's a long way to share the fact that I am pretty tired. And it's a big deal to admit that (especially on the internet).

My days have been overflowing; if there's ever nothing to do, there's something to get done. As it stands, there is never nothing to do, and therefore little gets done. My lesson planning goals are in jeopardy at the moment.

Please don't read this as a complaint. It's actually the first item on the list I'm about to share, the list of  blessings that I wonder at, the blessings that leave me puzzled, grateful, and so very, very happy.

1. I'm living some very busy days of teaching, planning, visiting, helping.
2. Saturday there was yet another mountain climb--again Nkhoma, this time with Academy students and a handful of teachers.
3. In the same vein, I heard "Go Miss V!" shouted from the top top by those super seventh graders.
4. I have a sudden over abundance of real books to read (real as opposed to classroom novels) from generous fellow campus residents.
5. My students told me that they enjoy having my class first in the day. I could totally have taken that the wrong way if I hadn't let them explain themselves. They insisted that they feel that their day starts out really well. This is the most affirming thing I have ever heard as a teacher. Ever.

Maybe you don't see why I would say these blessings leave me puzzled; I say so because I simply don't understand why I stand on the receiving end of these things. What can I do but pray to be able pass the blessing on? A child of God can't ever be content to be the pool where blessings pile up without reaching anyone else. So have you been blessed today? Send it right along. Bless someone else. Love someone else at close range, or give of your time and money with reckless generosity, or show grace to someone who provokes you to frustration. When one realizes how much she has received, it's her joy to give.

Grace, or, When perspective gets rattled

The disparity between what I see and how I live continues to perturb my heart. I sit here at my weird-table-turned desk, fully satisfied with food--thank you, selfless housemate--as well as food for the soul--thank you, Poetry Foundation. I have clean water and a clean shirt and a clean bed beside me. You know I could go on. Some days I'm ashamed to find myself thinking, "Why didn't I bring more than one [pair of sneakers, longer-than-knee-length dress, personal notebook, set of stud earrings, long sleeved cardigan]?" Then my perspective gets a nice knock, for which I thank the Lord.

This past Sunday, a lady named Grace pleasantly asked how my week was. I replied, then asked her the same question. It's our typical Sunday morning post-Bible study, pre-church service conversation. I wasn't prepared for her response.

"Well, I was at the funeral this week." She was surprised I'd not heard of it. A member of her women's literacy class in one of the nearby villages passed away, leaving a four-month-old baby, whom her husband has abandoned.

This is what wrenches a heart.

The baby, also named Grace, has a ten-year-old sister from her mother's first marriage as a caretaker. The closest living (and present) relative is her mother's cousin, who does not have the means to take on these two little girls. This story can be heard a thousand times over in this place, but it becomes increasingly heart-breaking when Mirjam shows me a picture of these two sweet, but incredibly sad faces.

Today I held baby Grace; I saw her giggle and I saw her cry. How could I help but ask in my mind, "What will happen to you? Who will love you?" I know the village kids tend to be excellently demonstrative in the realm of joy, but I also know that their lives are incredibly sad; they face filth, ignorance, disease, and deep sorrow that surpasses what I imagine for myself or for my future children. But what can I do but hold this infant, get her some baby formula, and pray for her well-being? So I hold her. I tell you, she's beautiful.

Only the other Grace could make her laugh. 

Poetry, News, and Metacognition

Did you know poetry is the best thing ever?

The naming of cats is a difficult matter;
It isn't just one of your holiday games...
But above and beyond there's still one name left over
    And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
    But the CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound mediation,
     The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
    Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
         His ineffable effable
         Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name. 

The Reading Day lesson plan for AmLit became the reading and enjoyment of T. S. Elliot's clever, humorous word play. Love for poetry has greatly boosted my enthusiasm for AmLit, for there is no other class that gives me an excuse to recite "To make a prairie it takes a clover" or to discuss "The Raven" for more than half a period. The perusal of poetry these days has made me miss a certain anthology on my bookshelf back home--Great Poems.

In other news, I am the best blogger ever! I have no pictures to put up from my most recent brief visit to a village ministry! My apologies. But honestly, pictures aren't really the best way to make me remember the names of the four fifth-grade girls that pulled me along to see different things, laughing at my lack of understanding Chichewa the entire time. Pictures won't tell you that holding a random little girl who walks up to you simply because she wants to be held is mildly heart-wrenching. I know pictures help raise awareness, emphasize needs, and share knowledge overall, but pictures can also become cliche. You might have seen the picture of an American girl in a long skirt holding a dusty, raggedy toddler. Or perhaps you've seen the child standing in a doorway alone with a runny nose? Images become common. They are far from unnecessary, but still they are cliche.

Sometimes I find them distracting. Whether I'm in a village, in the market, or anywhere else, I want to be hands on, enjoying the situation, not documenting it for future reference.

So I hold the little girl whose name I don't know, looking at fields of brush and at small groups of dusty, impoverished people, and thoughts ease into a mellow sense of understanding. I have little to say when I see something beautiful; I have little to think about when I see something harsh. But then this heart somehow starts to understand that no matter how disheartening it is to know so little and be able to do so little, I'm where the Lord wants me to be.