Aracely the Affectionately Aggravating

Aracely is affectionate, sweet and a hard worker.  When she wants to be.  The other half of the time, she's whiny, demanding, and pouty.  She's one of the kids I feel I can have the most impact on, but I'm still learning what the best strategy is.

Aracely- age 7

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I walk down the slope leading to the school and Aracely comes running to me, arms outstretched.  "¡¡¡PROFE!!!" she shrieks and throws herself at me, climbing my legs like a little monkey.  I kiss her on the cheek and try to take a step forward, Aracely hanging from one of my arms.  As I peel her off one arm, she latches onto the other.  I give up and walk to greet the other kids, dragging the dead-weight of her little body clinging to my leg.

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 Aracely is bent over her homework, pencil gripped tightly in her hand.  Her neat letters fill up the page, and she's almost done when something snaps.  "I can't do this!" she cries, throwing her pencil on the ground and kicking her feet.  Aracely's voice raises to a wail, and she throws a tantrum like a toddler.  I guide her pencil over the page, helping her to write the cursive 'f' that was so frustrating.  Her anger deflates until I tell her she needs to finish the page before recess, and she fills up with anger again.  "¡Bruja!" she yells at me, "Witch!"  As I walk away, she keeps yelling at my back.  "Bruja!"  "Bruja!" "Bruja!"

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After recess, Aracely is thoughtful, gentle and polite.  Instead of yelling and demanding, she slips her hand into mine and quietly asks to borrow my eraser.  When she's finished using it, she presses it back in my hand, thanking me.  She hums and she works, grinning at me when I check on her work.  We pack up our bags and get ready to go home.  Aracely heads for the door, and then turns in the doorway.  "Thank you for teaching me today, Profe," she says and smiles.

Wilber the WILD

Wilber- age 8

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I walk in the gate, and Wilber is hunched over on the ground, folding a used piece of notebook paper.  He sticks his tongue out, perfecting the creases.  Then he stands, his paper airplane in hand, and with a look of pure delight, throws it to the wind, watching it loop and twirl.  Wilber notices me, and smiles.  "Look at my airplane!" he says.

We call all the first graders to the classroom, and Wilber lingers on the playground, defying my request to come inside.  He climbs up the slide and goes down again.  "Wilber!" I call, "C'mon!"  "No!!" he yells back, and climbs back up the slide.  I go back inside and get the other kids started on their homework, trying to muster the energy and find the time it will take to get Wilber inside and working.

Suddenly, Wilber's mom appears in the door, Wilber scampering in ahead of her.  A tall Quechua woman,  Doña Justina towers over Wilber, brandishing a freshly cut stick.  Yelling in Quechua, her eyes narrowed and mean, she starts savagely beating him with the stick as though he were a dog who made a mess.  No one need understand Quechua to understand she's telling her son he is no good.  Wilber yelps and starts crying, hard.  One of the other teachers standing nearby puts herself between the angry mom and Wilber, taking the stick from her and asking her to leave.

Wilber's heaving sobs slow, and he pulls out a pencil and starts furiously writing in his homework notebook,  his "m"s growing into 4 or 5 bumps, his "u"s sliding off the page.  I try to soften my tone, gently approaching him.   "Wilber, some of your letters are trying to escape the page!  Let's try to bring them back with their other friends.  I have an eraser.  Do you want to erase or should I?"  He gives me a sullen glare and starts to scribble on the desk instead of answering me.  I take his pencil away, and he screams "Give it back!" pure rage shooting out of his eyes.  I keep my tone level, telling him I'll talk to him about it when he calms down.  "¡Calláte!" he bellows, "Shut up!!" slapping me hard on the head.

I move towards him to talk about what he just did, and Wilber escapes through a hole in the door.  I try to regain control of the rest of my group, who in the meantime have followed Wilber's example and are hitting each other.  Half an hour later, Wilber wanders back inside, still sullen.  I tell him I'm not mad at him, but that he hurt me.  I ask him to apologize for smacking me and he glares again, running away to a corner.  When he sees me start to serve the other kids the snack, he comes over to me, head hanging.  "Forgive me, Profe," he says.

                         a gift from Wilber

The rest of the day, Wilber is repentant and compliant.  He finishes his homework, even offering to erase his own mistakes.  As Wilber and I walk out the door, he slips his little hand in mine and shoots me a beautiful smile.  I silently pray that the Lord would grow that smile in his heart, and that it would take root like a weed, choking out all the hurt, rage and frustration he holds inside.

Filemon and the Big Bad Wolf

Filemon- age 9

 Filemon should be in third or fourth grade, but because he just learning Spanish (he grew up just speaking Quechua), he was put in first grade.  He understands most of what is said to him, but still struggles to express himself.  He comes from a VERY rural area, and it's possible this is the first time he's gone to school.  
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Filemon is one of the first to walk through the school gates, his face serious, his big almond eyes taking everything in.  He hangs back, watching the kids play and listening to their easy Spanish.  He tries a couple phrases of broken Spanish, mixing his subjects and parroting expressions that sound funny with his Quechua accent.

Then all the kids come inside, and Filemon sits down without being asked, pulls out his notebook and gets straight to work on his handwriting homework.  His looping penmanship and tidy letters set him apart from the other students and he finishes his homework in record time, requiring only an "l" here or an "i" there to be erased and fixed.

His eyes light up, knowing he's done, and he asks for the whiteboard marker to practice his writing.   "Write 'ma'," I tell him, and his beautiful handwriting arcs across the board, writing "ma" perfectly.  "Qhosa pacha", I tell him, "Excelente", and he smiles, laughter bubbling up from deep inside.

 We finish the writing lesson on the board, and all the kids are given a blank piece of paper to draw pictures of their home and family.  Filemon draws a quaint cabin-like house, pine trees bending in on either side.  His mom is in the kitchen, cooking, and he's in the other room studying.  There's a pond outside, full of fish.  It seems he's one of the few kids who seem to have a peaceful home life.
 
As the other kids finish drawing, he tells me stories.  "There lots of llamas in the campo."  His eyes grow wide and he gestures with his hands, "In the campo there also LOTS wolves.  They mean and eat sheep.  One time, wolf jumped on sheep and it bleed and die!"   He weaves his tales, showing with his eyes his fear of the wolves, his Quechua mixed in with Spanish phrases.

At the end of the day, he shoulders his backpack and starts up the hill.  "K'aya kama!" I shout to him "See you tomorrow!"  He smiles a little, and turns back to the dirt path that weaves through the flower and corn fields, headed to his home at the foot of the Andes.

clowning around

 

David and the Pa, Pe, Pi, Po, Pu

The kids we work with at The Center are a diverse group, each with a unique story and different needs.  I work with 14 kids in 1st grade, along with Toty Quiroga, one of my co-workers.  A 1:7 ratio of teacher to student should be more than sufficient, but the particular group of kids we work with are SO attention starved and out of control that it feels like we need another 2 helpers!!



               David- age 8

Each week I want to feature a kid who I work with so that you can know how to pray for each kid better.  The first kid I want to introduce you to is David.

 Unlike some kids at The Center, David consistently comes every day.  He walks down the hill with his Quechua mom, Doña Margarita, eyes hidden under a camo broad-brimmed hat, but smile shining out from underneath.  As you might be able to tell from David's pictures, he has some mental problems which make it difficult for him to focus, understand, and emotionally relate in appropriate ways.

Often, when I'm working with other kids, David will interrupt with, "Plofe!"(instead of "Profe").  David also has a speech problem, replacing his "r"s with "l"s, among other problems.  Usually he wants a high-five after each word he writes, and once he gets it, he'll happily return to his work until he finishes the next word.

Because David struggles to focus, and also thrives on attention, he'll dart out of his seat to pinch a neighbor, slap a kid hard at work in the face, or steal a prized possession.  Then he'll run around the room, delighted as the furious other kid chases him, trying to hit him back.

David's smile is infectious, and he flashes it all the time, even when Toty or I are reprimanding him.  It makes it hard to get frustrated with him, or to stay mad when he misbehaves.
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David walks into the classroom, pinching a classmate on the arm as he walks by, and throwing his arms around me, giving me a huge smile.  "¡Hola plofe!" he says with a wide grin.  He sits down at his desk and starts to copy sound groups.  Pa. Pe. Pi. Po. Pu.  He finishes a row, and yells, "¡Plofe Kati!  ¡Mira, plofe Kati!"  I walk over, glance at his neat cursive letters, and give him a high-five.  30 seconds later, he's finished just 2.  Pa, Pe.  He wants another high-five. Pi. High-five. Po.  High-five. Pu.  High-five.

I move on to help another student, and David has darted out of his seat, swiping another student's eraser and throwing it on the ground.  The other kid, furious and distracted from the hard work he was doing, races after David, fist raised and ready to hit.  "David, go back to your seat," I say.  "¡No!" he yells, flashing another smile and yanking on my shirt.  Eventually I coax him back to his seat, and we start all over again.  Pa.  High-five.  Pe.  High-five.  Pi.  High-five.  Po. High-five.  Pu. High-five.  I sigh, and settle in for a long afternoon of practicing patience and Pa, Pe, Pi, Po, Pu.

David working on homework

A reason to run for the hills... and a reason to stay

 

                  the beauty

and the mess                           

Life is such a mixed bag sometimes.  The beauty mixed just right in with the awful, the painful and the broken.

A few weeks ago, I had the amazing priviledge to meet my Compassion child, Fatima.  She lives just on the opposite side of Cochabamba, but I've been building our relationship through letters before I met her in person.  I went to her home, and was heartbroken by the gut-wrenching poverty she lives in...  worse than any home I've ever seen in all my time in Bolivia.  The smell of cat pee and sweat, mixed with the stench of rotting food.  Flies filled the air.  Broken plastic bowls, old clothes and other discarded items strewn all over.  Their crumbling adobe house perched precariously on the edge of the landslide-prone hillside.

playing basketball at Fatima's house

Her family life is just as painful, with a mom who has severe mental disabilities, causing her to occasionally forget who Fatima is and and beat her daughter.  Fatima herself is painfully shy, not affectionate, and often seems disconnected from the world around her, hiding from what it holds.  After going to the Compassion center, meeting her teacher and other staff members, I was encouraged by the hope that her future holds because she has access through Compassion to life changing opportunities and the the hope of Jesus.  Yet, as I said goodbye, I couldn't help feeling like there must be something more I can do in the here and now.  Something that would swoop her up, taking her out of her desperate home life and into the arms of a mother who loves her and cherishes her.  Into a home where everything is clean, where there's enough to eat, and where she is safe and warm.

reading a story with Fatima

That evening, when I walked up the stairs to enter my apartment building, flipping on the light and climbing the clean marbled stairs, it hit me like a truck.  I was flattened by the injustice, by the unfairness of my nice, safe home while Fatima was just on the other side of the city, sharing a bed with someone else in her family, worrying every time it rains, wondering if the hillside will last another storm.  It seems like these questions just keep coming.  It doesn't get any easier.  In fact, sometimes it feels like it just gets harder and harder.  No wonder the ascetics ran for the hills.  Our broken world sometimes seems to much to handle.

 my church family
(plus many more missing!)

The beauty mixed in with the broken is my church.  Just last Sunday, the church service was bursting at the seams.  Our "sanctuary" is built for about 30 people comfortably, and there were easily over 50 people at church.  Three young men stepped forward at the end of the service to receive Christ.  The hardened, tough mom of one of the girls I disciple, who swore she wouldn't come to our church,  has been coming for a month, beaming as we sing worship songs, toting her daughter's Bible to the services.  Youth group has grown from 10 to 25.  A non-Christian friend from Monday night soccer (an outreach tool to reach the young men in the neighborhood) who I've been praying for for months shared last night that Jesus had appeared to him several nights in a dream.  He went on to share that he had been moved by a story he'd read about Jesus and wanted to know where he could find more stories to learn more about Him.

I am blown away by the ways I've seen the Spirit move in the last few weeks.  His love for His people, the way that He beats the bushes to find them, the lost sheep, is so evident.  What a hope we have in Him!!

Blockades & Protests & Strikes, OH MY!

For about two weeks now Cochabamba has been effectively shut down by strikes, marches, protests and blockades.  The public transportation drivers are demanding a fare rise of 50 centavos (7 cents) and the government is refusing to grant the price rise, stating that the average Bolivian is unable to afford the higher fare.  Drivers have refused to work until their demands are met, and the government is refusing to budge, stating that it's unconstitutional for the drivers to demand a price rise.  Who knows how long it will last.

marches in La Paz

So far, it hasn't been dangerous for me at all.  I've stayed away from the city center and the markets where the majority of the unrest is taking place.  It's been frustrating, stuck in my neighborhood, and I'm experiencing a little bit of cabin fever, trying to figure out what to do with my days where I can't go to work or to the market.  My frustration and inconvenience, though, is nothing in comparison to the disruption it's causing my neighbors, many of whom are already living on the edge and can't afford to go days without working, or to pay a hike in prices.  It's situations like these that make me realize what a disparity there is between my birth country and my current country.

knitting a hat w/ my kitty

So, instead of climbing the walls, I've tried to get creative about how to spend my time, trapped in my neighborhood.  Here are a few snapshots of what I've done with the extra time on my hands:

making homemade bagels

a food I can't buy anywhere in Coch

  watching the sunrise over the Andes

picking bouquets of wildflowers

discipling Briseyda

reading Purpose Driven Life

This Wednesday, we had run out of gas, and with all the chaos, the gas trucks haven't been driving around and none of the tiendas have extra gas cans to sell.  A neighbor offered to take me with him when he went at 6am to drive around the city looking for gas.  We pulled up at the gas agency and joined a line of about 20-30 people already waiting in line with their gas cans.  They were grumbling, muttering that there didn't seem to be gas even at the agency.

Suddenly, down the busy highway, a gas truck was spotted driving our way.  Before I knew what was happening, the entire line had moved to the middle of the highway, blocking all traffic that way, trying to trap the gas truck to force it to sell them gas.  There was shouting, pushing, and lots of arguing between the desperate people in the street and the angry gas truck, trying to get to the neighborhood he was required to sell in.  It was just another moment where I realized the difference between my reality back in Colorado, and the daily reality of the Bolivian people in Cochabamba.  When we left, things were still at a standstill between the gas truck and the blockade of people with gas cans and the truck.  We drove to another part of the city, and after waiting in line, were able to get our cans filled.

Psalm 93

 ¹ The LORD reigns, he is robed in majesty;
   the LORD is robed in majesty and armed with strength;
   indeed, the world is established, firm and secure.
² Your throne was established long ago;
   you are from all eternity.

 ³ The seas have lifted up, LORD,
   the seas have lifted up their voice;
   the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.
⁴ Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,
   mightier than the breakers of the sea—
   the LORD on high is mighty.

 ⁵ Your statutes, LORD, stand firm;
   holiness adorns your house
   for endless days.