A rich few weeks

The last few weeks have been full of so many rich experiences!  Here's just a few:

Josias' 5th birthday (my godson)

I met Josías the day after he was born in 2006.  

He's the son of my friends Alejandro and Reina.

Betto, me, Humberto

(church worship team)

The last few weeks have been really rich,

full of great team fellowship and lots of deep

time in the Word.

hiking in the Andes foothills with Collin,

right out my front door!

birthday dinner with Collin

He took me out to eat at one of Cochabamba's nicest restaurants while the rest of my close friends planned an amazing surprise party

fancy decorations at my party

lots of flowers...

Most of my closest friends were at the party, almost 25 people acting as my surrogate family in Bolivia.  To the right, my good friends: Rosalia, Humberto, Briseyda, Reynaldo & Andreina.

 Eliana

Andreina's baby was born August 7th.

I got to help name her baby girl!

 

A visit from Jen, a good friend from the States and an old housemate from my first 6 months in Bolivia.  So good to see an old friend.

 Joana and I went to see the entrada of Urkupiña,

a parade of traditional dances.  We met 2 Brazilian tourists

at the parade and I got to learn a lot of Portugese!

Tobas

traditional dance from the jungles of Bolivia 

more traditional dances

(indigenous women from La Paz have a similar dress to these women)

A Farewell

After 3 weeks winter vacation, we came back to work and learned that several kids were no longer able to come to The Center.  Jose Felix is one of those.  He and his family moved down the hill and he lives too far away to walk to The Center in the afternoon.  The Center kids live uncertain lives, which means they could be at The Center one day and not the next.

 Jose Felix was a delight in the classroom.  I'm going to miss his bright smile, his "Yes, teacher," "No, teacher," attitude, and the way he hangs his head when he knows he's done something wrong.

 I got to see Jose Felix one more time when I came to his school in the morning to talk to his teacher.  He matter-of-fact told me "I'm not going to come to The Center anymore.  I live too far away."  I secretly hoped for sadness in his voice, maybe a warm hug or at least one more sparkly smile.  Instead, I had to beg for a goodbye hug, aching inside for this little one who I wouldn't get to see every day anymore.  I realized that for most of these kids, change is a constant part of their reality, and they've learned to cope with it by taking it as it comes.

 

As I turned to walk away, Jose Felix said "Profe, you should come sometimes to see us.  And you should bring us more Bible books!"  I can only pray we planted a seed of hope in his life.

Manuel and the Little Things

So many of the kids in my class are so dynamic, explosive and unpredictable that it's nice to have a student like Manuel.  I don't have any dramatic stories about him, and he doesn't have many characteristics that make him stand out from the other kids.  But then again, all kids have something that makes them unique, something that shows the hand of the One who made them.  With Manuel, it's the little things:

Manuel works quietly all afternoon, his brow furrowed in concentration as he struggles to remember which way the number 5 curves.

Manuel grins self-consciously when I praise him on his round 'o's, his crooked smile slowly spreading across his face, his eyes shifting to the side, not confident enough to look me in the eye.

Manuel jumps out of his chair, excited to choose colored pencils: red, green and blue to color Joseph's coat of many colors.

                                                                                                                                

Pray for Manuel.  Pray for him to develop who he is, based on who he was created to be.  Pray against kids who would try to influence him, molding his innocent, not-fully-written nature into something dark or angry.

Wilber and Manuel

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