Lessons in Seeing the Beautiful

This morning I taught the upper class Sunday School and the audible crickets when I asked the children what they were thankful for or what was good in their lives were deafening. We were reading from Philippians 4:8, "Summing it all up, friends, I'd say you'll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious- the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse." So, like any good teacher, I thought I'd pose a question to the kids. Of course, I underestimated the power of the Kenyan classroom on their minds: learn some new facts, answer when an adult asks you to recall the facts, and do not share your personal opinions. The crickets should have come as no surprise.

These kids certainly know how to be grateful; some of them just don't have practice at thinking openly and imaginatively with adults. So, I gave them a gratitude assignment for the week. But, as I reflect on this morning's devotional failure, I realize that I'm asking the children to do something that I desperately need to do for myself this week.

This world is full of hard and sad things. The news and social media are a constant reminder of this fact. Some of the relationships I witness and the stereotypes that I hear Kenyans say about themselves are sad and depressing to me. I want to reinforce worth in each person I meet. If I had a superpower, it would be to absorb people's pain and exchange it for something beautiful. But, this is the Lord's job, not mine. We're human and suffering comes with the territory. Unfortunately, it tends to take centre stage in our minds when we're going through it.

I realize that I haven't updated this blog since I sent out what felt like a desperate plea for prayer. Could this post be filled with the things that are hard here? Of course it could. I'm human and constantly processing. And, just like the average person, it seems like the hard things cloud my vision weekly, particularly because I'm processing this experience as a North American alone.

But, there are incredibly beautiful things that I need to meditate on because my weeks are growing short here and despite what my mind keeps telling me, there has been progress.

Let's start with school devotions. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, our school has a morning assembly. It has its routines and procedures: Grades 6, 7, and 8 take turns leading songs, prayer, and a scripture. I think this has become so habitual and second nature to the students that the content sometimes can lack helpful substance. Pretty much each person who leads it rattles off their scripture quickly, one class leader says some variation of, "Good morning, school. I have a few notes for you. Obey your teachers, do your homework, and stay disciplined", and a prayer is half-whispered/half-muttered before the class embarrassingly returns to their line in the crowd. A few weeks ago, one Grade 7 girl stepped forward to read her scripture for us and I can't remember if it was Romans 6:23 or 3:23 that she read, but it doesn't really matter which one it was because she only read the disheartening  first part, "For the wages of sin is death." I was ready to quote the rest with her, "But the... (pause- silence) gift? of God? is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord?" No such luck- her class quickly shuffled off of the platform and took their place again in the crowd. I smirked to myself, "Nothing like a little hope to start off our week..."

The progress? Finally this Friday, one of the Grade 6 girls read a beautiful scripture about God's care and love for us. Not that everything is perfect and unforced in our morning assemblies. This Friday, one of the harshest teachers was lecturing students on doing better in their homework so that they could succeed on their final tests in the next few weeks. She ended her speech by saying, "Remember, I love you." One Grade 4 boy responded in rote: "I love you too" and then looked around shyly when he realized he was the only one. It was really cute and all the kids giggled. When the next teacher came up and gave his spiel, he also prompted, "Remember, I love you." When there was dead silence again, he repeated himself and the reluctant chorus was returned, "I love you too." I teased the teacher about forcing inauthentic responses from the kids and he laughed.

Things that are authentic and true are the completely unabashed ways children love you.
Now, it is true that children tend to be the most blunt and honest of our species. This week a little girl (that I've never met before) from another local school came up to me on the street and said, "Excuse me. A boy in my class says you are as fat as a pig."
Inner voice: "Excuse me, Rainman, that's neither true nor helpful. Pigs are not nearly as tall as me nor have the beautiful hips I have."
Outer voice: "Well, that's not a kind thing to say to a complete stranger. If someone tells you something that isn't kind, you should keep it to yourself or throw it away." She didn't have any clue how to respond to that and I wondered if maybe she didn't really know what she was saying to me, at least not in a North American context. Maybe pigs are pristine, beautiful, well-endowed godlike creatures here. No? Just let me have it.
But, the children I know in town, the ones I teach, can say the most promising and beautiful things. They sit in rapt attention when I tell them that they're valued and loved and created from the mind of God. Their eyes grow wide when I remind them that everyone in their class is created in the image of God and they have no right to hit, abuse, or belittle one of God's creations. They wave after me when I walk home and they pile in the bus. They run after me if they see me on a trail. And they tell me that maybe I won't go home soon. Maybe I'll stay forever.

Things that are gracious here are the way the children rally around Johnny, the 2nd grader with a physical disability. They laugh and play together, try to maneuver his wheelchair across the bumpy lawn or walk with him when he's practicing moving on his own. Our little girl with CF played catch with him for half an hour and giggled with him over his successes and failures.

Sometimes graciousness is the reminder to teachers that they are dealing with children created in the image of God. Sometimes, it's reminding them that it's not true that African children are unable to learn unless you hit them. Sometimes it's praying as hard as you can in the face of their anger and frustration and calling out more in them. And sometimes, God's graciousness is finding out that even though teachers will verbally cling to their "duty" to beat children that they are actually hitting the kids less and less often and some not at all anymore.

When I think about things that are noble and compelling in this season of life, my mind often is drawn back to Abba's House. I think my heart sometimes could burst when I think about how much I love those children and want to keep them forever. I'm my mother's daughter, so of course I don't have favourites. But, one little girl who tugs at my heart all the time is Grace. She is so happy-go-lucky, eager to please, and loving. Last week, she had her hair braided by one of the older girls in the children's home. I know it can be painful. When she wandered into the living room later that evening, tears rimmed her eyes without spilling. I called her over and held her in my lap. She would glance away into empty space, trying not to cry as I rubbed her back. Every time she looked over at me, she would smile reassuringly and then look away to deal with her pain in silence.  I wish I could hold her forever and take away memories that are sad or absorb her physical pain. But, all I can do is sit with her and let her know that she's loved and held and not alone. She's changed so much in the year since I've met her. Her eyes don't always carry the weight of the world in them and she's a lot more confident and carefree than she was last summer.  I know this is because she's surrounded by people who affirm who she is and make her feel like she's part of a family.

Benson is my other little shadow sometimes. He's such a tactile little boy and often I find his hand inching over to squeeze or rub my arm. Yesterday, he kneaded my leg while I explained a game that we were playing. It was funny and part of his love language, I think. This home is one of the only places I know where I don't tire from people needing me or touching me. It's unlike the year that I taught Kindergarten where my daily desire was to go home in silence and not be touched. My patience and energy were being required and tested and needed all day long during that teaching assignment. But, this is different. These are children who don't require much, but to whom I wish I could give the world.

And the adults that have become my friends and only support system in Kenya are found at this children's home nestled up in the hillside. This is my place of peace. On Saturday, in between teaching the children there and making mandazi with a few of my friends, I sat on the front porch, letting the rare sunshine warm my face and resolve. This has been a place of grace- somewhere where I get to see the values of Philippians 4:8 lived out. A place that gives me hope and encouragement because I see loving and patient adults pouring value into Kenyan children. My time left is dwindling. I'm ready to come home, but I don't know how to leave behind people that I love. So, I'm giving myself the same homework that I gave the children here this week. And, perhaps I'm not the only one who needs to be reminded to take stock of what is pure, lovely, and beautiful this week.