Boo

This month, Bailey, you turned six and there are some things that Mommy doesn't want to forget about you. 

You still play with Girl, the imaginary friend that appeared about the time Boston was born. You caught me tearing up watching Inside Out when Bing Bong disappeared from Riley's memory, but assured me that Girl would not suffer a similar fate. Your imagination is wild. 

You've swam in three swim meets, joined gymnastics, learned to ride a bike without training wheels, and run in your first 2.5K race. Your body is strong.

You're within weeks of completing your first year of formal schooling. I'm constantly amazed at all that your mind comprehends and your curiosity about the things that it doesn't. You love school work and experiments and made-up games with crazy rules (that you somehow always win, hummm). Your mind is sharp. 

You have memorized a new verse of the Bible every week for the past 36+ weeks. You recount Bible stories as we walk, keep us accountable to family devotions, and belt out worship songs in my classroom each morning as we wait for the big hand to be on the twelve. You even debated with your sister over whether God chases us, or we chase Him. Your faith is flourishing. 

You cling to Ibu Minah every Friday when she leaves. You smother your classmates with "huggy time" and insist on me leaving you with a lipstick kiss on your hand when I drop you off for school. You actually cried - real, giant teardrops - when I insisted that Kango (the insect of your invention that was literally falling apart) had to be retired to the trash. Your heart is soft. 

(And you might be a bit of a hoarder)

I am so proud to be your Mommy. 

And I hope that you always save the best bite for last. 

Momma

A few weeks ago, I found myself walking home from school, weeping.  I'd like to blame the John Mayer tracks that were coming through my ear buds, but it's been a while since "Say" brought me to tears.

No, I was teary-eyed over motherhood.  

You see, it wasn't your average walk home. It was a mid-day trek home to grab a swim bag so that Bailey could go to swim lessons after school. Usually our helper brings said swim bag to school at the end of the day and helps the girls navigate to and from their lessons and then takes them home. 

But this Monday found Boston sick, the swim bag sitting at home. 

After lunch I had a prep, so once I dropped my students off with their specialist teacher, I headed out of school instead of back to my classroom. I walked home, got the bag, and brought it back to Bailey's locker.

Such a little thing. So insignificant. So easy, even. 

But easier still would it have been to ditch lessons altogether. To have chosen the grading and prep work that sat on my desk over the sweltering walk to and from the house in my school uniform that still needed to look and smell presentable for the last two hours of the day. To let the truth of Boston's fever be a convenient excuse to miss swim for one week. 

And I'm not writing this to brag. In fact, as I began to cry over this moment of choosing my baby girl's swim lesson over my own work, and as I calculated that I was walking nearly 3K round trip for her, and as I debated whether or not to guilt her - even in jest - about what I had to endure to make sure she could still swim that afternoon, God brought to mind the mommas around the world that walk countless times farther each and every day to get water for their babies. 

And here I was crying over a 30 minute round trip walk for a swimsuit, towel and goggles. Can't forget the goggles. 

But it was exactly the simplicity of the moment that moved me. It was because it WASN'T a grand gesture of love that would be praised and memorialized and recalled for years to come. 

It's because she would never know the mini-sacrifice that her momma made that day for a swim lesson that doesn't mean diddly in the grand scheme of things. It's because I'd do it again if I had to. And I will do it, again and again and again for both of my babies whenever the need arises. 

And they will never know. 

And I don't know. 

I don't know how many times my momma put her things aside to take care of me. 

How many times her priorities took a back seat to my needs and wants. 

How many times she walked or drove back and forth across town for forgotten school supplies, or stayed up late to make soccer snacks that my eight year old self thought just magically appeared. 

For that I wept, Momma. 

For all the times I don't even know about when sacrificed for me, just because that's what mommas do.

I love you, a thousand times through my heart. 

Babs McGee

You turned four last month and there are some things about you that I don't want to ever forget.

You love to wear dresses and skirts, even though your favorite pastimes would put you in the "tom boy" camp. You make tu-tus and swings look good.

This year you started school, and even though you say it's boring, I know that you're having a good time. Your crooked smile when you groan "oh no, not school!" gives you away.

You are a never ending source of cuddles and insist that I either place my finger in your ear or palm your face when we walk down the street. I wish I were kidding.

It never seems like you're listening. I mean never. Yet the other day you informed us that it was John the Baptist that the angel was talking about when Elizabeth was told she was having a baby. Simultaneously impressive and infuriating.

Dancing is one of your favorite things to do. All you need is a soundtrack and a small bubble of personal space and - ta! da! - it's a dance party.  You've been the hit of the cruise ship promenade, restaurant waiting room, and mall hallway alike.

You are also one of the most clever girls I know. Your one liners have us roaring in laughter almost daily. You are stubborn and loving and a wrestler at heart.

Mommy and Daddy love you Starbucks and back!

Rawinala

Five minutes into the tour, I was regretting the decision to bring my students to Rawinala and looking for someone to blame for this misguided venture.

An hour later – as we sat and watched the Rawinala students perform a few songs – I started to hope that a few of my own class would see the Rawinala kids as more than just “those kids with disabilities.”

By the time we left our classroom for the day, it was evident that God had moved all of our hearts. Mine included.

The students at Rawinala all have Multiple Disabilities with Visual Impairment (MDVI) which means that they all have a visual impairment and (at least) one other diagnosed disability.  For my SPH students that have spent their life in relative luxury, the sight of another child with their eyes glossed over with cataracts, or eyelids so misshapen that vision is impossible, is shocking. They balked and cringed and gasped – yes, out loud.

I tried to find a rock to hide under.

While all of this squirming and pushing to get to the back of the group was going on (unheard of in grade 3, by the way; they always want to be at the front of the line), the director at the school patiently explained about the various disabilities that the students had and the ways the school helped them.  She introduced Rawinala students by name, and talked about all of the things that they were able to do despite being blind, or deaf, or in some cases, both.  She talked about the facilities and the features that made it possible for some of the students to navigate the hallways independently.

Shock begin to give way to wonder.

The tension evident in the students’ hunched shoulders began to melt away.

And then a blind student from Rawinala got one of my kids in a bear hug.  Nothing malicious.  Just trying to say hi the only way she knew how.

And another grabbed a hat off of a boy’s head and plopped it atop her own head. 

Three steps forward, two steps back.

More pushing to get to the back and even a cry of “I’m scared.”

Who’s ready to interview your student?

Thanks to a group of amazing moms – who swallowed their own discomfort to confidently lead students to nearby classrooms – small groups of my grade 3 kids were able to navigate a questionnaire about some of the basic day-to-day experiences for the students at Rawinala.  At this point, I think that most of my kids went into “classroom mode” as they whipped out their clipboards and began filling in the boxes on their papers.  A worksheet is a comfortable place to be when you’re eight (especially when the alternative is to try and hold a “real” conversation with a child who can’t see you and might try and touch your face without warning).

Group after group began to finish the interviews and we all made our way back to the main meeting hall. As the director had shared during the tour, many of the students have a passion for – and are gifted in – music, and they wanted to share a few songs with us. 

Again, wonder began to fall over my students. 

“They’re really good, Ms Stacy!”

…

Fast forward to when we arrived back at school.  We were at a pivotal moment in the day. That moment where you want to check out and just put on a film because you’ve been gone all morning and you just need to get through the next hour until dismissal.  That moment where you know the students need to process this experience with some sort of debriefing activity before the whole event melts into being just another “field trip.”

In the words of Ms Sarah and Ms Jenae: “The struggle is real.”

Let’s do this.

Not knowing what responses to expect (usually not a good sign), I challenged my students to work in groups to compare/contrast themselves with the students at Rawinala. I figured, even if they were terribly calloused and offensive responses (as in: “I have a beautiful face and they are deformed”) it would at least create a teachable moment.  Even with post-excursion fatigue setting in, I was confident I could muster up a lecture about loving all of God’s children, despite their appearances. 

Little did I know that they were about to teach me a lesson. A lesson about the invisible work of the Holy Spirit. Work that had been going on for hours, behind the scenes, in each of their hearts as they watched and listened and soaked in the day. 

We both go to school.

He lives at school, but I live at home.

We both eat rice. (you can laugh, it’s okay)

She knows how to read Braille, but I couldn’t feel the difference in those little dots.

We both have families.

She knows who you are by feeling your face, I can’t do that! (side note: they tried)

We’re both children of God.

He knows where his classroom is by the instrument on the door, I just read the sign.

We’re both loved.

He washes his own dishes, but I don’t know how to do that.

God loves us.

God loves us.

God loves us.

God loves us.

It was on every poster. Every. Single. One. (yes, even "that" group's poster)

And that’s when I knew they got it.

And when I knew that they definitely didn’t need a lecture from me.

They didn’t need to be explicitly taught about how precious each of us is in God’s eyes. They had witnessed firsthand the deformity and hardship and perseverance and joy.  They saw the struggle and saw the victory. They witnessed the giftedness bestowed on students that – at first glance – didn’t look like they’d have much to offer. 

Now, I’d be lying to say that on our return trip, my kids jumped off the bus and wrapped their friends at Rawinala in bear hugs to say hello.  I can’t claim that they were eager – or even willing – to sit side-by-side with one of the Rawinala students as we shared another time of music. 

But as I sat next to a young boy – a boy who grabbed my hand, felt my watch and wedding band and spent the whole song alternating between spinning my ring on my finger, tracing the edges of my watch, and clapping his hand with mine – I knew that this whole thing was, and is, a process. They aren’t ready for a strange child to touch them and pull on their things and feel for their face.  They’re eight.  Some of them nine.

But they’re on their way. They’ve taken the first steps. And I’m excited to see where this journey takes them.

A New Normal

A few weeks ago, my mother-in-law asked me if I had put up a post lately. She wanted to make sure that she hadn't missed anything. 

And that single question confirmed what I'd been dreading for weeks: I'd become the blogger I feared I'd become.


Remember back in September (September 12th to be exact), when I'd tentatively written the first Indonesian blog post? The one where I mused:  


Do I tentatively start what might end up a train-wreck of a blog; one that started with great expectations and intentions, but quickly unravelled into an abyss of nothingness after a few hastily posted ramblings?

Well, here I am. Days shy of reaching the two month mark between posts. 


Quickly hastening down the train tracks leading to that place where expectations of blogger greatness are dashed to pieces by inattentiveness.


And I'm trying to understand why. 


Why I have let two months slip by without narrating - at least in pieces - the life that we're building. The experiences we're having. The joy and peace and contentedness that we're filled with.


I think it's all become too normal.


It's normal for us to look at an empty fridge and quickly order dinner delivered to the apartment in lieu of going to the grocery store or going out to eat.


It's normal for our house to be filled with three or four or more neighbor kids when I get home from work.


It's equally normal for our house to be perfectly silent when I get home from work because the kids have invaded a different house that afternoon.


It's normal for me to stop by the kindy playground during lunch to give kisses to either (or both) of the girls mid-school-day.


It's normal for Brandon to come into my class room and ask my students, "What's my name?" to which they reply "MR. AWESOME!"


It's normal to hop on the back of a neighbors motorbike sidesaddle with my purse, school bag, and oversized tote with that morning's cross-country gear for a ride home. 


It's normal for Ibu Minah to run to the grocery store at 5 PM - when I'm ears deep in valentines and cries of "play with me, Mommy!" - because I forgot the tomatoes for that night's dinner and Brandon's still not home from soccer practice. 

It's normal for Bailey and Boston to shoo Ibu Minah out of the kitchen because they want to wash dishes, put away placemats, and wipe down the kitchen table after dinner. 


In all of this, though, I pray that I have not become so calloused to these "mini" blessings (if there is such a thing) that I forget to be thankful. 


Thankful for the convenience of food delivery via three (possibly more?) different apps. 


For the noise that fills my house and the days when I can sit in silence.  


The fly-by moments when I can fill my girls' love tanks with high-fives and kisses blown down the hallway.  


The man who has made me Mrs. Awesome by association and his passion for all of the students, not just the ones on his roster. 


Friends that forgive my death grip on their shoulder as they dodge potholes, buses and other bikes on the roads that lead home. 


For Ibu Minah and her commitment to our family (and her reluctant acceptance of sub-par help from girls that are growing servant's hearts). 


God has richly blessed our family. Just as his mercies are new every morning, so is the bucket of blessings that he dumps on our lives daily.  


He is so good. Every day. And I live in hopeful expectation of the next blessing He sends our way.