Lies mothers tell

My beloved Khmer language school, LEC, is now offering Saturday morning tutoring in addition to Mondays through Fridays.  I’ve studied there for three months during summer breaks, but this is my first time studying there weekly during the school year.  I asked my new tutor, Neakru Roth, to help me with reading and speaking related to Bible stories and Khmer culture.  Recently my reading lesson was titled:

Lies mothers often tell their children

I wasn’t sure what direction this was going.  What lies do American moms often tell their kids?  But here’s the list:

1. When there’s not enough food, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not hungry.
2. When there’s really delicious food, the mom always tells her kids that she doesn’t like it.
3. When the household is short on money, the mom always tells her kids that she doesn’t like new clothes.
4. When the work lasts from dawn until midnight, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not sleepy.
5. When the work is exhausting, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not worn out.
6. When the family goes out and can’t buy enough drinks, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not thirsty.
7. When she has a chronic illness, the mom always tells her kids that she’s fine.

The repetition of words made it pretty easy to read, but that didn’t mean it was easy to think about.  My tutor told me, “This is Khmer culture.  Is American culture the same?  Do you agree with this?”  We started discussing and debating, and I struggled to form my thoughts, let alone my Khmer sentences. 

Two things were clear to me.  Firstly, the circumstances that give way to these lies are ubiquitous across Cambodia.  When the majority of employed adults are subsistence rice farmers, and their only safety net is the generosity of their (also poor) relatives, financial crises are basically inevitable.  It’s heavy realizing how many people I see daily on my way to school, let alone all who live in the poorer countryside, face these and other struggles regularly. 

Secondly, these lies aren’t motivated by malice but by love.  My tutor said she knows her mom used to lie about not being hungry or sleepy or sick, wanting to protect her children from worries.  The US and many Western cultures value truth and honesty, but Cambodia and many Asian cultures value harmony more.  In their view, if a lie can preserve other people’s happiness and relationships with you, not only are you allowed to say it, but you probably SHOULD say it.  A corollary is that the audience may suspect the unpleasant truth, but by lying – even if the lie is unconvincing - you’re not forcing them to confront it. 

I’ve seen my students – specifically Koreans – get hurt when their parents lie to them about big things.  Lies like “Grandma’s still in the hospital” (when actually she passed away last Saturday) and “We’re going to visit Dad in Cambodia for a week” (but you’re moving in with him for two years) only damaged my students’ trust and increased their pain when the truth came out.  One of my students even wondered for months if her mom was dying of cancer back in Korea, because her mom clearly had health problems but wouldn’t tell her about them.  So my first knee-jerk reaction to the article was, “You should ALWAYS tell the truth!”  But I soon realized that even in my oh-so-forthright American culture, it’s more complicated than that.  Don’t you sometimes have to shield kids from certain knowledge, even if not through a downright lie? 

Questions flooded into my mind faster than I could spit out the words.  How old are these children?  How serious is the illness?  How much pressure do Khmer moms feel to lie even when they desperately need to admit the burdens they’re carrying?  Are they allowed to be honest with some other adult?   And what about the dads…why are they absent from this whole discussion? 

Neakru Roth said as she got older, her mom told her about more struggles, and no longer hides things from her now that Neakru Roth is a college student.  She also said that most dads don’t talk much with their kids, so they have no need to lie.  In her family, her parents both fought hard to provide for their eight children.  However, like the men in several of my other Khmer friends’ families, her dad had a drinking problem.  I wonder how many times her mom went hungry or didn’t buy new clothes because he was overspending on alcohol.  A former tutor told me she's frequently guilt tripped into giving her sister money that's too often wasted on her brother-in-law's gambling addiction instead of essentials like rent and groceries.

If I were to add an eighth lie, it would be, “When the dad beats up the mom, she always tells her kids that she fell down the stairs.”  In my mind, it’s touching if the mom is lying to protect her kids from an impersonal force like a failed rice crop, but galling if she’s lying to enable her husband’s addictions or misconduct.  It’s my impression that Khmer women are expected to do both as needed.   I’m sure some women leave abusive spouses, but it seems to be a small minority, whether due to shame, family pressure, or financial need.  Men have impunity to act in many heartless and selfish ways that women could never get away with.  I do know some Khmer men who are great husbands and fathers, but overall they have a terrible reputation because they are held to such low standards.  I have Khmer friends who say they would be afraid to marry a Khmer man.

My tutor asked me if US culture matched this list, but all I knew for sure is that many US moms never face circumstances as drastic as those that inspire Khmer moms to lie.  I’m sure more do than I suspect, and I know that even well-off, healthy parents (like my own) sacrifice more than I realize for their children.  Still, this lesson left me aching for Khmer women.  I want to pray more for them and be more aware of the load they often carry.  May they know the One who is able to make their yoke easy and their burden light!

"Did you miss me?"

That's the question Cambodia kept asking me on my first day back.  Having arrived late the previous night after two months in the US, I woke up early on Sunday, July 27, ready to run errands before starting teacher orientation started Monday.  The errands were successful, but I kept having to laugh along the way at just how blatantly...well, Cambodian my day was.  It wasn't a bad day, just full of Cambodia's idiosyncrasies.

Here's the rundown:

6-7 AM: Sunlight is pouring through my windows.  I feel worn out but wide awake.  Thank you, jet lag.

7 AM: I get up just before power drilling starts at the next door neighbor's.  Good timing!  My roommate Annalisa is already downstairs, and fills me in on some of the drama I've been missing: namely, big bags of rice and laundry soap disappeared, and our house helper Khouch was worried she'd be blamed or even fired.  We suspect it was the landlord's distant relatives who came to help with some repairs at our house while we were gone this summer.  That's one of several recent frustrations with the landlords, another being that these relatives kept turning off our water unannounced, interrupting showers and laundry, because one of our pipes was leaking on the bed that they'd set up on the landlords' driveway.  By now, it's all over: the relatives have left, the pipe has been fixed, and Khouch's calmed down about the missing supplies.

7:30 AM: I walk my bike to get its tires filled.  I can't find the friendly couple who always sit on the corner near me with their air pump, so it's about a ten-minute walk to the nearest shop with a pump. I continue on to several nearby errands, including buying new bike lights since mine were stolen from the school parking lot in May.  When I pay with a $20, the cashier asks me if I mind receiving change back in riel instead of dollars.  I've never understood that question, especially since I speak Khmer and I'm clearly not a tourist about to leave the country.  Of course I don't mind: we're in Cambodia!  I find it convenient that US dollars are as ubiquitous as Cambodian riel, especially since their largest denomination is worth only $5, but most people mix and match without thinking anything of it.  (Riel are artificially linked to USD, 4000 riel to $1.  A wallet full of hundreds means you're basically broke.)  Plus, you can't use US coins here (or any coins), so Cambodian riel are the only option for amounts under $1.  

A similar moto repair shop.
http://blog.rideforcambodia.com/

8:30 AM: Back at home, I try to start my moto, but unsurprisingly after two months of disuse it only coughs and sputters.  The next step would be to kick-start it, but I'm not quite strong/coordinated enough to pull it up onto the main stand.  Usually that's when I throw a helpless glance toward our friendly neighborhood motodup drivers, but this time Annalisa offers her assistance.  Together, we easily slide my moto into position.  It then starts great on its own without any kick-starting...go figure.

8:45 AM: My newly functional moto and I arrive at the market, where I make the rounds of vendors I always buy from: the fruit lady, the vegetable girl, the egg lady, and even the snack lady, whose cart happens to be parked right outside the market today.  I can't resist buying from her...for 1000 riel (25 cents), she sells kind of a breakfast burrito, with sugar, beans, coconut, and three types of sticky rice wrapped inside a tortilla.  Burrito in hand, I pick out a couple of dragonfruit.

I always have to guess...will my dragonfruit be pink inside or white?  I prefer white.

http://www.123rf.com/photo_14629719_dragon-fruit.html

9 AM: While the fruit stand and the "burrito"cart are along the front of the market, most stalls are inside.  To get to the main entrance, I have to weave between the motos parked on the street and the stands that reach to the end of the sidewalk, and the space between them is pretty narrow.  At one point, I see a small puddle of yellowish liquid on the concrete in front of me, but it wouldn't be easy to detour, so I decide I don't care if my ancient Old Navy flip-flops get dirty.  As my foot squelches down several inches, I realize the reason for the liquid: this concrete is freshly laid!  All the motodup drivers, waiting for customers, laugh and laugh.  That's the beauty of cheap rubber shoes on errands - you can hardly see the gray concrete stuck to my shoes' faded blue soles.  Inside, I wait while Buddhist monks in bright orange robes finish praying a blessing on the egg lady, who just donated to them.  Once they finish, they move on to another stall, and she tells me the same thing as the other vendors: "Bat p'oun yu hawie!" Literally it means "lose little sister long time already," but they use it like "Long time no see!"  It's nice to be missed.  :)

An oh-so-tasty burrito

A monk at the market.  My market is darker and more crowded.
http://contour-map.blogspot.com/2013/05/new-futures-organisation-takeo-cambodia.html

10:30 AM: I stop by Lucky Supermarket for some international groceries.  There's a funeral across the street whose music and chanting are audible throughout the entire store.  The cashier asks me if I have a Lucky card, which I've never heard of.  When I ask her for details, she points me to another employee, who explains that the card tallies my spendings and gives me one point per $10 I spend.  Earning 80 points (that's $800 of groceries) will get me a $5 voucher.  My points expire every year, I don't get any special discounts, and the card costs a dollar.  Wow, what a ... bargain.  Since she's given me some good practice speaking and listening to Khmer, and since I feel bad wasting her time, I go ahead and sign up.  I can't imagine I'll spend $800 here this year, but at least I'll find out how much I do spend.

That employee is lucky I agreed to spend a dollar.

11 AM: Putting away my groceries, I realize that of the five lights controlled by our kitchen light switch plate, only two currently work.  One is as bright as a small candle, and the other is referred to as our living room's Party Lights: brightly colored recessed lights vaguely resembling Aurora Borealis.  A third switch has never worked, but Annalisa points out that we recently replaced a fluorescent tube in the kitchen, so it shouldn't have burnt out yet.  I stand on a chair and wiggle it around, and it magically lights up.  Sweet success!

The party lights are the only lights that ALWAYS work.

11:15 AM: My clothes are damp with sweat by now and I haven't washed my hair since boarding the plane, but there's no point in doing so now.  Instead, I stay sweaty while I unpack all my luggage in my bedroom, which is rapidly heating up due to its south- and east-facing windows.  There's a reason I wore old, gross clothes this morning.  When I finally finish around 1, the "cold" water feels more like a US-style hot shower.  It's great to be clean, though.

3:15 PM: On my way to church, I stop at the first little restaurant I see and ask for an iced coffee to go.  It's completely open-air, with plastic chairs and shiny metal tables along the road.  The only employee in sight is chopping up a whole de-feathered duck.  I stare at the duck's beady eyes as the employee sets down the knife, wipes his hands on his apron, and proceeds to make my drink, reaching barehanded into an orange cooler to fill my cup with ice.  I know it's anything sanitary, but it's deliciously sweet and has the caffeine I need to make it through the next few hours at church.  I pay my 75 cents, take a big gulp of coffee before too much contaminated ice melts into it, and pray I won't get a stomach virus as part of my welcome package.  (Note: I was fine, as usual.)

Iced coffee in a bag fits perfectly onto moto handlebars.

The rest of the day: Church is great, I mostly avoid dozing off, and afterward I even manage to make a simple dinner with my housemates before crashing in bed.  Acclimating back to the heat isn't too bad - unlike last night, I'm not even tempted to use my air con.  I think back to Cambodia's question.  Did I miss it?  I was eager for a break, and two months in the US certainly didn't feel too long.  On the other hand, I'm so glad to call this my adopted home.  This country keeps me guessing, laughing, and sometimes groaning, but it's great to be back.

Growing up

This summer, it was apparent like never before that my three younger siblings are all grown up.  By Christmas, Austin will be done with college and all of us will be out of school.  (Unless I go back for a grad degree, but that’s another story.)  Moreover, each of my siblings has reached traditional milestones of adulthood that I haven’t yet.   This fact has been weird for me to grapple with, and yet I don’t necessarily think that they’re more mature or “grown-up” than I am.  Instead, I think my nontraditional experiences have grown me in other ways.

US Grown-Up Expectation #1: Finish college and get a job.  Check and check.  I’m still ahead of Austin here, though I have a feeling he’ll be joining the workforce promptly after graduation.

US Grown-Up Expectation #2: Move out. Well, in a sense my siblings and I have all done this.  We all went off to college around 18, and even Austin had an apartment in Lancaster during his internship this summer.  However, I move back in for about two months each year and was the only Cooper kid at home this summer.  While I love having long summer breaks, at times I feel like I’m getting too old to be an eternal college kid. 

My equivalent: Move far, far away…most of the time.  Ten months a year, I live nearly as far from home as is geographically possible.  I’m even away from home during holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.  When I’m back, though, I treasure my time with my parents and try to make up for the rest of the year.

I was the only Cooper kid to join my parents in visiting my mom’s sister in Michigan this month.

US Grown-Up Expectation #3: Buy a car.  My youngest brother Austin just became the proud owner of a rusty Nissan, which used to belong to my sister.  Ironically, it would have been my car if I’d stayed stateside.  I used a family car back in 2008 when I student taught and long-term subbed, but my parents’ generosity combined with my lack of funds meant that I never took the plunge of buying my own.  When I’m back in the US now, you can mostly find me in somebody’s passenger seat, unless I’m borrowing a car from my parents.  Some people looked at me with pity the day I rode my bike to church, even though it’s faster than my commute to school and less than 3 miles away on peaceful roads.  

My equivalent: Learn to drive in another country.  I have a scooter and a bicycle in Cambodia, and have become proficient in its unofficial Road Rules and Tips.  I’ve learned Khmer vocab that helps with maintenance and repair, like how to ask for an oil change or a new inner tube, or how to explain that my lights or brakes don’t work well.  I’ve also become comfortable traveling solo with a range of public transportation, from motodup taxis to international flights.

Grown-Up Expectation #4: Get married.  This expectation is especially strong in US Christian subculture, which frowns upon alternatives like moving in with a significant other and/or having kids out of wedlock.  2013 featured two Cooper weddings – my younger sister Julia’s in January and my younger brother Lucas’ in October.  Two of my younger cousins both married earlier this year.  But in Cambodia, single Christian girls far outnumber the guys among both foreigners and nationals.  I have dozens of single Christian female friends in Cambodia, and there seems to be a pretty strong correlation for females between staying in Cambodia and staying single. 

My equivalent: Live harmoniously with lots of diverse roommates.  As I understand it, a primary reason that marriage grows you up is that you’re bound closely to another person, which reveals and impedes your selfishness.  Marriage involves communicating carefully and making crucial life decisions in unity with another person.  As a single, I have the freedom to make many life decisions on my own (like whether to stay in Cambodia or how to spend my money) but I also live in close quarters with four roommates at a time: a total of 8 women from five different countries in the last five years.  Living on the same property as my landlords also decreases my privacy: their niece Srey Pos routinely watches me through the kitchen and living room windows, inquiring about everything I’m doing.  (Sometimes their daughter Nana also joins her.)  Learning to live in community has taught me to value the strengths of roommates who differ sharply from myself and to honor their needs and preferences.  It has taught me about communicating gently and clearly and appropriately within a range of cultures.  And let's not forget the importance of laughing together!

Housemates in 2010 (1 not pictured) with our Christmas gifts

Housemates in 2011: we were going for "awkward family photo"

Housemates in 2012...maybe "Sound of Music" style?

Housemates in 2013 - see, it IS possible for us to take a "normal" photo.  :)

US Grown-Up Expectation #5: Buy a house.  My sister Julia reached this milestone by age 25, buying a house with her husband Scott in his native Carlisle, PA last winter.  However, it’s nearly impossible for foreigners in Cambodia…even those planning to stay long-term and raise a family.  That’s partly due to the stipulation that a Cambodian citizen must own at least 51% of your home (AKA you have to find a trusted Cambodian to go in on the sale with you), and partly due to badly enforced property ownership laws that have allowed an epidemic of land-grabbing.  Can you imagine if a rich, well-connected neighbor suddenly showed up with a deed to your house or a document claiming half your land?  It happens far too often here.  The one family I know that’s ever owned a house in Cambodia subsequently sold it, swearing “Never again,” and returned to renting. 

New homeowners

My equivalent: Become an employer.  I do pay my own rent – all $100 per month! – but that can’t really compare to the responsibility of being in charge when the septic tank leaks or the furnace breaks down.  Maybe a better comparison would be the responsibility I have as an employer, since this house came with a “house helper” who cooks dinner and cleans for us on weekdays.  In Cambodia, it's not as cut-and-dried as a US employer/employee relationship: the employee is expected to be very loyal, and the employer is expected to provide for the employee in ways beyond the monthly paycheck.  For example, I helped Khouch sign up her son for the free after-school program at Logos and found a low-cost clinic to treat her mom’s eye trouble.  When her cousin got into a bad car crash, Khouch asked us for an emergency loan.  We’re now trying to help her start a savings program, rare among Cambodians.  Khouch has shared prayer requests and difficulties with us that she says she doesn’t really tell other Cambodians.  Some of my most uncomfortable moments have occurred while attempting sensitive conversations with her across boundaries of culture and language.  Khouch has also been an AMAZING help – from cooking tasty dinners to helping me practice Khmer – and I’m very thankful for her hard work and her friendship.  But at times it’s sobering to have so much influence over her well-being.

Last summer, Khouch taught me Khmer recipes, like lok lak (flavorful beef with vegetables)

US Grown-Up Expectation #6: Have kids.  A number of my friends back home have attained this one in the last two years.  Lucas and Audrey announced this summer that they’re expecting identical twins around New Year’s.  If that doesn’t catapult you into the realm of adulthood, I don’t know what would!  They’re nervous but very excited, and though they’re only 24ish, I’m convinced they’ll be awesome parents.  I’m delighted about becoming an aunt, but the charms of single motherhood haven't quite won me over yet.

Surprise!

My equivalent: Have a hundred kids…in my classes.  I love all my students and spend lots of time with them.  I pray for them, sit with them at lunch, coach them on assignments, offer them advice, listen to them.  One of them even used to call me her “Cambodian mommy,” since her mom lived in another country.  But I am only in charge of them when they are in my classroom, and except for Bible camp and the high school retreat, I have nights and weekends off.   Which is just fine with me. 

My friend Adrianne commented recently that the whole way through high school, you follow a similar timetable to your peers.   Everyone enters middle school on the same day.  Everyone’s summer break lasts the same length of time.  Everyone expects to graduate on the same day, barring disaster.  But after that, paths soon diverge until there’s no longer a “normal” time to reach milestones.  In my generation, that’s far truer than sixty years ago, when nearly everyone was married by 25 and had a house and kids by 30.  Sometimes I tend to envy people who are reaching milestones before me, or I feel insecure about taking too long to attain them.  But I guess the key to growing up is to keep maturing, whether or not your newfound maturity comes with a house or a car or a spouse.  Instead of ranking myself compared to my friends and siblings, I can toss out the checklist of expectations and concentrate on just plain growing.

Acknowledging Yo Han's legacy

It goes without saying that Yo Han’s death two years ago, at the end of his sophomore year, left a big hole in his class.  The 25 of them have spent countless hours together both in and out of school.  Like Yo Han, a number of his classmates arrived at Logos in first grade, the first year Logos existed.  His class was especially unified in grades 9 and 10, thanks largely to Yo Han and his mixture of goofiness, warmth, and sincerity.  Junior year, his absence was glaringly obvious.  Like the whole Logos community, his peers have needed time to grieve and heal.

Valentine's Day serenades by Yo Han (with the guitar) and his 9th grade peers

I’m proud of those kids.  In his class and the classes above and below it, quite a few students took his brief life as an inspiration to live well.  The YOLO trend was just hitting our school when he died, but Carpe Diem had been a favorite expression of his all year.  Seize the day, and yet live with eternity in mind – he’d been determined to do both.  His death moved many of his peers to re-evaluate their priorities, and I can easily think of five who have been visibly changed in the past two years, changes they credit him for.  They’re deeper, more loving, more serious.  

One student who was already serious about his faith realized that he hadn’t made enough room for other people.  He started visiting the preschool lunch tables (since Logos preschool and high school lunchtimes overlap) to give kids high fives and smiles.  Another has been reading the Bible more consistently and was baptized last month.  In his testimony at the baptism, he mentioned Yo Han as a critical impetus in his spiritual journey.  At least another two re-dedicated their lives to God because of Yo Han.  Their class didn’t magically switch back to their united, happy selves, but individuals helped each other grapple with questions and come out stronger.  Last year in the yearbook, their class verse honored him: John 12:24.  “Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed.  But if it dies, it produces many seeds.”  Their class has truly illustrated that verse. 

Yo Han's picture is shown on the left, next to the verse

At the same time, I don’t think they’ve glorified him into a saint.  Kids argue about whether he was the one hogging the pizza at the 8^th grade class party, smile when they see his old class projects in samples I pass out, laugh about his dozens of trips to the principal’s office in grade 6.  I'm glad.

His 9th grade English textbook: condition issued = "OMG!"

As his class prepared to leave Logos, students found ways to honor Yo Han within school traditions.  At the banquet organized by juniors, seniors all received class rings.  The ring store happened to throw in an extra for free, which the juniors decided to present to Dae Han in memory of Yo Han.  The new senior class mural out by the soccer field includes his favorite phrase, “Carpe Diem.”  

CARPE DIEM
pages are flipping like summer days
it's the new chapter I'm being chased

He wasn't forgotten at graduation, either.  They all went to visit his grave together after graduation practice.  The salutatorian, Stephen Roberts, basically dedicated his graduation speech this weekend to crediting Yo Han for his inspirational example.  Yo Han was probably Stephen’s best friend, and while it wasn’t all due to Yo Han, Stephen didn’t exaggerate how much he’s grown in the last couple years.  Here’s a clip from it:

While I'd been apprehensive about graduation, it wasn't heartwrenching like I'd feared.  There were touching moments: my eyes certainly welled up as we sang “Ten Thousand Reasons,” but overall it felt joyful and affirming.  We were celebrating what these students have learned and accomplished, and Yo Han’s role in that was overall positive.  I know they miss him and they’ll never forget him, but I’m so glad they were able to celebrate wholeheartedly as a community.

Death and graduation

Yo Han’s been on my mind all month.  I figured this would happen.  Actually, I could have predicted it two years ago, on May 30, the day I found out my student of the past three years had died in a moto crash one day after finishing his sophomore year.  I knew it was going to be tough watching his classmates graduate without him.

None of them really confided in me after the accident, and it was maddening trying to read them when I had half of them in French class and none in English that year.  It took a while before I believed their other teachers and parents that they were doing pretty well with the grieving process.  I tried to let go of my worry about their emotional well-being and about the safety of all my students and friends.  Actually, I had a lot of new worries to process, not the least of which was an intensified terror of seeing bodies on the road.  My mind turns all kinds of litter – old rags, tree branches, discarded tires – into corpses when they loom ahead of me on the road, and I wince every time.  I started assuming the worst when my roommates weren't home on time or when I got late-night phone calls.  It’s abated somewhat, but it still takes effort not to let my mind jump that way.  

Thankfully, I never saw footage of him after the wreck, unlike a couple of my students who were haunted by graphic photos posted online and shown on Cambodian TV.  But the details I heard about the wreck and its aftermath were horrifying enough that mental images still occasionally flash before my eyes unbidden.  Yo Han’s death didn’t just affect his peers; it profoundly shook me, another teacher, his friend’s mom, and other adults I’m close to.  We had to accept that we're incapable of guaranteeing the safety of the people we love.

Last Wednesday at lunch, I sat with seniors during the last day of classes, their last school lunch.  It was some of Yo Han’s closest friends, and they casually mentioned that on Friday, after graduation practice, the whole class was taking another trip to his grave…something that many of them did together last year.  I wanted to ask how they’d been doing lately with memories of him, but suddenly I couldn’t.  For about five minutes I was so choked up that I didn’t trust my voice to say anything at all.  I knew if they looked at me, they’d wonder why my eyes were welling up.  But nobody did.  They were too busy talking about bubble tea, debating whether they order it every Friday due to peer pressure or how good it tastes. 

Suddenly I was just so sad that he couldn’t be at that lunch table with them, interrupting them with his philosophy on bubble tea, making cheesy jokes, getting excited for graduation.  I was so sad that this graduation practice and ceremony had to bear the weight of his absence.  Why couldn’t it be enough for these Third Culture Kids just to say goodbye to their entire community and the country they’ve grown up in?  Why did they have to only imagine how he would look in that shiny blue gown and stupid hat, a bit taller and less awkwardly lanky than two years ago?  Why couldn’t his parents join in the cheers and the photos and the hugs?  Why can’t Yo Han sign his peers’ yearbooks and attend their grad parties?  It had been so long since I’d wrestled with “why’s” on this and it took me aback.  I escaped undetected and moved on with my day, but even now writing this, the lump in my throat is back and the tears are brimming over.

I know Yo Han’s in heaven.  I know so much blessing has come out of this whole mess.  For my students.  For my own faith.  For people I’ll never even meet.  I know given a choice between God’s glory and bubble tea, he’d forego the latter without hesitation.  But I was reminded last Wednesday that death sucks.  It hurts to be separated from people you love.  Life is painful and messy. 

I know it sounds cliché, but Jesus really has been the answer for a lot of my questions and fears.  I was floored when I realized that he redeemed the idea of blood spilling out.  The horror I associate with Yo Han’s death was Jesus’ chosen method of bringing lasting life to me and Yo Han and millions of others.  The anguish I imagine from Yo Han’s parents, searching for him late into the night only to discover the terrible truth, echoes the agony of the Father allowing his Son to be torn away from him in order to open a way for us to enter his family.  

The Jesus Storybook Bible’s recurring phrase always comes back to my mind: 

“God was making the sad things come untrue!”  

In the words of John Donne, “Death, be not proud” – your victory is temporary.  One day the tears will vanish for good.  The goodbyes will cease.  The fear will be no more.  And until then, we’re not in their power…we have access to a hope that outweighs our sorrow.  

Congratulations, Yo Han.  It’s been two years since you graduated, and you’ve spent every moment since then enjoying life – not just life but Life! - to the full and making a difference that you couldn’t have dreamed of.  I miss you very much, and I am so proud of you.

Rooftop prayer

I’m hunched over my laptop,

   shoulders quietly grumbling,

inches from the fan that –

   even on full blast –

cannot dispel the stifling humidity,

   only agitate it.

I know I’m overdue for a trip up there, but surely

   this stuff I’m doing is Important

   and Urgent.

Prayer is not going to happen in my room –

   not tonight, in my current state.

I slip out onto the balcony,

   pulling the door shut behind me

and hanging the padlock on the laundry line

   in case of roommates overzealous to lock up.

The moonlit haze is refreshing after

   my room's fluorescent light and yellow walls.

I climb the steep ladder,

   Gingerly leaning left as I cross the thin tile strip

   (toward the slanting shingles)

To the wide-open area, where even as I approach,

the startling sweetness of scratchy coconut - 

   branches?  fluff?  hair?  What is this stuff? - 

   greets me from the treetops at eye level.

I swear I never thought hugs could be cold

   till I moved here, but that’s what this breeze is:

a soft, cool embrace straight from God

   that strokes away my stress

   and dries my Permasweat.

Remind me again why I’m not up here every night?

I listen intently to the quiet.

Not even any neighbors chatting

   at this hour, 9:15, deep into the darkness.

My eyes flit around to the lights of nearby houses,

   then settle on the moon.

I’m the moon, too, I remind myself,

   and hum : “with no light of my own

   still you have made me to shine.”

I sing Sara Groves as loudly as I dare,

   wondering if I’ll wake up the next-door neighbors

whose gaping wooden walls and glassless windows

   reveal hammocks just under this coconut tree.

I stare at the stars, trying to fathom

   that they are bigger than my life, bigger than my planet,

   and that their Maker is concerned for me.

The roof gives me space for truths I tend to crowd out.

Something about being up here

   frees me to sing, dance, talk, lie down, wait.

To listen, mostly.

   Isn’t that the heart of prayer?

    

Belonging, Part 5: Informational Genre

This project actually contains four genres - visual, creative, essay, and informational - but I decided not to post the creative genre on my blog.  It's a short story inspired by true events and people I care about, and it's not really my story to tell.  I shared it with my class, but I don't want to risk someone seeing it who knows the real people involved.

The informational genre could entail a book review, trivia game, survey, etc.  I shared my survey with Logos students in grades 7-12.  38 students responded.

Survey Requirements: Create a survey of at least five questions.  Give it to ten or more people.  Display the results in an easy-to-read format.

What were some reasons you felt that way?  (free response – top answers)

• I was left out. (6 responses)
• I felt out of place and different from others. (5 responses)
• I was with strangers/people I didn’t know well. (3 responses)
• People treated me badly. (3 responses)
• I was depressed/sad.  (2 responses)
• I had problems with friends. (2 responses)
• I felt lonely. (2 responses)
• I felt unwanted. (2 responses)
• I felt disconnected. (2 responses)

Sometimes students reached out in creative ways…

• I cheered for the B Team and tried to remind them that the B games also mattered.
• I bought them cakes and wrote them letters.
• There was a kind of new girl in my community; I introduced her to people and places.
• I try to point out unique strengths that they have.  When students have trouble finding others to work with, I work to ensure that they are included in a group. 

But often it didn’t need to be complicated.

• I saw that they were alone so I want over there and talked to them for a while.
• I try to spend time with other people and not stay in a little bubble. As a result, I tend to wander around different groups - even the ones that don't feel like they belong.
• I just try to smile and be friendly.
• When I see someone who is alone or looks sad, I go talk to them. I make sure they are okay.

Sometimes the results of reaching out were negative or unclear…

• I did try. The result was that they never knew that I was helping them, and so when I'm not with them they talk behind my back.
• I like to talk to everyone including the people that no one talks to. It kind of works.
• I tried to talk to them, but I don't know if it helped any.

But usually they turned out positive.

• Someone I know has had trouble fitting in and had a little bit of teasing from her classmates. So, whenever I see her I usually scream her name and act like it has been forever and then hug her. We talk and hang out a bit. I really love her and she is awesome. As a result, she is more talkative with me and is comfortable.
• I've talked a lot more to this person and treat him not like a new acquaintance, but I treat him like he is one of my brothers. He's becoming much more open and he doesn't look as uncomfortable around us.
• There was a girl who doesn't go to a church. She came to Cambodia about a few months ago. She went to our church meeting and had fun. We welcomed her and we had so much fun. I think she really liked it, too. :D
• I think I did cheer my friend up a bit. :-) I'm happy with the result, and I want to continue doing it...
• When someone was all alone, I went over to them and just talked. We had a great time. I think they appreciated being accepted. Afterwards, they were happy, and that made me feel happy. :)
• I sat and talked with people who look lonely, trying to point out their gifts and encourage them, praying for them, talking to other students to encourage them to reach out to them. It seems like a few of them are coming out of their shell, and are a little happier, more confident.
• I sat and talked with people who look lonely, trying to point out their gifts and encourage them, praying for them, talking to other students to encourage them to reach out to them. It seems like a few of them are coming out of their shell, and are a little happier, more confident.