A door
Closed
Keyless
An impregnable barrier to a world just out of reach.
Another door
Rapier-like splinters
Prison bar stripes
Through the keyhole—
Desert
Barren
dry
deserted
Lusterless opportunity
Until choosing
with eyes not my own to
open
it.
Reaching
Blood not my own springs from my fingertips
Splashes the keyhole
A whisper!
Then it’s gone.
The door opens
Dawn rips through ragged mountaintops
each a gift to climb
Then I sense
I’m not alone
A Presence
echoes through the mountains
Alluring me
onward.
That same whisper
kisses my ear.
I climb
A footprint
the color of wine
passes before
The whisper grows louder
Now a still small voice
Saying—I daren’t say
But like dew it soaks my thirsty heart
once limestone, now saturated sponge.
A sprig of green along the path
Another splash of red
I press on.
Travelers cross my path
Hearts parched as mine was
I squeeze my sponge until it’s dry
so they too can hear the voice.
I stagger up the path
Panting
to hear that voice.
Unyielding silence.
My stiff heart can only bleed
“Faint, yet pursuing”
At last I’ve clawed my way
to the summit
Touched the gauzy clouds
A shout!
Both clear and deafening
In the valley are dark shadows
of people passing by
The air is full of bubbles
heavy and immense
Each packed with all earth’s oceans
and labeled with a name
Every name is present
written out in blood
The shout rings from each sphere
Shout upon shout
echoing
raw joy
uttering
one
word:
Loved
Loved
Loved.
Green floods the wasteland
Again the door floats forward
Healing splinters, freeing stripes
Dripping at the keyhole
Whispering, echoing, shouting
Loved.
As it had all along.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Sunday, October 06, 2013
Delivered
“You have got to be kidding me,” Loray
peered through the tiny key hole. A vast, colorless wasteland yawned on the
other side. She stepped back from the door and surveyed it. Gray paint peeled
like a stale sunburn while splinters threatened to stab anyone who came near. The
door had just arrived from the King’s palace, and even though it was not large,
it seemed to fill the one room cabin.
As long as she could remember, Loray had been looking forward to this day. Living on a remote island kingdom of orphans, everyone counted the days until their twenty-first birthday. Then, without fail, each person would receive a door shipped from far across the sea where the King lived. Each door was always different: sometimes speckled or painted bright colors, sometimes round with a handle in the middle, or sometimes engraved with battle scenes. People said that the King’s son himself handcrafted each door, but no one could be sure because nobody had seen the Prince or Door Maker.
Still, the doors kept arriving right on time, always specially marked. No one knew exactly what lay on the other side. Each time a door arrived for someone, the person stepped through it and never came back—unless to bring back a baby for the island to nurture. But from these brief encounters, the young people on the isle of Limda had gathered that whatever lay beyond the door was good. And because each person who came back for a brief time always seemed wiser than they were before they left, Loray and most of her peers had concluded that each door led to a university in the King’s City.
Loray ran her fingers through her dark choppy hair and traced the letters on the embossed card that had come with the door. Maybe they would rearrange themselves into a different name. But no—she might not be very educated, but she could read her name: Loray Isildree. The letters stood their ground.
She went outside to chop wood.
A few people passed by on the road. “Happy birthday, Loray!”
“Yes, happy birthday!” Their unspoken questions bored into the back of head, but she ignored them. Her muscles burned and her hands ached from clenching the axe, but she swung anyway. She focused her breathing on the steady clank of metal pounding metal as she drove the wedge deeper into the wood. Her face grew wet and she tasted salt.
She slouched inside with an armful of wood and delivered a baby fire in the hearth. It retched and glowed red in the deepening shadows of the little cabin. Loray shuffled to the cupboard, grunting as she pulled out a fresh plate of beef and taters. If only the Door Maker would provide for her like this magic cupboard did. She glanced at a letter she had received from her older brother across the sea. Clive had received his green door five years earlier, and he now lived in the middle of a cornfield where he listened to people’s problems and enjoyed the company of his “true love.” Loray shook her head. Clive had encouraged her to step through her door, but she knew exactly what lay beyond it: desert. No City, no university, and no way to expand her hungry brain.
A knock interrupted the retching fire.
“Come in,” Loray said. Safety did not concern her in Limdra.
The door opened, allowing a slight breeze to breathe into the room. A young man came with it. The fire crackled brighter.
“Oh, it’s you,” Loray’s eyebrows rose and she followed, but he motioned her to sit.
“I wanted to make sure that your door was delivered to you safely,” Errol nodded to the gray thing in the corner. As the island’s shipping manager, he carried out the King’s business.
“Yeah, it did.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Why didn’t you?”
Errol smiled and settled into a rickety chair next to her at the table. He was the only one on the island who had not stepped through his door. Actually, no one had seen whether Errol had even received a door. His twenty-first birthday might have been last year or fifty years ago. “That is my business,” he replied.
“This is mine.”
Errol remained silent for a moment. He may have been the leader of island, but he never used his authority to push anybody. He stretched his long legs out and crossed his feet, folding his arms as his deep brown eyes gazed into the fire, turned toward the door behind him, and swiveled back to her.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“I see a bundle of dusty sticks clamped together pretending to be a door,” she replied, “a door that could really use a new coat of paint. I can’t stand gray.” She wrinkled her nose.
“And what did you see through the keyhole?”
She stared at him. “Desert.”
A smile burst on Errol’s face. “Aha! I see now.”
“See what?”
“Your problem.”
“Yeah, my problem is that the Door Maker or Prince or King or whoever he is doesn’t care a thing about me. Can’t say I blame him,” she bent her head and tore into the beef, the salty juice squirting between her teeth.
“Uhuh. Loray, do you have a mirror?”
She shrugged and nodded toward her bed. Errol sprang forward and kneeled by her bed until he felt the hand mirror underneath it. A lock of dark hair fell into his eyes.
“Aha! Yes, here we are,” Errol beamed. Then, more seriously, he pulled up the chair until it was opposite Loray and sat in it. “Tell me, Loray, what do you see?” He held up the mirror.
“I see an orphaned girl with a red nose and stained teeth, doomed to remain brainless because she’s not going to study in any university anywhere.”
“How about her eyes? Does she have anything over them?”
“Yeah, dinky eyelashes.” She meant to make him chuckle, but he did not.
He considered her for a minute. Then, suddenly, he pulled a knife out of his pocket, slit his palm, and wiped a drop of wine-colored liquid on her forehead. “Loray, give me your eyes.”
“What? Why? What did you do that for?” Loray pawed her smarting forehead, but the blood was gone.
“I want you to give me your eyes.”
“What are you talking about? Have you gone crazy?”
“Give me your eyes.”
“Why? What will happen if I do?”
His eyes softened. “I can’t tell you. You will have to trust me. Just give me your eyes.”
“What will you do with them?”
“You must trust me. Give me your eyes.”
Her gray eyes peered into his brown ones. They radiated unnamable warmth. The gray door mocked her from the corner. She bowed her head and nodded.
Errol’s hand shot forward and snatched at her tingling forehead. Something ripped and popped while a fire screamed in her eye sockets. Everything turned black and then red. The fire ravaged its way into her lungs where she let it out through her vocal chords. The peeling door danced with a green door, and the two spun in a circle faster and faster until blackness swallowed them. Somewhere metal clanked on metal, and a man’s voice rasped as he drew breath. Then nothing.
Something bound her eyes closed. Loray stirred. A cool pillow caressed her cheek while a wool blanket scratched her arm. Her fingers groped toward her face and found a bandage.
“Shhh, careful,” a voice said. Errol’s voice.
“Errol, what happened?”
“You had surgery, and you did wonderfully, I might add.”
“Are my eyes—”
“Gone.”
“Oh.”
“Cheer up,” his voice carried his smile. “I gave you new eyes. But you need to keep the bandages on for now. But no worries. I’ll be right here. I am very good at delivery, so I can be sure that the food in your cupboard gets delivered to your mouth.”
“Errol, no, you have better things to do.”
“Can’t think of one.”
“You’ll fall behind in your deliveries.”
A pause. “I’m always right on time.”
“Why are you doing this, Errol?”
“I promised to deliver you.”
Weeks passed, and Loray sat in darkness. But even the darkness shone brightly. Every day the voice of Errol, the ageless delivery man, spoke to her, read to her, laughed with her. Soon she learned to recognize his voice even as he came whistling and mumbling down the street to check on her. Other friends would stop by, but their voices washed over her in confusing waves. His alone spoke clearly.
“Today is the day, little lady!” Errol said one day, breezing through the door with a whiff of fresh rain and postage stamps.
“Will it hurt?” she asked. She swung her feet over the edge of her bed.
“I suppose it will a little. But the worst is over.”
“Okay. Do it, then.”
Scissors whispered through the bandages, and gentle fingers removed them. Light flooded everything. Loray blinked at a swimming face. Errol smiled at her. He was much more handsome than she remembered. Sunlight pierced the rain clouds into her cabin window, illuminating something that was brilliant blue.
“Where did that come from?” she gasped. She scanned the room for her peeling gray door, but only a double-winged blue door leaned against the wall.
“Oh that,” Errol laughed. “I delivered it a few weeks ago, but you didn’t seem to like it. Shall I take it back?”
“No,” she said too quickly. She laughed too. “Is it really the same door?”
“Handcrafted by the Prince and great Door Maker himself. I’d swear to it.”
Loray closed her eyes and fingered her eyelids. “Where did these come from?”
“They’re ours—mine,” he said.
“They’re—good.” A tear streaked her cheek.
“I know,” he nodded, his own eyes glistening. “Well, dear lady, there’s no time like the present! Are you going to go through that door or aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
He threw his head back and really laughed then. Clear notes echoed from the rafters. “Don’t worry,” he squeezed her hand.
She rose and staggered over to the door. The blue cheered her. Just before she reached for the latch, Errol grabbed her hand.
“Wait. There.”
Blood dripped from her fingertip as he guided it toward the door. “Mine?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Ours—his—mine. It’s hard to explain.”
“You could have put the blood on the door yourself.”
“I know. But you needed to experience it and apply it for yourself.” He traced her finger in a cross over the keyhole. She realized the name of the warmth in his eyes: Love. It dripped warm and fresh from her fingertips.
Light streamed from widening cracks as the door swung away. Loray suddenly stood on the other side. A vista of mountains ripped an azure sky while an array of green-dotted valleys beckoned below her on the path. Purple grazed the far horizon, and in that haze stood a white city. She gasped and looked over her shoulder, but Errol was gone. An empty doorframe stood on top of a rocky mountain.
“You made it!”
She knew that voice. A man strode up the mountain to meet her. She knew those brown eyes that smiled into hers, though his stride did not breeze; it embodied authority.
“Welcome to the King’s Country! Did you like the door I sent you?” He had reached her. His hands were scarred and weathered, and he smelled like fresh wood and paint thinner.
She nodded.
“I have the papers for you to sign, if you want to.”
“Papers?”
“Adoption papers. Everyone on your island has been adopted by my father of course, but he won’t recognize it until you’ve all agreed to sign for it yourselves. Do you want to?”
“Of course! But—uh, why would the King want to adopt me?”
“You haven’t looked in a mirror since you got our eyes, have you?” Before she could answer, the Door Maker pulled out a mirror and handed it to her. A captivating young lady with long dark hair and teal eyes stared back at her. The eyes sparkled with joy. Loray glanced over her shoulder. No one was there, so she stared at the mirror again, her pulse quickening.
“This is how we have always seen you,” the Door Maker said. Errol’s same warmth radiated from his eyes.
“Oh. I see now.”
“Do you really? Good.” The Prince’s voice resounded with elation that hung in the air. After a long minute, he added, “So are you going to sign these papers? We have a City to travel to and some veils to rip along the way. I want more people to see what we see.”
As long as she could remember, Loray had been looking forward to this day. Living on a remote island kingdom of orphans, everyone counted the days until their twenty-first birthday. Then, without fail, each person would receive a door shipped from far across the sea where the King lived. Each door was always different: sometimes speckled or painted bright colors, sometimes round with a handle in the middle, or sometimes engraved with battle scenes. People said that the King’s son himself handcrafted each door, but no one could be sure because nobody had seen the Prince or Door Maker.
Still, the doors kept arriving right on time, always specially marked. No one knew exactly what lay on the other side. Each time a door arrived for someone, the person stepped through it and never came back—unless to bring back a baby for the island to nurture. But from these brief encounters, the young people on the isle of Limda had gathered that whatever lay beyond the door was good. And because each person who came back for a brief time always seemed wiser than they were before they left, Loray and most of her peers had concluded that each door led to a university in the King’s City.
Loray ran her fingers through her dark choppy hair and traced the letters on the embossed card that had come with the door. Maybe they would rearrange themselves into a different name. But no—she might not be very educated, but she could read her name: Loray Isildree. The letters stood their ground.
She went outside to chop wood.
A few people passed by on the road. “Happy birthday, Loray!”
“Yes, happy birthday!” Their unspoken questions bored into the back of head, but she ignored them. Her muscles burned and her hands ached from clenching the axe, but she swung anyway. She focused her breathing on the steady clank of metal pounding metal as she drove the wedge deeper into the wood. Her face grew wet and she tasted salt.
She slouched inside with an armful of wood and delivered a baby fire in the hearth. It retched and glowed red in the deepening shadows of the little cabin. Loray shuffled to the cupboard, grunting as she pulled out a fresh plate of beef and taters. If only the Door Maker would provide for her like this magic cupboard did. She glanced at a letter she had received from her older brother across the sea. Clive had received his green door five years earlier, and he now lived in the middle of a cornfield where he listened to people’s problems and enjoyed the company of his “true love.” Loray shook her head. Clive had encouraged her to step through her door, but she knew exactly what lay beyond it: desert. No City, no university, and no way to expand her hungry brain.
A knock interrupted the retching fire.
“Come in,” Loray said. Safety did not concern her in Limdra.
The door opened, allowing a slight breeze to breathe into the room. A young man came with it. The fire crackled brighter.
“Oh, it’s you,” Loray’s eyebrows rose and she followed, but he motioned her to sit.
“I wanted to make sure that your door was delivered to you safely,” Errol nodded to the gray thing in the corner. As the island’s shipping manager, he carried out the King’s business.
“Yeah, it did.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Why didn’t you?”
Errol smiled and settled into a rickety chair next to her at the table. He was the only one on the island who had not stepped through his door. Actually, no one had seen whether Errol had even received a door. His twenty-first birthday might have been last year or fifty years ago. “That is my business,” he replied.
“This is mine.”
Errol remained silent for a moment. He may have been the leader of island, but he never used his authority to push anybody. He stretched his long legs out and crossed his feet, folding his arms as his deep brown eyes gazed into the fire, turned toward the door behind him, and swiveled back to her.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“I see a bundle of dusty sticks clamped together pretending to be a door,” she replied, “a door that could really use a new coat of paint. I can’t stand gray.” She wrinkled her nose.
“And what did you see through the keyhole?”
She stared at him. “Desert.”
A smile burst on Errol’s face. “Aha! I see now.”
“See what?”
“Your problem.”
“Yeah, my problem is that the Door Maker or Prince or King or whoever he is doesn’t care a thing about me. Can’t say I blame him,” she bent her head and tore into the beef, the salty juice squirting between her teeth.
“Uhuh. Loray, do you have a mirror?”
She shrugged and nodded toward her bed. Errol sprang forward and kneeled by her bed until he felt the hand mirror underneath it. A lock of dark hair fell into his eyes.
“Aha! Yes, here we are,” Errol beamed. Then, more seriously, he pulled up the chair until it was opposite Loray and sat in it. “Tell me, Loray, what do you see?” He held up the mirror.
“I see an orphaned girl with a red nose and stained teeth, doomed to remain brainless because she’s not going to study in any university anywhere.”
“How about her eyes? Does she have anything over them?”
“Yeah, dinky eyelashes.” She meant to make him chuckle, but he did not.
He considered her for a minute. Then, suddenly, he pulled a knife out of his pocket, slit his palm, and wiped a drop of wine-colored liquid on her forehead. “Loray, give me your eyes.”
“What? Why? What did you do that for?” Loray pawed her smarting forehead, but the blood was gone.
“I want you to give me your eyes.”
“What are you talking about? Have you gone crazy?”
“Give me your eyes.”
“Why? What will happen if I do?”
His eyes softened. “I can’t tell you. You will have to trust me. Just give me your eyes.”
“What will you do with them?”
“You must trust me. Give me your eyes.”
Her gray eyes peered into his brown ones. They radiated unnamable warmth. The gray door mocked her from the corner. She bowed her head and nodded.
Errol’s hand shot forward and snatched at her tingling forehead. Something ripped and popped while a fire screamed in her eye sockets. Everything turned black and then red. The fire ravaged its way into her lungs where she let it out through her vocal chords. The peeling door danced with a green door, and the two spun in a circle faster and faster until blackness swallowed them. Somewhere metal clanked on metal, and a man’s voice rasped as he drew breath. Then nothing.
Something bound her eyes closed. Loray stirred. A cool pillow caressed her cheek while a wool blanket scratched her arm. Her fingers groped toward her face and found a bandage.
“Shhh, careful,” a voice said. Errol’s voice.
“Errol, what happened?”
“You had surgery, and you did wonderfully, I might add.”
“Are my eyes—”
“Gone.”
“Oh.”
“Cheer up,” his voice carried his smile. “I gave you new eyes. But you need to keep the bandages on for now. But no worries. I’ll be right here. I am very good at delivery, so I can be sure that the food in your cupboard gets delivered to your mouth.”
“Errol, no, you have better things to do.”
“Can’t think of one.”
“You’ll fall behind in your deliveries.”
A pause. “I’m always right on time.”
“Why are you doing this, Errol?”
“I promised to deliver you.”
Weeks passed, and Loray sat in darkness. But even the darkness shone brightly. Every day the voice of Errol, the ageless delivery man, spoke to her, read to her, laughed with her. Soon she learned to recognize his voice even as he came whistling and mumbling down the street to check on her. Other friends would stop by, but their voices washed over her in confusing waves. His alone spoke clearly.
“Today is the day, little lady!” Errol said one day, breezing through the door with a whiff of fresh rain and postage stamps.
“Will it hurt?” she asked. She swung her feet over the edge of her bed.
“I suppose it will a little. But the worst is over.”
“Okay. Do it, then.”
Scissors whispered through the bandages, and gentle fingers removed them. Light flooded everything. Loray blinked at a swimming face. Errol smiled at her. He was much more handsome than she remembered. Sunlight pierced the rain clouds into her cabin window, illuminating something that was brilliant blue.
“Where did that come from?” she gasped. She scanned the room for her peeling gray door, but only a double-winged blue door leaned against the wall.
“Oh that,” Errol laughed. “I delivered it a few weeks ago, but you didn’t seem to like it. Shall I take it back?”
“No,” she said too quickly. She laughed too. “Is it really the same door?”
“Handcrafted by the Prince and great Door Maker himself. I’d swear to it.”
Loray closed her eyes and fingered her eyelids. “Where did these come from?”
“They’re ours—mine,” he said.
“They’re—good.” A tear streaked her cheek.
“I know,” he nodded, his own eyes glistening. “Well, dear lady, there’s no time like the present! Are you going to go through that door or aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
He threw his head back and really laughed then. Clear notes echoed from the rafters. “Don’t worry,” he squeezed her hand.
She rose and staggered over to the door. The blue cheered her. Just before she reached for the latch, Errol grabbed her hand.
“Wait. There.”
Blood dripped from her fingertip as he guided it toward the door. “Mine?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Ours—his—mine. It’s hard to explain.”
“You could have put the blood on the door yourself.”
“I know. But you needed to experience it and apply it for yourself.” He traced her finger in a cross over the keyhole. She realized the name of the warmth in his eyes: Love. It dripped warm and fresh from her fingertips.
Light streamed from widening cracks as the door swung away. Loray suddenly stood on the other side. A vista of mountains ripped an azure sky while an array of green-dotted valleys beckoned below her on the path. Purple grazed the far horizon, and in that haze stood a white city. She gasped and looked over her shoulder, but Errol was gone. An empty doorframe stood on top of a rocky mountain.
“You made it!”
She knew that voice. A man strode up the mountain to meet her. She knew those brown eyes that smiled into hers, though his stride did not breeze; it embodied authority.
“Welcome to the King’s Country! Did you like the door I sent you?” He had reached her. His hands were scarred and weathered, and he smelled like fresh wood and paint thinner.
She nodded.
“I have the papers for you to sign, if you want to.”
“Papers?”
“Adoption papers. Everyone on your island has been adopted by my father of course, but he won’t recognize it until you’ve all agreed to sign for it yourselves. Do you want to?”
“Of course! But—uh, why would the King want to adopt me?”
“You haven’t looked in a mirror since you got our eyes, have you?” Before she could answer, the Door Maker pulled out a mirror and handed it to her. A captivating young lady with long dark hair and teal eyes stared back at her. The eyes sparkled with joy. Loray glanced over her shoulder. No one was there, so she stared at the mirror again, her pulse quickening.
“This is how we have always seen you,” the Door Maker said. Errol’s same warmth radiated from his eyes.
“Oh. I see now.”
“Do you really? Good.” The Prince’s voice resounded with elation that hung in the air. After a long minute, he added, “So are you going to sign these papers? We have a City to travel to and some veils to rip along the way. I want more people to see what we see.”
Saturday, October 05, 2013
My Love Languages, Part II
My second love language is words of affirmation.
Words are a part of who I am. I have genuinely come to love silence, but I need
Words
Words
Words
I'm like a greedy little dragon that hoards words like gold.
But as I grew up through my teen years, I recognized a problem:
This gold has the power to blow my head to the size of a hot air balloon.
Okay. I know mixing metaphors is a terrible thing to do, but--we can deal with it.
As a daughter of Christ, then, what am I supposed to do with this gold? For a long time, I convinced myself that it was fools gold.
"Oh, you liked my violin playing? Well, I'm not really very good."
"Oh, you liked the way I said that? Well, I'm not very good with words."
"You like that story or drawing? Well, that's nothing. I'm nothing."
But when I was thirteen, my second cousin Andrew told us in Sunday school that we shouldn't take a compliment and tell the person that "it was nothing." That's like saying their opinion doesn't matter. Andrew died a few months later, but I never forgot that.
And I took that to heart somehow. Rather than saying, "That was nothing" when someone complimented me, I learned instead to just say, "Thank you."
But on the inside, I still told myself, "That was nothing." I was so afraid of puffing up that hot air balloon that I convinced myself that my talents were nothing but fools gold and that the words that pointed them out to me were equally empty. Occasionally I told myself that it was God's doing, but my words were weak and still didn't convince me that my talents actually existed.
However, such humility is false.
Today, I stand before you to acknowledge that I am talented. I don't know how I realized this exactly, but it has crept upon me like the slow splash of orange in an autumn maple.
But that realization has brought a joyful responsibility.
Because I know that I can take little more credit for my talent than I can for the color of my eyes, I now look at my talent as a kind of paint with a purpose: to glorify the Talent Giver. Yes, my pride still exists, but I am bent upon this aching purpose: to point upward. Point upward. Like Agnes standing on the stair in David Copperfield, I want to point upward. There are much greater things to look at than myself. There's a much greater Person.
Of course, there are many ways to point upwards: service, art, music, stories, and athletic feats are just a few. One gift that God has given me to point is words.
Taking compliments is still a tricky business though, and as a daughter of Christ who is bent on using her talents with one purpose, I'd like to express what kind of compliments are the most meaningful to me.
Whether I am testifying or playing my violin, here are some compliments I'm never sure what to do with:
"Good job playing."
"If I didn't know that your father was a pastor, I'd say that you must come from a family of ministers! You sure have a way with words."
"You really know how to speak."
Well. Thank you? I mean really. I know you mean well, so I will accept your compliment gratefully because I see the good heart behind it. However . . . what if I were an artist trying to paint a picture of your sweetheart? Would you say this:
"Good job painting."
"Even if I didn't know your family were artists, I'd say that that you were an artist too! You know how to use paint."
"You really know how to slap some paint on a canvas with that brush of yours."
Well, yes; yes I do. Buuuut . . . aren't we missing something here? I didn't go to all the problem of painting your sweetheart just so you can tell me that I know how to use a paintbrush. What I really wanted was to portray a picture--specifically a picture of someone who should mean something to you. Do you see her face? Is the likeness close enough? Does it make you feel warm or happy when you look at it? Do you like it?
Don't tell me I know how to slap on paint! If you can tell who I'm painting and it stirs something in you, that will tell me that I know how to slap on paint. If you ignore the picture and only tell me about the nice paint strokes, all I can think is that maybe I did something wrong.
And that's how it is when I play or when I speak. In my own way, I'm trying to paint a picture of Jesus. When I play, I don't want people to tell me that I'm talented; I want them to tell me that my playing helped them to worship Jesus. When I speak, I don't want people to tell me that I have a way with words; I want them to tell me that my words encouraged them. Because if I am to point upward, then the spotlight is supposed to be on Someone else.
Who ever heard of someone complimenting a spotlight pointer, unless to say that they illuminated their subject perfectly?
Of course, I know that in this human frame I still manage to get in the way when I "paint" pictures of my Savior. I don't expect everyone to fall on their knees and sing "Hallelujah" whenever they hear me. I will be content with a "you helped me," "I enjoyed that," or a comment about the subject matter: "It truly is amazing how God can expand our heart." I would be very much surprised if everyone came up to me and told me that I really helped them to worship God.
But.
If one person did do that, their words would mean more to me than a hundred other compliments about how brilliant or lovely I sounded.
One of my favorite compliments came after playing my violin for church when I was about seventeen . I was playing a glorious rendition of "Holy, Holy, Holy" and I wanted so badly for it to express all of the worship that welled in my heart.
However, I messed up badly. I was nervous, and my hand shook. The bow skipped across the string like a rock skipping over turbid water. I know for a fact that I played horribly--no false modesty here.
But immediately afterward, a man came up to me and thanked me for it.
"It was the way that you played it."
I read the warmth in his eyes and knew that he wasn't just being kind. My own heart worshiped God for speaking through me as I had wanted. Sometimes the pieces most riddled with mistakes are the ones that can sing God's glory the loudest.
And maybe that's why I appreciate those kinds of compliments. If someone says, "Nice playing," I can bend that praise into silent worship, but I'm not certain if both the complimenter and I are doing the same thing. But if someone says, "You helped make earthly things seem dim," then it's easier and more joyous to bend that worship upward because I know that the complimenter is already worshiping the One I was trying to illuminate.
Yes, my love language is still words of affirmation. I sometimes pretend the gold means nothing to me, but I still crave it. However, as my identity becomes more intertwined with the One who created me, the compliments that bring Him into sharper focus are the most meaningful to me.
My purpose, after all, is never to show how I can use a paintbrush. It's to paint a picture.
Words are a part of who I am. I have genuinely come to love silence, but I need
Words
Words
Words
I'm like a greedy little dragon that hoards words like gold.
But as I grew up through my teen years, I recognized a problem:
This gold has the power to blow my head to the size of a hot air balloon.
Okay. I know mixing metaphors is a terrible thing to do, but--we can deal with it.
As a daughter of Christ, then, what am I supposed to do with this gold? For a long time, I convinced myself that it was fools gold.
"Oh, you liked my violin playing? Well, I'm not really very good."
"Oh, you liked the way I said that? Well, I'm not very good with words."
"You like that story or drawing? Well, that's nothing. I'm nothing."
But when I was thirteen, my second cousin Andrew told us in Sunday school that we shouldn't take a compliment and tell the person that "it was nothing." That's like saying their opinion doesn't matter. Andrew died a few months later, but I never forgot that.
And I took that to heart somehow. Rather than saying, "That was nothing" when someone complimented me, I learned instead to just say, "Thank you."
But on the inside, I still told myself, "That was nothing." I was so afraid of puffing up that hot air balloon that I convinced myself that my talents were nothing but fools gold and that the words that pointed them out to me were equally empty. Occasionally I told myself that it was God's doing, but my words were weak and still didn't convince me that my talents actually existed.
However, such humility is false.
Today, I stand before you to acknowledge that I am talented. I don't know how I realized this exactly, but it has crept upon me like the slow splash of orange in an autumn maple.
But that realization has brought a joyful responsibility.
Because I know that I can take little more credit for my talent than I can for the color of my eyes, I now look at my talent as a kind of paint with a purpose: to glorify the Talent Giver. Yes, my pride still exists, but I am bent upon this aching purpose: to point upward. Point upward. Like Agnes standing on the stair in David Copperfield, I want to point upward. There are much greater things to look at than myself. There's a much greater Person.
Of course, there are many ways to point upwards: service, art, music, stories, and athletic feats are just a few. One gift that God has given me to point is words.
Taking compliments is still a tricky business though, and as a daughter of Christ who is bent on using her talents with one purpose, I'd like to express what kind of compliments are the most meaningful to me.
Whether I am testifying or playing my violin, here are some compliments I'm never sure what to do with:
"Good job playing."
"If I didn't know that your father was a pastor, I'd say that you must come from a family of ministers! You sure have a way with words."
"You really know how to speak."
Well. Thank you? I mean really. I know you mean well, so I will accept your compliment gratefully because I see the good heart behind it. However . . . what if I were an artist trying to paint a picture of your sweetheart? Would you say this:
"Good job painting."
"Even if I didn't know your family were artists, I'd say that that you were an artist too! You know how to use paint."
"You really know how to slap some paint on a canvas with that brush of yours."
Well, yes; yes I do. Buuuut . . . aren't we missing something here? I didn't go to all the problem of painting your sweetheart just so you can tell me that I know how to use a paintbrush. What I really wanted was to portray a picture--specifically a picture of someone who should mean something to you. Do you see her face? Is the likeness close enough? Does it make you feel warm or happy when you look at it? Do you like it?
Don't tell me I know how to slap on paint! If you can tell who I'm painting and it stirs something in you, that will tell me that I know how to slap on paint. If you ignore the picture and only tell me about the nice paint strokes, all I can think is that maybe I did something wrong.
And that's how it is when I play or when I speak. In my own way, I'm trying to paint a picture of Jesus. When I play, I don't want people to tell me that I'm talented; I want them to tell me that my playing helped them to worship Jesus. When I speak, I don't want people to tell me that I have a way with words; I want them to tell me that my words encouraged them. Because if I am to point upward, then the spotlight is supposed to be on Someone else.
Who ever heard of someone complimenting a spotlight pointer, unless to say that they illuminated their subject perfectly?
Of course, I know that in this human frame I still manage to get in the way when I "paint" pictures of my Savior. I don't expect everyone to fall on their knees and sing "Hallelujah" whenever they hear me. I will be content with a "you helped me," "I enjoyed that," or a comment about the subject matter: "It truly is amazing how God can expand our heart." I would be very much surprised if everyone came up to me and told me that I really helped them to worship God.
But.
If one person did do that, their words would mean more to me than a hundred other compliments about how brilliant or lovely I sounded.
One of my favorite compliments came after playing my violin for church when I was about seventeen . I was playing a glorious rendition of "Holy, Holy, Holy" and I wanted so badly for it to express all of the worship that welled in my heart.
However, I messed up badly. I was nervous, and my hand shook. The bow skipped across the string like a rock skipping over turbid water. I know for a fact that I played horribly--no false modesty here.
But immediately afterward, a man came up to me and thanked me for it.
"It was the way that you played it."
I read the warmth in his eyes and knew that he wasn't just being kind. My own heart worshiped God for speaking through me as I had wanted. Sometimes the pieces most riddled with mistakes are the ones that can sing God's glory the loudest.
And maybe that's why I appreciate those kinds of compliments. If someone says, "Nice playing," I can bend that praise into silent worship, but I'm not certain if both the complimenter and I are doing the same thing. But if someone says, "You helped make earthly things seem dim," then it's easier and more joyous to bend that worship upward because I know that the complimenter is already worshiping the One I was trying to illuminate.
Yes, my love language is still words of affirmation. I sometimes pretend the gold means nothing to me, but I still crave it. However, as my identity becomes more intertwined with the One who created me, the compliments that bring Him into sharper focus are the most meaningful to me.
My purpose, after all, is never to show how I can use a paintbrush. It's to paint a picture.
Handing it over
I mentioned in my last post that sometimes I'm afraid to greet people because I fear their tepid response.
Well, guess what, folks? I have discovered that I have a problem with fear.
In a recent convention, I had a chance to share a few of these thoughts in a testimony, but I want to expand them slightly here.
I never really thought of myself as a fearful person. I'm pretty laid-back, right? Uhuh. Well, as I look back over my life, I can see that I am fearfully wrong. I've had my battles just like everybody else; I just might be naturally weaker than some. But, alhamdulallah! Praise be to God! He has shown me three practical things to help me out.
He showed me the first one when I was about seven years old. I had to go to the dentist to have my teeth pulled. My parents were smart enough to not tell me about it until the night before, but naturally I was terrified. Yet my dad gave me a verse to think about:
"When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God." Psalm 56:3
Lying in the dentist chair with the flavor of cherry novocaine leaking out in my saliva, I closed my eyes and thought of those words.
When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God.
When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God.
When I am afraid . . . . trust in God.
I blocked out the eery reflection of my mouth in the overhead light. Those words were all I had to hold on to.
"Are you all right?" the dentist asked.
Of course I was.
Twelve years later, I sat on a porch breathing those same words. Blood was everywhere--on the porch, on my shoes, down my legs, on my shirt, and in my braids. I kept spitting up blood into a plastic cup extending through the darkness as the world grew murky around me and I hoped I wouldn't pass out. My family seemed far away, and everyone around me was a stranger.
When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God.
That verse is the first thing that gave me strength when I had to face my fears. I have had very few accidents in my life and only a few tragedies. I used to always wonder how I would respond if I ever faced an accident like the summer I broke my nose and saw more blood than I've ever seen in my life. In fact, I was scared by the prospect. Would I burst at the seams? Would I get hysterical? Lose my faith?
Nope.
I may yet face unknown trials. But I know now that when I'm staring down cold panic in the face, remembering that verse has been my knee-jerk reaction. I no longer fear such experiences.
Secondly, sometimes I'm fearful when I think about volcanoes that I must traverse.
"Um, how can I handle this, Lord?"
"What about that course that has been known to make grown men cry?"
And through it all, He has reminded me, "I won't give you anything that you and I together can't handle."
I rarely fear those daunting experiences anymore. If I know that God has called me to this mountain, it will become a plain. Even if we have to soak the rocky path with our tears all the way up and down it.
I started learning the third lesson when I was about fifteen years old. When I was a kid, I had a huge fear of getting sick--particularly at inconvenient moments, like girls camp week. Oh what horrors! I could get sick any week of the year except that one!
Of course, I did get sick that week. I would be perfectly healthy for most of the year, but when girls' camp week came around, I got sick. I was sick for about three of the five weeks I went to through the years.
I still remember the second time. A lot of people from my community got the stomach bug that week, but since I was the only one from the community at camp in Rhode Island, I was the only one there who got it.
I remember telling Katie quite calmly at 7 a.m. that I had thrown up, "But I am better now." She laughed at me.
I remember pushing my way through a gaggle of girls eating taco salad. They kindly asked me if I was feeling better, but I couldn't answer them. I needed to kneel by that leaky toilet so I could throw up again.
And I remember lying on a mattress in a room all alone as all of the girls went to Boston without me. And then, at fifteen years old, I had a difficult conversation with God.
The end of it is that I realized that I needed to hand my health over to Him. I was too jealous of it, and I kept bungling it.
I remember going to a home school convention and hearing a dad talk about something he told his kids:
"Now you take care of those teeth! Those teeth are mine--I pay for them! So you better do a good job of taking care of my teeth!"
The analogy is unclear, but I decided that if I gave my health over to God, then it would be His problem to take care of it.
So I did.
I have never really been afraid of getting sick since.
And through the years, I've realized that giving up things I'm afraid about doesn't just apply to sickness. It applies to a lot of other things too. And one by one, I've been handing these things over: money, dreams, and whatever else. Of course, it would be simpler to just hand God everything and be done with it, but sometimes that's too much for us to comprehend. God demands our all, and I have given it. But sometimes it takes years before we come to realize exactly what that looks like. But like a father persuading a kid to hand over each crummy toy, He reminds us, one dingy teddy bear at a time.
Quite recently, I came face to face with a fear I never knew I had: the fear of rejection.
Why else am I afraid to greet someone when I don't know how they will respond?
It's a small manifestation of a very big thorn.
As I was praying about this fear and thinking about what God has taught me about yielding, I tried to figure out what "thing" I needed to give up in order to deal with this fear for good. If handing over my health cured me from a fear of getting sick, what could cure a fear of rejection?
Then I had it.
I needed to hand over myself. Because if I am wholly and irrevocably God's, what does it matter if people reject me? I belong to Someone else. Rejection becomes His problem, not mine.
Let's give ourselves completely over.
Well, guess what, folks? I have discovered that I have a problem with fear.
In a recent convention, I had a chance to share a few of these thoughts in a testimony, but I want to expand them slightly here.
I never really thought of myself as a fearful person. I'm pretty laid-back, right? Uhuh. Well, as I look back over my life, I can see that I am fearfully wrong. I've had my battles just like everybody else; I just might be naturally weaker than some. But, alhamdulallah! Praise be to God! He has shown me three practical things to help me out.
He showed me the first one when I was about seven years old. I had to go to the dentist to have my teeth pulled. My parents were smart enough to not tell me about it until the night before, but naturally I was terrified. Yet my dad gave me a verse to think about:
"When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God." Psalm 56:3
Lying in the dentist chair with the flavor of cherry novocaine leaking out in my saliva, I closed my eyes and thought of those words.
When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God.
When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God.
When I am afraid . . . . trust in God.
I blocked out the eery reflection of my mouth in the overhead light. Those words were all I had to hold on to.
"Are you all right?" the dentist asked.
Of course I was.
Twelve years later, I sat on a porch breathing those same words. Blood was everywhere--on the porch, on my shoes, down my legs, on my shirt, and in my braids. I kept spitting up blood into a plastic cup extending through the darkness as the world grew murky around me and I hoped I wouldn't pass out. My family seemed far away, and everyone around me was a stranger.
When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God.
That verse is the first thing that gave me strength when I had to face my fears. I have had very few accidents in my life and only a few tragedies. I used to always wonder how I would respond if I ever faced an accident like the summer I broke my nose and saw more blood than I've ever seen in my life. In fact, I was scared by the prospect. Would I burst at the seams? Would I get hysterical? Lose my faith?
Nope.
I may yet face unknown trials. But I know now that when I'm staring down cold panic in the face, remembering that verse has been my knee-jerk reaction. I no longer fear such experiences.
Secondly, sometimes I'm fearful when I think about volcanoes that I must traverse.
"Um, how can I handle this, Lord?"
"What about that course that has been known to make grown men cry?"
And through it all, He has reminded me, "I won't give you anything that you and I together can't handle."
I rarely fear those daunting experiences anymore. If I know that God has called me to this mountain, it will become a plain. Even if we have to soak the rocky path with our tears all the way up and down it.
I started learning the third lesson when I was about fifteen years old. When I was a kid, I had a huge fear of getting sick--particularly at inconvenient moments, like girls camp week. Oh what horrors! I could get sick any week of the year except that one!
Of course, I did get sick that week. I would be perfectly healthy for most of the year, but when girls' camp week came around, I got sick. I was sick for about three of the five weeks I went to through the years.
I still remember the second time. A lot of people from my community got the stomach bug that week, but since I was the only one from the community at camp in Rhode Island, I was the only one there who got it.
I remember telling Katie quite calmly at 7 a.m. that I had thrown up, "But I am better now." She laughed at me.
I remember pushing my way through a gaggle of girls eating taco salad. They kindly asked me if I was feeling better, but I couldn't answer them. I needed to kneel by that leaky toilet so I could throw up again.
And I remember lying on a mattress in a room all alone as all of the girls went to Boston without me. And then, at fifteen years old, I had a difficult conversation with God.
The end of it is that I realized that I needed to hand my health over to Him. I was too jealous of it, and I kept bungling it.
I remember going to a home school convention and hearing a dad talk about something he told his kids:
"Now you take care of those teeth! Those teeth are mine--I pay for them! So you better do a good job of taking care of my teeth!"
The analogy is unclear, but I decided that if I gave my health over to God, then it would be His problem to take care of it.
So I did.
I have never really been afraid of getting sick since.
And through the years, I've realized that giving up things I'm afraid about doesn't just apply to sickness. It applies to a lot of other things too. And one by one, I've been handing these things over: money, dreams, and whatever else. Of course, it would be simpler to just hand God everything and be done with it, but sometimes that's too much for us to comprehend. God demands our all, and I have given it. But sometimes it takes years before we come to realize exactly what that looks like. But like a father persuading a kid to hand over each crummy toy, He reminds us, one dingy teddy bear at a time.
Quite recently, I came face to face with a fear I never knew I had: the fear of rejection.
Why else am I afraid to greet someone when I don't know how they will respond?
It's a small manifestation of a very big thorn.
As I was praying about this fear and thinking about what God has taught me about yielding, I tried to figure out what "thing" I needed to give up in order to deal with this fear for good. If handing over my health cured me from a fear of getting sick, what could cure a fear of rejection?
Then I had it.
I needed to hand over myself. Because if I am wholly and irrevocably God's, what does it matter if people reject me? I belong to Someone else. Rejection becomes His problem, not mine.
Let's give ourselves completely over.
My Love Languages, Part I
Did you know that I have two main love languages? They are greetings and words of affirmation.
I've talked about greetings before. The way someone greets me can sometimes make or break my day. I think that's one thing that I love about Middle Eastern culture: it's considered rude if you don't greet someone when you come into the room. Of course, even when the greetings are all in Arabic you can tell who doesn't have their heart in it, but I decided that it doesn't matter and I can pour all of my warmth into the greeting.
"Alsalamalakum! Kaif halish?"
"Wa alakum alsalam. Alhamdulallah. Kaif halish?"
*Beam*Beam*
If the person doesn't have their heart in it, I don't mind. I figure that they must feel nervous around Westerners or they don't have the same Hope that I have.
But when I walk around my own Christian community and I get very little warmth from someone in a greeting, my often bad day usually just gets badder. Or what often happens is that some people don't greet me at all--that was one of the weird things about coming back. Then I can't figure out if I should charge forth with a smile and greet them anyway, or stay safe by being quiet so I don't have to risk their tepid response.
I know everybody can't be cheerful all the time. I've had an unusual bout of uncheerfulness lately that I've felt convicted about because I think it can be summed up in self-pity. So I understand that life isn't always peachy.
But, but, don't we have a responsibility to show love to each other even when we don't feel great all the time?
Because with most people around me, I can't assume that they're nervous around Westerners. And I know that they have the Hope that I have.
So what's our problem?
I say "our" because I recognize that I've let life drag me down lately too. I have not let the joy of Christ shine through me all the time. But when we stop to think about it, as followers of Christ we really do have it made. As a recently passed family friend used to say:
"I've had a few bad moments, but never a bad day."
Let's remember the stuff that our new hearts are made of. I don't want a stranger on the street to assume that I'm tepid because I don't have the Hope that they have.
I've talked about greetings before. The way someone greets me can sometimes make or break my day. I think that's one thing that I love about Middle Eastern culture: it's considered rude if you don't greet someone when you come into the room. Of course, even when the greetings are all in Arabic you can tell who doesn't have their heart in it, but I decided that it doesn't matter and I can pour all of my warmth into the greeting.
"Alsalamalakum! Kaif halish?"
"Wa alakum alsalam. Alhamdulallah. Kaif halish?"
*Beam*Beam*
If the person doesn't have their heart in it, I don't mind. I figure that they must feel nervous around Westerners or they don't have the same Hope that I have.
But when I walk around my own Christian community and I get very little warmth from someone in a greeting, my often bad day usually just gets badder. Or what often happens is that some people don't greet me at all--that was one of the weird things about coming back. Then I can't figure out if I should charge forth with a smile and greet them anyway, or stay safe by being quiet so I don't have to risk their tepid response.
I know everybody can't be cheerful all the time. I've had an unusual bout of uncheerfulness lately that I've felt convicted about because I think it can be summed up in self-pity. So I understand that life isn't always peachy.
But, but, don't we have a responsibility to show love to each other even when we don't feel great all the time?
Because with most people around me, I can't assume that they're nervous around Westerners. And I know that they have the Hope that I have.
So what's our problem?
I say "our" because I recognize that I've let life drag me down lately too. I have not let the joy of Christ shine through me all the time. But when we stop to think about it, as followers of Christ we really do have it made. As a recently passed family friend used to say:
"I've had a few bad moments, but never a bad day."
Let's remember the stuff that our new hearts are made of. I don't want a stranger on the street to assume that I'm tepid because I don't have the Hope that they have.
Wednesday, October 02, 2013
The bad boy who loved me
I mentioned that I only caught one boy cheating twice.
Well, this post is about him.
Actually, I saw him do it three times. And what do I mean by cheating? I mean that I saw his eyes stray over to the paper next to him during test time. What he may not have realized was that this was pointless; I had an A and B test anyway so cheating this way was almost impossible, but I didn't tell them that. I just told them that cheating was bad and I would take off points for it if they did it.
I watched them like an American turkey vulture.
The first time Ammar cheated, he looked at me right afterwards. I gave him the look and shook my head. He quickly went back to his test and didn't try it again that day.
Before the next test, however, I told them that I had seen one or two of them cheating and that this time I wouldn't let them get away with it. I wasn't kidding. When Ammar did it again, I marched right up to his paper and wrote "-2" in red ink at the top of his paper. The tall nearly-fifteen-year-old knew I meant business. His kumah tilted forward on his narrow dark head as he leaned back over his paper.
But that is only a part of it.
"Teacher, Teacher!" Ammar would call, waving his hand in the air as I asked a question. The kid didn't have a shy bone in his body. If I asked a question, he would almost certainly raise his hand even if he really didn't know the answer. He often didn't, unless it was a number, but I admired his spunk. If I needed a volunteer, I could almost always count on Ammar. In fact, after a test one day I needed four volunteers for a translator drama game, and my four trusty boys I've already mentioned were the only ones either not too shy or not too cool to come forward: Iy, Ali, Abdul-Ahmed, and of course, Ammar.
One day, I asked my students to tell me about traditions at Eid.
"You get money," Iy told me.
"Yes, that is very good," Ammar chuckled. He may not have been a ham like Abdul-Ahmed, but he could see the funny side to anything, and that always made me smile.
Cheating, however, was not Ammar's only problem. He chattered and joked in Arabic repeatedly. The extra homework passed through his hands many times. I spoke to him multiple times about it, telling him that we would have to call his father if he didn't stop.
One day, I broke. I don't even remember what was happening, and of course I don't know enough Arabic to know what he said. But that was it. Next thing I knew I was saying, "Ammar! Someone will call be calling your father today." If you think you know me, you might be surprised by how very serious I could get with my students. He was pretty solemn after I told him this. In a culture where shame and honor is everything and where teachers are actually respected figures, I knew that contacting his family would have an effect.
The next day was a random holiday.
The day after that, Ammar was back. He was not Mr. Perfect, but he was better--at least I imagined it so. I did not refer to his transgression, but since he was the first (and only) student I had actually disciplined, I wanted him to know that I did not hate him. People crave praise wherever they are, and I had been told in this honor-shame society that praise might go a long way in winning students. I wasn't sure if I had praised my students very much or not, honestly. I was so conscious of not wanting to show the boys unprofessional favor while also not showing the girls favoritism, I couldn't tell if I praised them enough. But gradually, I got warmer in my affirmations when a student answered something correctly, and because I was worried that he might think I disliked him, I was most conscious in my praise of Ammar. I had put him down; now was the time to raise him up.
"Very good, Ammar."
"Awesome, Ammar."
"Excellent, Ammar!"
Little did I know that this might actually be affecting him. He did not turn into a star student immediately, but something seemed to change.
One day, a girl brought me a chocolate because it was her birthday.
After Ammar had his fifteenth birthday on the weekend, he brought me a heart-shaped bag of five chocolates.
Now, as my class reached its end and I hadn't received any invitations from my students yet, I decided to do a little shameless hinting, at my sister's suggestion.
"Shall I come to your houses during the Eid and tell your parents what kind of students you are?" I asked.
"Yes, Teacher!"
"Come visit me, Teacher!"
"We want you, Teacher!"
I was blown away by the effusive barrage my students flung at me, particularly from the boys' side of the room
"Give me a time and a place, and I will come visit you. Maybe I can tell A's family how he likes to go to D---. Or maybe I could tell Iy's family that he is a good student, but he listens to the girls speaking Arabic instead of studying in class."
The other boys laughed with me, while my mischievous Iy shook his head and said, "Not good." (Don't worry, he still talks to me.)
Still, despite the flood of flippant invitations, only one student stayed after class to make sure I knew I was welcome: Ammar, the student I had reprimanded, tattled on, and docked for cheating. The student who had the most reason to hate me was the only one who really wanted me to come for a visit.
Of course, when I actually did visit his house, I didn't visit with him. I spent the whole time with his mother and sisters. But I got to see him outside their gate, and he was absolutely beaming.
"I am very happy," he told me. And I realized that I was truly honoring him. And I also realized that this "bad" boy loved me. Not wrongly, but rightly.
But that's not all. On the last day of class, after a girl brought me a beautiful shawl and Iy gave me very nice frankincense, Ammar told me that he had a present he would bring that night to the party.
"But you already gave me a present." The chocolate had only come a few days before that.
No, he insisted he had something for me. This was a gift-giving culture, after all, and I've started to learn that you can't out-give an Arab.
That night, my boys showered me with perfume, lotion, and a real red rose. But I still hadn't opened Ammar's gift; he had hardly even looked at me as he gave it to me and ducked away. It was wrapped in shiny pink paper with hearts and the word "Romantic" written all over it. That might seem weird in American culture, but knowing this culture, it was nothing but sweet in my eyes. But I wasn't prepared for what was inside: a set of new paintbrushes and oil paints.
Here was a boy who had given me a gift that wasn't a typical girl-Teacher present. He had paid attention in class as I said what I liked to do and showed pictures of my artwork. And he remembered: Miss Kayla likes to paint. As I opened it, I saw the thoughtfulness of the boy I had disciplined and gone out of my way to praise.
I almost cried.
Of course, when Kendra described my gift from Ammar to his cousins as we were visiting with them a couple of days later, they laughed and said, "He got those for his birthday!"
Maybe re-gifting takes the beauty out of it, but it doesn't for me. In fact, it makes it more like him. Ammar, the tall dark boy who was sometimes bad but who was thoughtful and funny enough to give away his own birthday present. And who loved his tough teacher.
Abdul-Ahmed might be the most likely to make me smile, and Ali might be the most likely to make my heart melt. But Ammar is the most likely to do both at the same time.
Well, this post is about him.
Actually, I saw him do it three times. And what do I mean by cheating? I mean that I saw his eyes stray over to the paper next to him during test time. What he may not have realized was that this was pointless; I had an A and B test anyway so cheating this way was almost impossible, but I didn't tell them that. I just told them that cheating was bad and I would take off points for it if they did it.
I watched them like an American turkey vulture.
The first time Ammar cheated, he looked at me right afterwards. I gave him the look and shook my head. He quickly went back to his test and didn't try it again that day.
Before the next test, however, I told them that I had seen one or two of them cheating and that this time I wouldn't let them get away with it. I wasn't kidding. When Ammar did it again, I marched right up to his paper and wrote "-2" in red ink at the top of his paper. The tall nearly-fifteen-year-old knew I meant business. His kumah tilted forward on his narrow dark head as he leaned back over his paper.
But that is only a part of it.
"Teacher, Teacher!" Ammar would call, waving his hand in the air as I asked a question. The kid didn't have a shy bone in his body. If I asked a question, he would almost certainly raise his hand even if he really didn't know the answer. He often didn't, unless it was a number, but I admired his spunk. If I needed a volunteer, I could almost always count on Ammar. In fact, after a test one day I needed four volunteers for a translator drama game, and my four trusty boys I've already mentioned were the only ones either not too shy or not too cool to come forward: Iy, Ali, Abdul-Ahmed, and of course, Ammar.
One day, I asked my students to tell me about traditions at Eid.
"You get money," Iy told me.
"Yes, that is very good," Ammar chuckled. He may not have been a ham like Abdul-Ahmed, but he could see the funny side to anything, and that always made me smile.
Cheating, however, was not Ammar's only problem. He chattered and joked in Arabic repeatedly. The extra homework passed through his hands many times. I spoke to him multiple times about it, telling him that we would have to call his father if he didn't stop.
One day, I broke. I don't even remember what was happening, and of course I don't know enough Arabic to know what he said. But that was it. Next thing I knew I was saying, "Ammar! Someone will call be calling your father today." If you think you know me, you might be surprised by how very serious I could get with my students. He was pretty solemn after I told him this. In a culture where shame and honor is everything and where teachers are actually respected figures, I knew that contacting his family would have an effect.
The next day was a random holiday.
The day after that, Ammar was back. He was not Mr. Perfect, but he was better--at least I imagined it so. I did not refer to his transgression, but since he was the first (and only) student I had actually disciplined, I wanted him to know that I did not hate him. People crave praise wherever they are, and I had been told in this honor-shame society that praise might go a long way in winning students. I wasn't sure if I had praised my students very much or not, honestly. I was so conscious of not wanting to show the boys unprofessional favor while also not showing the girls favoritism, I couldn't tell if I praised them enough. But gradually, I got warmer in my affirmations when a student answered something correctly, and because I was worried that he might think I disliked him, I was most conscious in my praise of Ammar. I had put him down; now was the time to raise him up.
"Very good, Ammar."
"Awesome, Ammar."
"Excellent, Ammar!"
Little did I know that this might actually be affecting him. He did not turn into a star student immediately, but something seemed to change.
One day, a girl brought me a chocolate because it was her birthday.
After Ammar had his fifteenth birthday on the weekend, he brought me a heart-shaped bag of five chocolates.
Now, as my class reached its end and I hadn't received any invitations from my students yet, I decided to do a little shameless hinting, at my sister's suggestion.
"Shall I come to your houses during the Eid and tell your parents what kind of students you are?" I asked.
"Yes, Teacher!"
"Come visit me, Teacher!"
"We want you, Teacher!"
I was blown away by the effusive barrage my students flung at me, particularly from the boys' side of the room
"Give me a time and a place, and I will come visit you. Maybe I can tell A's family how he likes to go to D---. Or maybe I could tell Iy's family that he is a good student, but he listens to the girls speaking Arabic instead of studying in class."
The other boys laughed with me, while my mischievous Iy shook his head and said, "Not good." (Don't worry, he still talks to me.)
Still, despite the flood of flippant invitations, only one student stayed after class to make sure I knew I was welcome: Ammar, the student I had reprimanded, tattled on, and docked for cheating. The student who had the most reason to hate me was the only one who really wanted me to come for a visit.
Of course, when I actually did visit his house, I didn't visit with him. I spent the whole time with his mother and sisters. But I got to see him outside their gate, and he was absolutely beaming.
"I am very happy," he told me. And I realized that I was truly honoring him. And I also realized that this "bad" boy loved me. Not wrongly, but rightly.
But that's not all. On the last day of class, after a girl brought me a beautiful shawl and Iy gave me very nice frankincense, Ammar told me that he had a present he would bring that night to the party.
"But you already gave me a present." The chocolate had only come a few days before that.
No, he insisted he had something for me. This was a gift-giving culture, after all, and I've started to learn that you can't out-give an Arab.
That night, my boys showered me with perfume, lotion, and a real red rose. But I still hadn't opened Ammar's gift; he had hardly even looked at me as he gave it to me and ducked away. It was wrapped in shiny pink paper with hearts and the word "Romantic" written all over it. That might seem weird in American culture, but knowing this culture, it was nothing but sweet in my eyes. But I wasn't prepared for what was inside: a set of new paintbrushes and oil paints.
Here was a boy who had given me a gift that wasn't a typical girl-Teacher present. He had paid attention in class as I said what I liked to do and showed pictures of my artwork. And he remembered: Miss Kayla likes to paint. As I opened it, I saw the thoughtfulness of the boy I had disciplined and gone out of my way to praise.
I almost cried.
Of course, when Kendra described my gift from Ammar to his cousins as we were visiting with them a couple of days later, they laughed and said, "He got those for his birthday!"
Maybe re-gifting takes the beauty out of it, but it doesn't for me. In fact, it makes it more like him. Ammar, the tall dark boy who was sometimes bad but who was thoughtful and funny enough to give away his own birthday present. And who loved his tough teacher.
Abdul-Ahmed might be the most likely to make me smile, and Ali might be the most likely to make my heart melt. But Ammar is the most likely to do both at the same time.
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