Dear Tiananmen Square

Dear Tiananmen Square:
We were conceived together, you and I
We shadow each other
We are kindred

You were born out of death, a country torn and divided
While I was still a burgeoning hope, not yet ready for the world
But we were announced to the world at the same time
An accusatory message there, a celebrated one here -
They both were read with tears, though not of the same strain.


Dear Tianamen Square:
We were dedicated to our causes at the same time.
With the diligence of youth we were presented to the world
They lifted their voices, proudly proclaiming,
"Here and now we solemnly promise to see this through
"No matter the cost."

You and I, we didn't know what that meant then.
We didn't know how we would grow.
We only knew that we were in the hands of those who cared so much.


Dear Tianamen Square:
We're really of the same character - stubborn and reckless,
Inciting anger among those who don't understand
Ready to be the face of the fight.
It's only later that we wonder if we meant to do it at all.
If I had known, would I have acted differently?
If you had known, would you have?

Would I have spoken out?  Would I have quieted myself?
Would you have shaken, toppling buildings and cracking roads apart?
Would we have been happy with our courses had we known their outcomes?
I can't be sure.  Can you?


Dear Tianamen Square:
We both know what it is to be under a strict reign.
We both know what it is to rebel against it.
We both know what it is to face consequences we didn't expect.

We are united by our opposites.
My blood was drawn as you drank in that which fell on you.
My skin was pricked as shells rebounded off of you.
I screamed out for my mother, as you heard the screams echoing around you, in you.
And then we breathed the silence:
Me in my temporary comfort and you eternalized as that without it.

Dear Tianamen Square:
We are both unended, unsure, a story left unfinished.
The question lingers:
What happened to him - the man who was so bold?
Did you encourage him in your own stalwart way?
Would you do the same for me, as I endeavor to fill his shoes?

Will you watch over me or are you tired?
Are you still washing away the blood that is deep within you now?
Have you seen the ends of actions?
Have you given into the silence?
Or are you still bold, only waiting?




Tianamen Square timeline and news reports

The Demon-Possessed Man: Part 8 - Leave

<<Part 7                                                                                                                                    Part 9>>

So he got into the boat and left. - Luke 8:37b

We've all been taught that Jesus stands knocking on the door to your heart, waiting for you to let Him in.  We've grown up staring at the picture in rooms where elderly people gather (I don't know why only older people hang this picture up, but it must be a rule somewhere).  I could write about how I'm not sure that's quite how it works, but that's another post for another day.  My point today is that we were given freewill.  We are free to follow after Christ, and we are free to send Him packing.  The beauty of this, though, is that we now have the ability to legitimately love.  Love is a choice that one must make, so if we did not have the choice to not love, we would also not have the choice to love.  It's a little bit of a mind twister, but I promise it makes sense if you let it sit for a moment.

None of this is to say that Christ ever stops loving us.  I don't believe that He does.  But it's just like any other relationship.  A man may love a woman, but that doesn't mean the woman will return his love.  She may actually hate him.  No matter how many things he does for her, no matter how many times he professes his love, she only pushes him further away and tells him to leave her alone.  Eventually, someone will take that poor man aside and say to him, "If you truly love her, let her go."  Jesus loves us more than any man can love any woman, and He chooses to leave when we ask Him to, because He wants us to experience the fulfillment of loving Him freely and wholly.  

Some of you have been reading my blog since it was a Xanga (whoa.) or it was a LiveJournal (Can you believe those websites still exist?) or it was in the notes section of Facebook.  (The only one of those that still exists is on my Facebook.  I was going to try and link you to the old ones, but they've been "purged".)  If you're one of those people, it may surprise you to hear me take this view, since I vehemently espoused in the past the Christ will never leave us.  I still believe this.  I truly do.  Let me take an excerpt from the Facebook rendition of the blog to help me explain.

We talk about how we "walk away from G-d" or how we need to "return to G-d."  But I don't like it.  G-d promises that he will never leave us.

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of [your enemies], for the L-RD your G-d goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”  -Deuteronomy 31:6

"G-d has said, 'Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.'"  Hebrews 13:5

This is not just semantics.  The Bible is not saying, "G-d will not leave you, but you can leave G-d if you want."  The Bible is saying "G-d will not ever leave you."  So what of our times of sin?  What of the times that we fall short of the glory of G-d?  I answer this question with the parable of the ant.

I have always been fascinated by ants.  They're really cool.  They don't seem as dirty as other bugs.  They're so strong but so fragile.  They are incredibly organized and seem to appear out of no where.  They climb up the steepest angles and make it seem like no problem.  They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors... some breeds also have incredible super powers.  I could sit and look at them all day - perhaps that's why I've been attacked by them so many times.  Regardless of the reason why, however, I can now add to the list one more fact about ants:  I am also allergic to them.  Yes, one bite from any kind of ant - red, black, brown, big, little, it does not matter - and my body is red, puffy, and annoyingly itchy.

Think of G-d in terms of the person watching the ants, and us, in turn, as the ants themselves.  We run around and fascinate Him.  He could sit and watch us all day.  In fact, He does.  Sometimes we run away from Him as fast and as far as we possibly can.  When we realize what we've done, we say, "I've come so far!  Look at me, I'm a thousand ants away from G-d!  How could He possibly be with me now?  How could I possibly get back to him now?"  But think about this.  If you stay still, and an ant runs away from you a thousand times its length, you can still reach it.  The same is true with G-d.  No matter how far from G-d we run, we are always within his reach.  This is the joy of having a G-d who is so much bigger than us.  He truly never does leave us, even if we attempt to leave Him.

 

But that's not the end of the parable.  See, I didn't talk about my allergy for no reason.  Just as I am fascinated by the ants, G-d is fascinated by us.  Just as the ants get scared and bite me (and in turn, attempt to kill me), so do we turn and bite G-d, and we succeeded in killing Him.  Every sin is another bite, another strike to the nail.
I went to visit Kyle [Funke's grave] while I was in Raleigh recently.  There were ant hills all around his grave, and I saw them.  While I was talking to him, I allowed some of the ants to climb on my arm.  I like them a lot, so I didn't think much of them.  It wasn't until after they got scared and started biting me that I realized the sound of my voice, though I was talking softly and tenderly in the moment, was probably too much for them and their tiny ant senses.  So I returned them to the grass.  I watched my arm start to swell, and thought, "It wasn't their fault, really - they didn't realize what they were doing."  So I didn't hold it against them the next time I ran into some ants.  I still sat there and watched them go about their lives.  I know the same is true for G-d, because He said so.  As He watched his arms and legs swell around the nails that had been driven through them, He called out:

 "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do."  -Luke 23:34

 Don't think that the situation is any different for you.  There is no grudge that is held.  The fascination has not been tapered.  G-d absolutely adores you, and chooses to be with you, knowing that you may very well bite Him.  He has already forgiven you, so forgive yourself and move on.

He leaves, but He doesn't leave.  He is G-d, after all.  We are always within His reach.  I know it sounds like I'm contradicting myself, but I'm not.  I'm going to show you how this all fits together, but you're going to have to give me just one more blog post to do it, because this is getting entirely too long.  I will wrap it up in the next one and tie it with a nice, pretty bow.

<<Part 7                                                                                                                                 Part 9>>

Even still...

Words cannot express how deeply saddened by what happened in Boston. This is all I have to offer.

Make sure that nobody pays back wrong for wrong, but always strive to do what is good for each other and for everyone else. Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.
-1 Thessalonians 5:15-18 (NIV)

I will bless the Lord at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
-Psalm 34:1 (KJV)

Through him then let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name.
-Hebrews 13:15 (ESV)

The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.
-Zephaniah 3:17 (ESV)

In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
-John 1:4-5 (NIV)

But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.
-1 Peter 2:9 (NIV)

The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light.
-Romans 13:12 (NIV)

O G-d, who brought us to birth,

and in whose arms we die,

in our grief and shock

contain and comfort us;

embrace us with your love,

give us hope in our confusion

and grace to let go into new life;

through Jesus Christ.

Amen.

Common Worship: Pastoral Services (p238)

Bleeding

I know I just finished saying how I was going to put life updates on pause, but that was because I thought my new life experiences were going to be at a minimum, having been in Korea for a year and a half now.  DANG!  Wrong.

Today, I went to the nurse's office because I felt sick.  If I had been in the States, I probably would have called out of work this morning, but Korea has changed me.  Instead, I pulled on a pair of jeans rather than a dress (if I'm going to work sick, I'm at least going to be comfortable) and walked myself to school.  I popped some vitamin C and some NAC, forced down some light food to keep the supplements in my system, and taught my first class.  But, 3 hours into the day, I still didn't feel better, so I made my way to the nurse.
I'd been there once before for nausea.  There's this drink here that helps with that, and that's what I wanted.  I had to put up with some pressure-point prodding, but it ended with the drink, so I returned, hoping for the same thing.  Oh, was I in for a surprise.
I was feeling pretty good about myself, despite my gurgling stomach, as I explained why I was there and answered her questions (or at least what I'm pretty sure was her questions) all in Korean.  She told me to have a seat, which I did.
As I waited, I watched her systematically prick each corner of a student's nails.  She'd squeeze some blood out, and the student squirmed.  I looked up what she was doing on my phone, because I could tell that it was some sort of basic Eastern remedy, and I was curious as to what it would cure.  Of course, I ended up at the blog of that Korean culture guru, The Korean  (TK).  He explained that this was done to improve circulation, fighting a certain type of indigestion.  I filed it in my brain next to "leeches," and I moved on, waiting for my drink.
Unfortunately, the nurse decided that I had the same type of indigestion. [Insert unhappy face here.] So, I also was bled.  Honestly, it wasn't the worst experience of my life.  I don't know if it'll help anything, but it doesn't hurt (too much) to try it once, right?  Actually, what hurt was the pressure-point prodding that happened after the bleeding.  It was much more extensive than the first time I went to see her, and I did NOT like it at all.  Finally, she covered me with a bunch of little pressure-tape things (I think they're an alternative to acupuncture) and gave me instructions to massage them tonight at dinnertime and tomorrow morning as well.  I'm not sure my skin will put up with an adhesive for that long, but we'll give it a shot.

Suddenly, I feel like I can relate to my old literature classes so much more.  But... before I left, she did at least give me the drink, so all my efforts were not in vain.  However, she seems to be getting progressively more aggressive when I go, so I'll probably think more before returning in the future.

Vietnam: Cu Chi Tunnels

I had every intention of prefacing this with a warning for the sensitive or veteran reader of this blog, but, looking back on my photos, I'm no longer convinced that this post need it.  Seeing everything at the Cu Chi Tunnels themselves was so much more intense in person, the jungle baring down on me with every step I took between the trees.  Seeing various sections of the forest barbed-wired off (because there are still bombs hidden in the ares behind them, and seeing death traps everywhere, was incredibly overwhelming.  I ended up having to break off from the group and our North Vietnamese guide who seemed to take pleasure in what he was showing us.

Having seen all those things; having pictured soldiers on both sides stumbling into traps laid by the others; having realized that the Vietnamese people still struggle with the aftermath of it all, still lose civilians from leftover traps and bombs; I cannot help but feel that nothing, absolutely nothing, is worth embarking on any path that could eventually lead to that.  No word spoken out of anger, no pride-driven act of stubbornness can be justified.  I'll even go so far as to say that, in the balance of it all, I cannot even allow for an act of self-defense.

This isn't my natural inclination.  I am incredibly vindictive by nature, wanting to respond with extreme force in the face of events I feel are wrong, but thinking back on Vietnam quells those instincts.  I hated every moment of this part of the trip, but I would highly recommend it to anyone who visits Vietnam.

The Viet Cong traversed via underground tunnels, equipped with many camouflaged holes that allowed them to catch  American forces unaware.  The Viet Cong employed many children for this task.  Contrary to popular belief, it is not likely that the children were pressed into service; the Viet Cong movement was even begun by a young girl who lost he father in the extensive bombing campaign of the area.

Tourists can go inside some of the tunnels these days, but, in order to account for the distinct difference in body size between today's tourist and that of the Vietnamese people in the 1960's, a large area around the opening has been opened.  I walked the tunnels for about 30 meters, but that was more than enough for me.  In order to fit, I had to walk bent at the waist and squatting a little in pitch darkness; it was incredibly uncomfortable, and I don't envy anyone who had to live like that.

This was the most shocking of the traps I saw, probably because I wasn't expecting it.  The idea was that someone would step on the camouflaged cover and fall through onto the spikes; the cover would continue to spin, hitting the person and pushing him further onto the spikes.

This is one of many traps that were made by individual families to protect their homes.  Each family had its own, distinct style.

In seeing these things, I had a hard time not labeling the residents of Cu Chi as monsters, noting that the traps seemed designed to cause the most pain possible, going beyond self-protection.  It seemed so extreme, so unnecessary, so blood-thirsty.  But then I remembered all the bombing campaigns and, worse, Agent Orange.  (I can hardly think of a more horrific weapon than Agent Orange.)

I know it's hard to see from this picture, but this is the residual crater from a B52 bomb, left some 50 years after it was first created.  That means that erosion and plant-growth have filled in the hole somewhat.  Even still, it's so steep and deep that it requires stairs to get up from the bottom.  Don't be mistaken, both sides that fought this war used extreme measures to do so.

Spike-traps hidden under ground certainly were gruesome weapons employed by the Viet Cong, but they had other options as well.  Many of the bombs dropped on the area never exploded, and they used that to their advantage.  By collecting and cutting them open, the Veit Cong could salvage the gunpowder from inside them, creating bombs of their own.  This was a very dangerous tactic, but that did not stop it from being effective.

Replicas of the Viet Cong cutting open bombs have been moved into an opened underground bunker so tourists can have an idea of what it was like for them to have to live and work underground.  Still, this is not a fully accurate representation, as the ceiling has been removed and heightened so tourists an have a more comfortable experience.  Furthermore, the bombs would not have been opened inside the bunker; the task was far to dangerous for that.  Bombs were sawed in half outside, a two person job in which one person would saw while the other constantly poured water on the bomb to keep it from become too hot and producing sparks.  The salvaged powder was then moved inside, where new bombs were made.

The homemade bombs were clearly effective.  After several lengthy bombing campaigns, American soldiers were able to move through the Cu Chi area on foot and in tanks, unaware of the resistance measures the locals had taken.  As a result, they were caught entirely off-guard by the attacks that came.  The results can be seen above.  The Viet Cong destroyed this tank with a well-placed bomb, created from other explosives designed to allow the tank through the jungle.  In a way, it's poetic, until you stop to think about the reality of the situation. 

Bombs were not the only thing salvaged by the Viet Cong.  Any tanks that were destroyed got picked clean, as you can see from the photo above.  One of the most important assets gained from tanks was rubber.  This rubber went to making shoes for the resistance fighters.

Pictured here are several tank-rubber shoes in varying sizes.  These are the normal, every day shoes, but when there was mud on the ground, they would switch their shoes to a type that was created to leave backward footprints in the mud.  This way, the Viet Cong could leave false trails throughout the jungle, often leading American soldiers into traps.

It's incredibly easy to want to vilify people surrounding the war.  People vilify the Americans (I've never heard the Australians get vilified, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.), the North Vietnamese, or those who didn't get involved.  But I'd like to propose that pointing fingers is entirely useless, and somewhat misses the true lesson that we should take from this.  I cannot clearly define a "good guy" and a "bad guy" in this war, nor can I clearly define a "winner" and a "loser", what with all the PTSD amongst American and Australian soldiers and unexploded bombs and mines across Vietnam that still regularly kill children.  The words of James Cameron came constantly to me in Cu Chi, echoing through my mind as I tried to process what I was seeing: "This is sad, very sad, only."  There is nothing that will ever happen that can justify this.  I'm sure my saying that will upset some people, and you are all entitled to your own opinion, but I beg you to think of everything that happened in Vietnam.  Research it, sear it into your mind, and use what you find to help you weigh your future decisions.

It's supposed to hurt.

Olivia Engel, 6

Charlotte Bacon, 6

Daniel Barden, 7

Josephine Gay, 7

Dylan Hockley, 6

Ana M. Marquez-Greene, 6

Madeleine F. Hsu, 6

Chase Kowalski, 7

Catherine V. Hubbard, 6

Jesse Lewis, 6

Grace McDonnell, 7

James Mattioli, 6

Emilie Parker, 6

Noah Pozner, 6

Jack Pinto, 6

Aviele Richman, 6

Jessica Rekos, 6

Caroline Previdi, 6

Benjamin Wheeler, 6

Allison N. Wyatt, 6

Nancy Lanza, 52

Anne Marie Murphy, 52

Rachel D'Avino, 29

Dawn Hochsprung, 47

Victoria Soto, 27

Mary Sherlach, 56

Lauren Rousseau, 30

We spend a lot of time trying to stop hurting in our lifetimes.  Our friends yell at us, and we try to stop hurting.  We get rejected from our preferred colleges, and we try to stop hurting.  Our dogs die, and we try to stop hurting.  Our country is attacked by terrorists, and we try to stop hurting.  People storm into our schools, shooting our children, and we try to stop hurting.  But I'm writing to say that I think we're wrong.  I think it's supposed to hurt and never stop hurting.

The pain is how we know that we're still human.  The pain is how we know that these people mattered.  The pain is not something we should convince ourselves to get over.  We shouldn't desensitize ourselves to these things.  They should cut us to the core each and every time.

I've been watching the TV show "Everwood" lately, and I think that the character Ephram explains this concept the best:

"You know, after my mom died, everybody told me that I was gonna be OK.  That it would take a little time, but I would heal. Well, that didn't ever happen; not really anyway… What you’re feeling right now, Amy, it doesn't ever really go away — not completely. It’s not like, ya know, you’re gonna go back to being the person you were before they died — the person’s gone. It’s more like something inside of you breaks and your body finds a way to compensate for it. Like if you busted your right hand, you figure out how to use the left one. And sure, you might resist for a while because you’re pissed off that you have to learn all this stuff again that nobody else does. Eventually your body takes over and figures it out for you. And you’re glad. Because if it was up to you… you’d look at your broken hand forever and try to figure out what it was like before."

A broken hand, should hurt.  This terribly tragic loss should hurt, and there shouldn't be any shame in that.  We should mourn and grieve, and then we should take measures to prevent this from happening again.  If you destroy your right hand punching a wall, you're not going to turn around and do that with your left; you'll take preventative action.  We can't afford to keep punching the wall  We must come up with protective measures for our children.

Please visit People's website for stories on each of the victims.  Please hurt and grieve over them.  Please cry until you can't anymore.  Then please decide on the best plan of action to stop this from happening again and contact your congress representatives and senators about it.  If all we do is sit back and mull over the atrocity this depraved man committed, we're only opening the door for someone else to follow in his footsteps.  We must take action.  We must speak out.  We must not let these children die in vain.

MOTh: Days 26 and 27

3 Gifts Preparing

I've failed at this since Thanksgiving time.  In my defense, there's a storm brewing, and it's been killing my head for the past couple of days.  As much as I feel strongly about snow, I wish it'd just do its thing already and leave my head out of it.

1. I'm thankful that I have options of where I want to go from here.  Granted, the only option I'm going to take is the one G-d puts in front of me, but I don't need to feel panicked about it while waiting for Him to show me His way.
2. I'm thankful for all the Christmas and Chanukah stuff laying around my apartment.  I think I'm going to try to get around to putting it up tonight. :)
3. I'm thankful for the mission G-d is preparing me for.  I know that He's got a plan for me specifically, and that warms my heart to know. :)

A Gift Handmade

One of my professors in college made my Harry Potter wand for me.  I'm a child on the inside, so I was thrilled.  :)

A Gift Held

Miss Paisley Grace means a ton to me.

and a Gift Happy

재영's sweet smile always could make me happy.  :)

Everland!

The same Saturday that I went to the art museum, I also got to go to Everland, which is Korea's attempt at creating its own Disney World.  It reminded me of Disney in a few ways, but it mostly just made me want to go to Busch Gardens.  I rode a wooden coaster - the first one that didn't leave my whole body in pain, but my leg slid out of joint while on it, so that hurt all day, but it's better now, so the memory is slowly being cast into a different light. :)  So, now I'm calling on you to be the judge.  What theme park does this remind you of?

The whole group at the entrance

My traveling buddies.

The decorations at the entrance reminded us of Disney's HalloweenTown.

More Halloween decorations

Lee Ellen and me, waiting in line with our hair doodads, which aren't so ridiculous in the park.

There was a laser-light show at the end of the night!

Like I said, it was fun, but Busch Gardens, VA is still my favorite.  What about you?  What's your favorite theme park?

I didn't write this.

Today, I read an update post from my dear, sweet Alex in Bulgaria.  I, of course, was thrilled, since an update blog post from Alex meant an update on life in Bulgaria.  What I saw, however, quenched my emotions a little, but, at the same time, made me incredibly grateful that G-d opened all the doors to put her where she is.  I called her today and asked if I could share it with you. I'm glad to say that she agreed.

*                    *                   *

Blood, Tears, and Hope

I have special powers.
Or at least I think I do.
I have this insane ability to take on the feelings of another person.
Even a complete stranger.
... not exactly what one wished for as a kid.

Yesterday, I arrived at the school where I volunteer at about mid-afternoon..
I hadn't had my lunch yet. I was eating it on my walk there.
And the first body I see is this little shirtless boy.
I recognize him at once.
My violent little troublemaker.
My sweetheart
My baby.

Why isn't he wearing a shirt?

He was all alone. So of course, I was going to go over there and check up on him. After all, he's pretty much my son. And my baby looked cold.

He was seated on a faded wooden bench, bending down low, and working on something. As I got closer to him, I saw what he was working on.

In his right hand, he gripped a quarter-sized shard of glass.
And his "work" was a 2 inch bloody gash carved into his ankle.
My baby was cutting himself.

I'd say he's about 12. Maybe.
All alone.
And forcing his body to visibly show the pain he was feeling.
Most likely the humiliation he endures from a certain heinous teacher at his school.
My poor little guy.
I just stared and the blood, and then at his face.. carved out in anger. 
My lungs stopped accepting oxygen.
And my heart was trying to make up for it by pumping out my blood too fast for my body to handle.
And my eyes began to burn as I fought the tears from showing themselves in front of my boy.

And I sat down beside him, not even thinking about what the "right" thing was for me to do.
I knew I had to get him to give me that piece of glass, but I knew I couldn't force him.

Because I know that force will lead to retaliation, just as oppression leads to revolt. I couldn't take away his freedom of choice, but I also couldn't let him hurt-- not on his own like that.

My voice took on a single form. A quiet form. A gentle form. A form that presents itself when I'm about to cry. And I said, "эащо?" -- "why?"
And he furrowed his eyebrows in his anger.. in his hurt. And he dug harder. And the blood dripped slowly down his ankle. And the only thing he would say was, "така..." which basically means "because." And I tried to give him a piece of toilet paper to wipe up some of the blood. Of course.. he refused it.

And then he got up and began to walk away from me.
I followed him.
I had to get that glass from him.
and he hated that he couldn't lose me.
I didn't chase him. I never made him run. But I wasn't going to let him suffer alone.

Finally he stopped. He turned around and looked me straight in the eyes. He held up the piece of glass. And he threw it as hard as he could. And he held up his empty hands in surrender. A bell began to ring, telling the kids on the other side of the school that it was time to come back inside. I looked toward the sound of the ringing, and then back to where he was standing, but he wasn't there anymore. He was already heading back inside. I stood there, looking around frantically for the piece of glass in the grass. I began to allow the tears to flow down. I had to find it. I had to bury it deep in the dirt. I didn't care if the blood got on my hands. His hurt is my hurt. And I didn't want it to be found ever again. But I never got the chance-- not 2 minutes after being called inside, he was being sent outside by one of the teachers. I wiped my eyes on my sleeves and walked toward him. He saw me, and kept walking away. He crossed the basketball court and I stopped following him. I dropped my jacket, my bags and my lunch on the ground, followed by my body. He was sitting directly on the opposite side of the courts. And I looked down at my lunch and began to eat. My thought process was if he wants my company, at least I'll be around where he can find me.  

And he did.

He crossed the expansive cement and sat down beside me. And he showed me his most recent "work."
 And then the evidence of his other works.
They were many.

I asked him "why" again. And this time, his face was downcast. And he just shrugged his shoulders. 
And I decided that since I didn't have the vocabulary to discuss it, that my best bet was to distract him, and cheer him up. So I showed him my homework. He was impressed that I was learning Bulgarian.
And I began to practice with him. Mostly my numbers. We had a lot of fun with that. I purposely messed up to show him that even "grown ups" mess up on their school work. Then I took out my new phone and handed it to him to see. Kids love technology these days. He asked me, "музика?" --"music?" Sadly, I shook my head, "No." But! I had my I-pod. And God bless that little thing. I made his day by letting him listen to it. I showed him some songs I thought he might like. And you wouldn't believe how his sweet little face shines when he smiles. His eyes! Oh his eyes. So vivid, so piercing, so expressive. They soften when he smiles. My heart began to swell. I slowly convinced him to share my lunch with me. He was very hesitant. I know this boy doesn't eat except at school. But he was so worried he would be taking away my lunch. He kept saying, "No, you eat it!" So I ate some, and left out some crackers for him to eat if he wanted, which progressed to some lunch meat and cheese And something happened in this moment. We sort of bonded. And suddenly, all day long, he went out of his way to protect me. I mean ALL DAY LONG. When it came time for snack time, he tried to give me his snack. I wasn't hungry, so I smiled and said "no thank you." He insisted, so I took a tiny piece. But still... it meant so much to me that he wanted to share what little he had. I know what it's like to be hungry. And hunger does something dreadful to you. It makes you angry. It keeps you from thinking rationally. And when you have food, you become sort of.. greedy with it. 

But he wasn't greedy. He was generous. It wasn't just that he didn't want to be "indebted" to me, but it was more like we were taking care of each other. He was just more insistent with me. My little sweetheart. 

I used to regret my so called "special powers." 
I thought I was overly sensitive...
overemotional... 
I thought I was weak.

But I'm not weak.
If it weren't for this anomaly in me that allows me to feel what another person feels.. I mean to truly feel it,

none of this would have happened. The blood would still be flowing. And he would still have been hungry. And that hunger would have kept him angry. And deep down, my baby would still be hurting.


I'm not so naive as to believe that I took away his pain. I know I don't have that power.  
But, if he was distracted from his hurt, even for just a little bit, then maybe that was just enough time for a little bit of healing to take place.. just enough time for a tiny flicker of light to shine in the darkness... just enough time for something to rise up inside him.... just enough time for Hope, to make her appearance.

*                    *                   *

You can read more from Alex here, and her missionary partner, Vera, here.

A Poem

Fall

Cool weather kisses my arms
My legs are warmed by boots that hug them close
Sweaters and scarves are draped over my frame

The sun is going to sleep earlier
The moon is staying up later
The skies are bluer
The clouds are fuller

Spices waft on the breeze
Across fields of pumpkins and squash
Eager to make their ways to the table

Grass is fading
Trees are changing

Mrphumph adnum mrphumpuh

Sorry, Fall just shoved its hands down my air passages.

Someone send me some
Dayquil,
Musinex,
And/or some antihistamines?

Please?

Open them first
So the authorities don't confiscate them
For personal use.

(I Remember)

Evette and I had early morning orchestra that day.  We were both so tired.  We found later that we had the same reason for being so exhausted -we'd both spent the night dreaming strange dreams, and we both spent morning orchestra debating whether or not to tell the other about them.

The rest of the morning passed in a half-eyed blur, until it was time for lunch.  Seventh grade ate so early that year.  I generally made a habit of peeking in the classrooms as I walked past, and that say was no exception, but only one classroom was worth noting.  There were several women in it, holding each other and crying.  I remember clearly my reacting thought: "Someone's son must have died."  I don't know why that was my thought.  I don't know why it was "son" and not "daughter."  I don't know why it was death and not illness or some other entirely unrelated tragedy.  But there it was.

We went to lunch, where I finally revealed my dream to Andy.  My whole dream had been a kind of white-lined sketch on blue paper.   It was a perfect replica of New York City; I recognized it from the trip I had taken there the previous April.  Suddenly, an airplane entered the dream and flew into a Twin Tower, which proceeded to topple over onto the silent city.  I remember entering the dream at that point, rather than observing it.  I was on the ground, feeling the shadow swallowing me, looking up in terror at my impending death.  Then, I woke.

No one put much stock in my dream.  I had weird dreams all them time.

We had to hurry to our next class: American History: Reconstruction to Present Day.   The room was eerily silent, especially for a middle school.  We took our seats to notice that the TV was on.

"The administration doesn't want me to show you this," the teacher said. "But you deserve to see this.  Your children will study this in their history classes.  I can't be a good history teacher and not show you."

And then we watched the burning towers crumble to the ground.

In his shock, the teacher said, "I guess the Empire State Building is the biggest again."  I was horrified.

Cathy went to the pay phones at the front of the school and called her mom, who picked her up.  I was furious that my mother hadn't shown up to sweep me away, but I, to this day, still don't know why I wanted to leave.  It's not like she could provide any more sanity to the world.

She did pick me up, though, at our normal Tuesday afternoon meeting time.  I was hoping she'd tell me that my piano lesson was cancelled for that day; I didn't feel up to it (not that I ever did), but she took me straight to the church.  She wanted me to have normalcy.  I started learning the song Sanctuary, which I, in turn, played a month later in church, on my family's last Sunday in that city.  It seemed so ironic it was sickening.

I was angry.  I was angry for having normalcy forced on me.  I was angry for having fear forced on me.  I was angry for my life spinning out of control.

Not even bothering to drop off my school things, I went to the basement, took out some paper and water-color paints, and began flinging color across the page, imagining it was someone conveying my anger to the people who I felt were causing it, impaling it into their souls and out of my own.   I think my mom still has those paintings.

I remember.

When allergic to ants...

...watch out for ones that fly.

Lesson learned.

I'm currently at the "muchies" stage of the two Bendryl I took, which means that the coma stage is not far now.  I'm already getting pretty clumsy (good thing I made biscuits before that really took hold), so it must be pretty soon.

Therefore,

I will give you my June goals report card and the last Blimey Cow photos (and, perhaps, a more hilarious version of this story) tomorrow.  Have a good night/day.

Round 2

It was round 2 with the wart at the doctor's today.  I must say, this round was much less exciting.  Whether it was a fluke thing, or because the doctors reapplies the numbing cream after there was a ton of blood everywhere, after the first few hits with the lazer, I felt pretty much everything.  Actually, it didn't even take that long on my left hand (they decided to go ahead and hit the baby wart again).  I tried my best to not flinch or make noise, because I didn't want them to stop, but eventually it got so bad that I thought I was going to vomit, and I broke poker face.  They stopped.  I'm going to have to go back for round 3 next week.

I'm turning into a Korean with my doctoring habits.  Oh well, I supposed this is how they get their money on universal healthcare, but, honestly, I'm still going to end up lower than a lot of people would pay in a co-pay for one visit in the States, and they, too, would have to go back month after month to get the procedure redone.  At least this is only week after week.

The rabbit eagerly was licking water off the floor today, and gratefully was licking some ice cubes, so I think I have a new plan of attack for getting her back to normal.  She's starting to do all of her normal bunny things again, too (Note that this is censored for decent society, and read between the lines).  It's such a big relief.

This is unrelated to this post, except for being the Blimey Cow photo-a-day 08. #summerofblimeycow
(Which is a Twitter reference that I'm pretty much ignoring.)
This may be the only cow-related thing that I own.  It's a patch on a quilt that my mother HAND-SEWED for me, back when I graduated from high school.  We'll go ahead and say that the cars above the cows represent summer road-trips.

Finally, the exciting news, is that grades 3-6 are now all level-split for their English classes.  Third and fourth grades are split by simply separating out the low-level students, while I teach everyone else.  Fifth grade will soon be taught by separating the low-level students and allowing the high-level students to do some personalized guided-reading activities, while I teach the on-level students.  Sixth grade is following a similar model, but on a less regular basis.  I'm very excited about sixth grade, because, unlike the fifth grade (where each student is going to be given a book based on personal ability), the advanced sixth graders will all be reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.  It will be so good for them, because, on the surface-level, it's an easy read, but it will be easy for me to slip in ideas about religion to get them thinking, asking questions, and so forth.  I'm currently opening channels of communication with HarperCollins Publishing about maybe getting some really cheap or maybe permission to photocopy my version?  If not, I'm going to be calling on you, friends, to hit your used bookstores and buy them out, so I can bring them back in August.  So, let's all cross our fingers, shall we?   (Because I'd really prefer to be bringing back new clothes and/or my own books, rather than books for my students.)