from every first grader to every tribe and tongue

So, lately I’ve been thinking about the title of this blog.

To every tribe, tongue, and first grader.

Lately it seems like you might as well take out the whole tribe and tongue business and just leave the first grader part. Honestly, some days I wake up and wonder what on earth I’m doing as a first grade teacher in Texas, and how this is supposed to fit into the unmistakable calling I believe the Lord placed on my life when I was nine years old. Not a day passes by that I don’t long to go to unreached people groups and spread a passion for God’s glory among those who do not have His Word, and this has been my driving force for everything I do for as long as I can remember. I never once imagined that teaching six year olds would be a part of that plan. It is not so much the teaching that makes all of this hard to swallow; it is the fact that the only thing that is seemingly holding me back from the mission field (aside from God’s sovereign, gracious purposes) is college loans. College loans that I accrued while trying to get a biblical education that would prepare me for missions. And don’t get me wrong; I am very, very grateful for that education. That doesn’t make it any less frustrating, though.

But this is the lot that the Lord, in His sovereignty and wisdom, has ordained for me, and so day in, day out, I teach illiterate children how to read simple picture books in their own language, and I pursue excellence in doing so. But when I get home I dream of teaching illiterate adults to read God’s Word for the first time in their own language. As I am wondering how I will ever be able to bring my lowest kids up to the level they must be at in order to pass the first grade, I also wonder how I am ever going to get my loans paid off, finish all of the training I still lack, and raise the support I will need to go to the unreached. And as I pray for wisdom and perseverance as I try to overcome my total lack of experience and confidence in teaching twenty-one very needy children every day, I pray, beg, plead with the Lord to give rest to my restless heart and use this season of life to prepare and mold me for the next, whatever that may be. It’s been a season full of waiting, and full of bold-faced question marks. Just like every other one before and after it. It’s been a season of battling with uncertainty, discontentment, and impatience. As I have written in my journal countless times lately, “it’s where I’m at right now.” It IS where I’m at. But it’s exactly where the Lord has me, and it’s a good place to be. And while I’m here, in this season of waiting, I make plans, but I hold on to them very loosely, knowing, trusting, rejoicing that it is the Lord who must establish them.

Some day, I pray that I’ll be blogging about going to a tribe in Indonesia or Papua New Guinea or wherever the Lord leads me.
But until then, I’ll write about the journey that the Lord is taking me from every first grader to every tribe and tongue.

The journey- that’s where I’m at.

Citizenshipisabigwordforfirstgraders

Today I taught about citizenship. Being a good citizen, throwing away trash that you find, helping others, yadi yadi ya… here’s how it went down, in a nutshell.

1) Bring kids to the carpet.

2) Teach the word citizenship and watch all of the kids’ eyes get really big as they try, unsuccessfully, to repeat after me.

3) Role play a little- picking up trash off the ground, helping a neighbor with her groceries, etc.

4) Watch a short movie about citizenship, pausing along the way to explain things in Spanish since today, after all, is a Spanish day and I probably shouldn’t be watching English videos on Spanish days anyway.

5) Ask kids for examples of how they can be good citizens and send them back to their desks to write in their journals about–you guessed it–how they can show good citizenship.

6) Smile as one kid comes back from the restroom with a tiny leaf he found in the hallway and proudly throws it away. “Miss Moore, I was a good citizen. Someone littered this trash on the ground, and I picked it up.” Don’t bother to tell him that it was actually the wind who was the culprit.

7) Pat three other kids’ backs who immediately start telling me about how they, too, were good citizens. “I picked up Juan’s backpack for him.” “I found trash (a.k.a, a minuscule piece of paper) under Lucas’ chair and picked it up for him.” I, I, I, I, I. Watch five other kids diving to pick up backpacks that don’t need to be picked up and clean up trash that no one else can see.

8 ) Wonder if they really grasped the others-centered concept of citizenship in the first place. Tell the kids, “Wouldn’t it be great if instead of telling Miss Moore the ways you were a good citizen, you caught someone else being a good citizen and told me about that?”

9) Entertain hope that for once, my words have sunk in, as Paul, the classroom’s resident tattle taler, approaches me. “Miss Moore, Miss Moore.” “Yes, Paul?” “Let me tell you what I just did for…” (Stop listening at this point and wonder if I have made egocentric pseudo-altruists out of my deceptively cute little first graders. Think to myself, “Look on the bright side; at least he’s not tattling for once.”)

10) Dismiss the class and take them outside to wait for their rides. Watch them frantically searching for trash to pick up on the ground. Start mentally planning tomorrow’s lesson: “How to be a nice, quiet, behind-the-scenes kind of citizen…”

11) Sigh and realize that citizenship is, after all, a very big word for first graders.

Smile at Me When You’re Ready

A lot of people have asked me if I enjoy teaching. The answer is yes…sort of. Yes, I enjoy teaching… if only they would let me teach more often instead of sending me to training after training and stuffing up my mailbox with endless paperwork every day. I think I’ve been to over 80 hours of training since I started this crazy adventure. 80! And frankly, not a whole lot of it has actually made much of a difference. This week I learned something I wish I had been born knowing, though. It’s really simple: when you’re doing a spelling test or waiting on a few kids to finish that last problem, just say: “Smile at me when you’re ready.” Instant happiness all around. It’s amazing. I tried it out on Monday, not really sure if it would make a difference, but the change it spurred was almost tangible. Sure, the kids are happy because they’re all donning these goofy, toothy smiles (or toothless smiles for some of them!), and they think it’s fun, but it’s amazing what it does to ME. I may be frustrated, pulling out my hair over some kid who still doesn’t know his letters or who just can’t stay in his seat.. I may be having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day… but no matter what mood I am in, when I see all those beautiful, crazy smiles, it’s just a matter of nanoseconds before I’m grinning, too. Even laughing. You know, teachers don’t really smile a whole lot. There are a million things going on inside teacher brains, and with all of those things to remember, it’s hard to remember the most obvious one: smiling. So, after a week of smiles, which have turned out to be the best stress reliever possible, I have resolved to smile more often in the classroom… maybe it’ll even spill over into my outside-of-the-classroom life.
And I have a feeling that smiles aren’t only miraculously contagious for kids, but also for grown-ups who sometimes forget to smile…

Miracles happen.

Good news,
Rash decision.
Hasty packing,
Long trip.
Sinful stress,
Heightened tension.

Finally there,
Papa waves.
Sterile hallways,
Dark room.
Exhausted mommy,
Sleeping angel.

Heart skips,
Arms extended.
Speechless aunt,
Fixated eyes.
Tiny miracle,
Enormous joy.

Prayers ascending,
Blessings abounding.
Future dreams,
Present bliss.
Eyes water,
Heart melts.

Precious Nathan,
Intensely loved.
Perfect creation,
Radiating beauty.
Proof indeed,
Miracles happen.

It’s Like Entering Another World

We pull into what looks like a normal parking lot in a normal American apartment complex. We knock on what seems like a normal American apartment. And we take off our shoes, leave them on the doorstep, and enter into another world. A world I never knew existed, at least not twenty minutes away from me. This is probably the farthest thing possible from a normal American apartment. On the walls, the normal picture frames I am used to are replaced by balloons, teddy bears, and other random objects I would never have thought suitable even for bathroom walls. We are greeted by the loud blare of Indian belly-dancing music on the TV. Inches away from the screen stands a little boy with dark skin and a bright smile. I am very amused as I watch him try to mimic all of the dance moves, but my eyes quickly move to the old, ragged couch across from the TV where a Nepalese man and his wife sit with a gorgeous baby who looks exactly like an oversized porcelain doll, complete with a lace nightgown and a head full of beautiful black ringlets. Aside from a table and a few chairs, there is no other furniture. A few minutes later, the wife brings out steaming cups of delicious Indian tea for us, and her husband, Prithi, began to explain the situation to us. My two friends, Josh and Katie, have been ministering to this community of immigrants for over a year, but all of this is brand new to me. I remember Josh’s words last Sunday when he had approached me about helping them with their ministry: “It’s like entering another world.” He couldn’t have said it better.

Their story starts about four hundred years ago, when a community of Nepalese people settled into the nearby country of Bhutan. Eventually, Bhutan became home for the many generations after them, although they continued to practice their Nepalese ways and Hindu religion. But in 1990, the Bhutanese government suddenly changed the law, and declared these Nepalese immigrants to be illegal. It was as if their four-hundred year history had never existed, even though the current government, originally from Tibet, had only been there for 150 years. All of a sudden, their homeland no longer wanted them. Nepal expatriated these “illegal immigrants” to India, but India didn’t want them either, and still does not to this day. So India sent 100,000 of them to live in the middle of the jungle of eastern Nepal. They have been living there in a makeshift compound ever since, for the past seventeen years. That means that an entire generation has never known anything but life in a refugee camp, where they struggle to survive in severe poverty with little food.

Bhutan doesn’t want them, India doesn’t want them, Nepal doesn’t want them outside of the parameters of the refugee camps… and America is willing to take them. So thousands of Bhutanese refugees have fled the camps in Nepal to seek refuge in America, only to find that when all is said and done, it seems like America does not want them, either. Here, they face a different kind of refugee camp, one so overwhelming and confusing when compared to their simple life in Nepal that many suffer from depression and some have even chosen suicide over the pressures of immigrant life in America. These people, who have known little else than refugee camps where food rations and daily necessities have been handed to them all of their lives, are given just four months. Four months to settle into an apartment chosen and sparsely furnished for them by one of four refugee organizations, to find an entry-level job for one member of the household with the aid of the organization, and to acclimate to life in the United States. After the four months are over, their allowance is withdrawn and they are expected to provide for the entire family, often consisting of four or more children as well as elderly family members, and pay for very expensive rent and other necessities, all on one minimum wage salary. Most of them are also trying to save up enough money to bring other family members over from Nepal, as well. Their children are sent to American public schools without knowing any English, and are often ridiculed for being so different.

As the weather has gotten colder, my own family has started to use our heater, and we have pulled out our blankets and jackets and long-sleeved shirts. We are ready for the winter. The Bhutanese refugees who live twenty minutes away from us, however, are not. Heaters cost money to use, and so do coats and blankets, so a family is lucky if they even have one blanket to cover the entire family at night. We arrived at Prithi’s house at about 11:00 in the morning, armed with dozens of blankets and coats. Prithi and his family are some of the few believers among the refugee community, and they are the first ones any new immigrants (he told us that at least 3-4 arrive each week) meet when they arrive in Dallas. He took us from family to family to family. From one cup of tea to another. Some had been here for a few years, some for a few months, and some had just arrived days ago. All seemed uncomfortable, out of place, lost, overwhelmed. That did not prevent them from extending genuine hospitality to us, though, and they were visibly grateful for our presence and much-needed gifts. Apart from drinking tea and handing out blankets, we played with dozens of dirty but adorable children, learned some new Nepali words and taught some English ones in exchange, worked for an hour on fixing one of their cars, and discussed plans for future ESL classes and Bible studies.

We probably would have stayed until midnight if these people had had their way, but at about 5:00 we finally left the Nepalese refugee world and went back to our own. You can’t meet these people and not take a chunk of their world with you, though. On the way home, Josh and Katie asked me what I thought of everything. I didn’t really know what to say. It is another world, for sure. A world darkened not only by poverty and generations of suffering but more importantly, by spiritual darkness. I kept on wishing there was more I could do. Prithi showed us videos of the refugee camp in Nepal where over 70,000 refugees are still living after 17 years, and the whole time I watched, I wished I could go there and live in the camps with them. It almost made me want to quit my teaching job and devote my time solely to ministering to these people who need so much. I can’t do either of those things. But I can love these people. I can teach them English, Lord willing. I can play with their children, and drink tea with them. I can be Christ’s hands and feet to a hurting world. It’ll mean leaving my busy but relatively simple and comfortable world and sharing their hurting and suffering one with them. But if it means shining Christ’s light onto that world, there’s nothing you could do to make me stay in mine.

At Least I Have a Mouth!

Lately I haven’t had very much luck with ordering at restaurants. At all.
Which isn’t a good thing, because I came to visit my parents this weekend in San Angelo, which basically equals a lot of restaurants in a short time.
This morning, we went to IHOP for breakfast. I ordered blueberry pancakes. Yummy. No, not yummy. They were burnt. Not just a little burnt, either; they were completely black on the bottom. No happy-face IHOP pancakes for me. So, upon the insistance of my ever-diplomatic dad, I politely returned them and waited patiently for new pancakes to replace the burnt ones. Our chipper IHOP waitress apologized as she brought out the new ones. I waited for her to leave before confirming what I had a feeling would be true: these were burnt on the bottom, too. I didn’t even bother sending them back this time. I just scraped off the top and sipped my very watered-down coffee. At least we didn’t have to pay for it, thanks to my dad.

Then I had some lesson planning to work on, so I decided to head out, armed with my dad’s GPS, to a really great coffee shop my sister had told me about. I had been looking forward to it all morning, so imagine my disappointment when I listen to the Garmin lady’s sugary sweet voice saying, “Arriving at destination, on right,” and I look over to my right, and the only thing I see is “Juan’s Burritos.” Are you kidding me? No coffee shop? I drive all around town before finally settling for a Starbucks.

For dinner, my dad took us to Texas Road House. I wasn’t really hungry, so I ordered a couple of side dishes, including baked beans, which for some reason sounded very appealing to me. When the waitress brought out our food, the first thing I saw were the beans, which looked fabulous, and I grabbed a fork and dug in. And bit into very undercooked, crunchy baked beans. Ugh. My parents just shook their heads and remarked that today wasn’t my day.

We were all pretty stuffed after the restaurant, baked beans or not, and I had the brilliant idea of “walking it off” together on the San Angelo Riverwalk, and then rewarding ourselves with ice cream. I know, the logic is a little faulty, but it made sense to all of us, and we headed out for a fun night of walking and ice cream. I pulled out my dad’s trusty little GPS, and typed in “ice cream.” “Great! They have a Cold Stone! Let’s go.” I could almost taste the authentic strawberry ice cream that I was going to order. We drove across town, found the Cold Stone, and pulled up… to an empty, closed Cold Stone. Sad. Day. So, we decided to make the best of it, and went to the next best place: Dairy Queen. I ordered the only thing that looked good on the menu: vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone.

The waffle cone was soggy.

I give up.

I looked over at my laughing parents, and tried to look on the bright side. “Well… at least… at least… at least I have a mouth to eat soggy waffle cones and burnt pancakes with!” My dad started cracking up, and immediately began to crack jokes about offering my uneaten ice cream to a kid with no mouth. It was a pitiful visual image, but we all got a good laugh out of it, and it reminded me that there’s always SOMETHING we can be thankful for

Bugs in My Classroom

It’s 3:08 on a Friday afternoon. Every teacher’s favorite time of the day. Every kid’s favorite part of the day, too. Outside my classroom I can hear teachers and students alike chattering excitedly, and breathing sighs of relief. The week is over. The weekend is here. Praise. The. Lord.
Maybe you’re wondering what I’m doing at my computer desk on a Friday afternoon at 3:08. I’m wondering that, too. My classroom’s pretty much a mess, my lesson plans for next week are still blank, and the Friday To-Do list goes on and on. And in about an hour I’m taking off to San Angelo, about 5 hours away, to spend the weekend with my parents. And am I using this precious time getting those to-do’s to-dones? No. I’m sitting here at my computer desk, thinking about cockroaches… and Paul. 

Some of you may have already heard about my last cockroach episode, and how in the middle of the chaos of trying to catch a giant cockroach during Circle Time, I gave the kiddos an ESL lesson on how to pronounce the word “cockroach” correctly in English. Well, today’s fiasco was quite different… which is why I’m still thinking about it five hours after the fact. To understand the scene, you have to understand the phenomenon of “Beach Parties.” Ten years from now, you ask any kid from my class what they remember the most about Miss Moore’s class, and I guarantee you every one of them will say “The beach parties.” Every Friday, the kids get to bring towels to school, and for about 30 minutes, I turn on ocean music, and they get to lie down on their little towels and they get to… (drumroll please)… read. Yes. For a glorious half hour, they are all, for the most part, quiet and immersed in a good book. It’s so simple, but the kids are crazy about it. Okay, so the Beach Party has just begun, and here I am, sitting at my desk, just like now, and my bilingual aide is helping me to sort some papers. And I see something scurry across my floor under my desk. Yep. A giant cockroach. (They must really like it in here! Or maybe he was seeking revenge for his cousin’s death a few weeks ago.) Seriously, though, it was humongous. By this time, my heart is racing, but I know that the kids will freak out and the serenity of the beach party will be destroyed if the kids realize what’s going on. So, as discretely as possible, I whisper over to my aide, “Uh… uh… Ms. Torres? Look!!!” And she comes over and looks, too. But we can’t find the cockroach anywhere. Visions of the cockroach racing under the kids’ towels are now flying through my head. I am about to give up, though, and Ms. Torres has already gone back to her work. And then… I feel something IN MY SHOE!! And I can’t help it. I do what any girl on this planet would do, teacher or not. I squeal. And I kick off my shoe and start swinging it at the cockroach until it finally suffers the same destiny as its cousin. The beach party just wasn’t the same after that. 

And my foot is still tingling. 

At this point, I excuse myself to go “make some copies,” just to get out of my cockroach-infested classroom, and I’m trying to remember what on earth compelled me to work at a broken down Title 1 (aka, socio-economically disadvantaged) school. And I pass by my principal, and I can’t help but complain. As respectfully as possible, I say, “Just to let you know, this is the second time I’ve had to chase down and kill a cockroach in my classroom.” Woe is me, woe is me. She nods knowingly and says, “I’ll have someone get on that as soon as possible.” And then she looks around to make sure no little ears are listening, and says, “There’s a rat living in my office- they’re in there trying to find it right now.” I walk away thinking maybe my situation’s not so bad after all. Actually, cockroaches are starting to sound pretty darn good.

But cockroaches aren’t the only bugs in my classroom. There are the BOYS. Not that the girls can’t give me some grief every now and then, but first grade boys are just like that cockroach about 95 percent of the time- they scurry across the classroom, nearly giving me a heart attack, and then just when I think I’ve nailed them, there they are, scurrying around again, stirring up trouble and disrupting the entire class. But there’s one boy in particular- let’s call him Paul. Paul’s the biggest kid in the class, size-wise, but he’s ALL over the place. He’s the one who never ever remembers to raise his hand, and is always tattle telling, and is just a huge bundle of energy, which he has no idea how to control. I think he was on yellow every day this week (yell0w’s not what you want to be on in Miss Moore’s class, by the way). But you can’t help but love everything about Paul- he’s just a big cuddly teddy bear! And he just got a hair cut yesterday, so he has a very cute buzz to go along with his pudgy little face! So today, after I had had about all I could take of him, I decided it was some time for some behavior intervention. So at the end of the day, I ask him to come over to me, and I stoop down to his level. And what does he do? He stoops down, too. Hilarious. So we’re both stooping down, and I start my very serious talk about how he needs to stop disrupting my class. And he conjures up the most adorable “Serious Paul” face, which is anything BUT serious. And I just can’t suppress the giggles that I feel rising inside of me, no matter what I do. I try to look away, but there his chubby little face is, staring back at me. I try to make it through my lecture without laughing, but it’s harder than killing that cockroach was this morning. And then I tug his little cheeks and give him a hug and say, “Let’s do better next time, okay, Paul?” and still laughing, I send him away. 

Bugs in the classroom- what can you do but shrug and go on with your day? 

 

pictures from Fair Day

I tried to put these on the last post, but it didn’t really work… I’m still figuring out this WordPress thing

Fair Day and Funnel Cakes

So today was Fair Day. And since I’m a teacher, I got in free (Yes, there are some perks to being a teacher… few and far between at times, but they really do exist). It had been years since I had gone, but I have a lot of fond memories of my dad taking my sister and me to the fair each year growing up. I remember Big Tex, and I remember how much my sister and I loved going to the dog show and the bird show. I guess I mostly just remember the excitement I felt as a kid, surrounded by so many people and games and rides and toys. But the best part, by far, was the funnel cakes- I absolutely lovedthe funnel cakes at the fair.

I was planning on going with my roommate and just staying for an hour or so, but yesterday we found out that the kids we take to church every Sunday 1) had never been to the fair in their lives, 2) had no way to get to the fair the next day and 3) their mom had no money to pay for her entrance even if they could have gone. It wasn’t a hard decision to make, especially since Bekka didn’t really want to go. So, I picked up two excited kiddos and a grateful mom this morning at 10:15 and we headed to the State Fair of Texas. The kids couldn’t contain their excitement. They were practically glowing! And of course, the first thing on our agenda was the dog show and the bird show.

I held on to sweet Julissa’s little hand all day, and felt ten years older as I took this family all around the fair, translated for them, bought lunch for them, and kept a close eye on both kids. Then at the end of the day, after we had gone to our last show, Julia wanted to buy some tickets and let her kids each go on one ride. So we bought some tickets, and to my surprise, she handed me ten blue tickets right along with the kids, and said she wanted me to do or buy whatever I wanted with them. Now, ten tickets at the State Fair of Texas really can’t buy you a whole lot of anything, but I knew exactly what I wanted. I told them to go on to the rides, that I would catch up with them later, and I walked straight up to the nearest Funnel Cake stand. I proudly ripped off nine tickets and ordered an original funnel cake. I walked back over to Julia and the kids, beaming with joy. I didn’t feel older anymore as I ate that funnel cake, spilling powdered sugar all over my shirt. I felt like a kid again, and eagerly gave Julia and the kids their first taste of funnel cakes. Two adorable Hispanic kids, fun shows, and funnel cakes… does life get any better? Thank you, Big Tex.

Welcome to Adulthood.

It’s 6:20 in the morning, pitch dark outside, just like I love it. The rest of the world around me is still sound asleep. I hear the clicking sound of my high heels as I walk on the sidewalk to my car, taking care not to trip. I fish for my keys in my big teacher purse, unlock my car door, set down my work bucket on the passenger seat, and buckle my seatbelt. And I ignite the engine, and a thought strikes me…When on earth did this happen?

When did I become an adult? A working adult with high heels and make-up and a grown-up job and a car? With bills to pay each month, with a strict budget to keep track of? With ten (!) friends who are engaged, three others who are pregnant? It seems like just last year that I was twirling around in a blue tutu in the play room and running races with friends and scraping my knees on a daily basis. Last month that I was passing notes to my best friend in high school under the table, last week that I was moving across the country for college, yesterday that I was walking across the stage with a diploma in hand. And today, I am an adult, or so they tell me. I immediately think of the movie Big, where Tom Hanks plays a kid trapped in an adult’s body, and that is how I feel.

Am I just dreaming? Am I going to wake up tomorrow morning in my blue bunk bed with Mickey Mouse sheets that I had as a kid and realize it was all just a very, very strange dream?

I don’t feel ready. I still feel like a kid, and probably always will. I don’t know what I’m doing with these credit cards and insurance plans and graduate courses. I don’t know who I’m fooling with these lesson plans and math diagnostics and boring meetings to attend. I feel like I’m just pretending. Just like Tom Hanks. And I sometimes want to snap my fingers and go back to being a kid. I think about the twenty-one desks in the classroom where I will teach today, and I wish that just for a day, I could sit in one of those desks and go to recess and P.E. and lunch with all of the others… it doesn’t seem too long ago that I was wearing pig tails and carrying a backpack and bossing my friends around. Or at the very least, couldn’t I just go back to college? When I signed those papers to graduate early, I had no idea that I was basically strapping myself down in a rocket headed straight into the world of adulthood. And even though I knew that it was the right decision, what I didn’t know was that almost every day of my first year of “adulthood,” I would think, “Shouldn’t I still be in college now, like all my friends?”

Weird.

Very weird.

But a good sort of weird, I think.

I shake out of my “thought” and snap back to reality. It doesn’t matter if I’m not ready for the adult world- it’s ready for me. So I shrug my shoulders and turn up the radio and drive off to another day of work.

Welcome to adulthood.