This Street Has Changed

My eyelids seem to be pulling me towards home, as a Thursday evening comes to a close. There is nothing unfamiliar about this weariness. In the dark, as I step along the tiled path in the school courtyard, the calm of the night is a soothing recompense for this week's events. I take a long, drawn-out breath and smile.

On this Thursday, Mohammed was barred from going home. On a previous day, he was under the impression that I had gone home, while I monitored him. After several hours of witnessing confounding and impetuous behavior, I intervened. It was rather disappointing to see my student deliberately act so disgracefully, but somewhat redeeming in his display of shame when he realized he had been caught. After several conversations about how to behave, it was decided that if vacation is equated with laziness and a lack of propriety, Mohammed would not be allowed to go home. Both parties were opposed to this option. Mohammed protested, as he talked of "3 days at home", "kissing mother and father", "if I'm good, then I will go home, yes?" and "not staying at school". I despaired, as an already emotionally overwhelming week had left me exhausted, and Mohammed staying would eliminate my precious Friday morning sleep session. I needed rest. I convinced myself, though, that Mohammed needed to have a paradigm shift. My work with Mohammed is once again occupying my mind as I walk.

Among the many stresses, unattained goals, and myriad failures, there is overflowing satisfaction for the progresses, the successes, and the relationship I have with M. This usually resonates within my mind as I exit the campus and walk along the empty street. It is on this street that I stop to buy the most awful assortment of junk food when going to bed just doesn't seem sufficient. It is on this street that I casually stroll along, looking up at the stars as I think about many blessings. It is on this street that I put on my headphones and just tune out the noise in my head and my life. It is on this street that I reflect on my day. This street is my catharsis. This street was my catharsis. This street has changed.

This past Sunday, I was heading home rather early. With my backpack on and a Perkins Brailler in hand, I am stoked to do a different kind of work. This particular Brailler had been newly broken (by Mohammed after a fall on the staircase), and I am somewhat excited to heroically repair the now defunct machine. It makes me feel rather professional to fix something that most people will never use in their life. Before I reached the gate, this eagerness to leave the campus was erased.

Asma (a colleague in the deafblind unit) comes running towards me, tears streaming down her face. I ask what is wrong, already knowing the answer. Bashar, a young boy from the deafblind unit, had gone to the hospital in the morning and the initial assessment was not promising. Not concealing her desperation, Asma grabs my arm while signing, "Bashar may be dead soon. I'm going to the hospital. Come with me, please." The immediacy and intensity of that moment left me frozen. I often find myself imagining up horrific circumstances and wondering how I would respond if they came to be. This was not a circumstance I had ever dared to imagine.

Helpless. I just stood there. Helpless. Asma continued to the street. Helpless. Thoughts flash in my mind, but they are a dense fog as I fumble to move. To respond. To acknowledge that everything, in that moment, had fundamentally changed. In the midst of that change, I was still standing. Paralyzed. Helpless.

A teacher comes out of the chapel, slicing through the infinity of a moment, and the reverberations bring me back to consciousness. I explain very little, give him the Brailler, and as my heart pounds feverishly, I sprint to the gate. Onto the street. This street has changed. I catch up to Asma, and as she realizes I am with her, she takes off running. I follow, as liquid emotions course through me. Rational processing has been replaced with panic. Hope with uncertainty.

I stand in disbelief. Sullen faces surround me. The air is thick and suffocating. Asma hugs the small body of Bashar, lying in the hospital bed. God, please, don't let my eyes settle upon him. As unrelenting shock consumes me, my colleague is equally consumed by grief and hysteria. I turn to Bashar's family, unable to utter a word. Sympathy and condolences could not suffice. With fleeting courage, I turn back to the bed. He is not reaching out. He is not laughing. He is not crying. He is not in pain. At 11 years of age, Bashar has passed away.

Two years of memories will not be silenced. Entering an empty office at the school, in complete darkness, I collapse. This is not pain that one recovers from. A week ago, I was walking up the stairs, as Bashar (in typical fashion) kicked his shoes off to try to get me to carry him. As I presented him with his shoe, he cried and cried. Realizing my stubbornness, he put his shoe back on, and got up laughing. He took my hand, and we kept going, hand in hand. Now, collapsed on the floor, my hands are painfully empty. Grasping at air. He's gone. Lord, take Bashar's hand, as I cannot.

 بشار. الله يرحمهُ

The next days mostly pass, as those infinite moments linger. And it is Thursday. I am heading home. I am back on the street. The many joys of life are occupying my mind, but there is a sharp figure that breaches the peace. Silhouette, squares, whites and greys on the hospital just a few hundred meters away. Top floor, third window to the left of the stairwell. The light is off in his hospital room. This is not pain that one recovers from. But I smile, and as my eyes well with tears, I know there is much joy and many blessings in the privilege of this pain. Bashar was a blessing, in ways that I could never express to him. In his frailty, his silence, and his incredible trust of those around him, he had much to teach us about strength, presence, and love. My child, you will be missed. My empty hands will tell of the blessing it was to have held your hands. For that opportunity, I am deeply thankful. Peace.

Sharing My Experience

With only a few days before my dad would arrive in Jordan, I only had a basic framework of what we might do. Admittedly, I usually opt to let others do planning when it comes to vacation. (In the context of Jordan, it is even more likely that I will spend vacation days scheming up new ideas for work in between reading, movies, and basketball in the lovely city of Salt.) Still, after acting as a mentor and teacher of a deafblind student for more than 2 years, I wasn't too worried about the stresses of putting together an enjoyable 10 days.

Also, it should be noted that I don't appreciate history, nor am I especially knowledgeable about...well, anything besides the work I have been doing. The prospect of acting as a tour guide is an embarrassing one, unless I am in my element (with Mohammed by my side). I was confident, though, that my father would be rather forgiving in this respect. Still, I am no stranger to awkwardness, and it simply feels right to visit Roman ruins and provide insightful commentary along the lines of, "Father, direct your attention to the columns over there. You'll note that they are old. Older than you, in fact." Or, even better, reading a sign that my dad missed, then imparting knowledge as if I'm utterly familiar with the Byzantine period.

Really, it is pitiful how little I know of Islam, Jordan, or even Christianity in the Middle East. I don't hold myself accountable to be an expert. I was more concerned with sharing my experience. And there have been a lot of experiences.

I wanted my dad to see what it looks like to communicate with a young man who is deafblind. To see all the ways that development needs to occur. To see braille and tactile calendars and a signed chapel service, including songs translated into sign. To see me fumble with Arabic at a market. To see me utilize Arabic adequately on the bus, in a restaurant, and with friends. To see the magnificent chaos of driving in Amman. I wanted my dad to see things he could never see elsewhere.

I wanted my dad to eat hummus, falafel, kebabs, ripe pomegranates, mutabbel, fattoush, fresh bread, knaffeh, tabouleh, and many other things that spellcheck doesn't recognize. To ride on a raucous party bus, blasting Arabic ballads for 5 hours while the shabab echo lyrics and dance in the aisle, unaware that their skinny elbows are colliding with my skull as they vie to impress the young British girls sitting a row ahead of me. And, I wanted my dad to help me actually take a vacation. He accomplished this mission.

With Mohammed, as he eagerly anticipates going home for a long vacation.

At the Roman Amphitheater in downtown Amman. This was after a stop at Hashem's Restaurant for some of the best falafel and hummus that Jordan has to offer.

Jerash, one of the many places that I know nothing about.

After getting cornered by a volunteer who was speaking gibberish about a king's head and music stone, we allowed him to take our picture.

A nice stroll (of the possibly hundred+ kilometers we walked over the course of this holiday), was along this beautiful colonnade in Jerash.

Not sure if bored, content, or confused...

A nice morning dip in the Dead Sea

We happened upon a friendly ginger. Was wonderful to see Peter Miller again.

After failing to find an Ethiopian place, we settled for Pad Thai.

Walking through a market in the Old City.

Bedouins in Wadi Rum.

It was a great series of adventures, misadventures, exhaustion, and plenty of learning. Thanks for coming, dad. Love you. Peace.

Salted Tea

6:00pm. It is a time that I relish. The day's activities have reached a natural break, and I am relieved of duties, as I head to the dining hall for a wonderful meal. I like my job, but I dare not proclaim that I have the fortitude or stamina to engage work in my every waking hour. Not only am I trying to teach skills, give information, translating, and encouraging expression, but I am doing so with my hands. This is moderately exhausting (read: After sitting in a prayer meeting for an hour of continuous signing, with Mohammed continuously resting his hands on mine as I sign, one succumbs to some measure of fatigue.) So, when I go to dinner, I get to temporarily reclaim my appendages as instruments whose sole purpose is for the shoveling of nourishment into my eagerly awaiting mouth. My digits are set free, the shackles removed.

And I relax. I evaluate the day. I do not stress or think of the countless things that I will need to do in the coming weeks and coming months. Those things are swallowed, quite effortlessly, with my evening tea.

With my tea in hand, I notice a familiar figure has wandered over to the staff table. Mohammed is toting his empty cup, and I simply think, "Not my business." As he moves in, next to the institute's director, I am intrigued and wonder how this will play out. He wants tea, but is simultaneously showing that tea alone will not do. With much bravado, he is signing, "Sugar, sugar, sugar." After filling his cup, Mohammed again indicates that only sugar can sooth his craving...the director hands him the salt. Mohammed doesn't take the bait. Testing both his resolve and his patience, the salt is pushed back into Mohammed's hand. Either through curiosity or uncertainty, Mohammed feels willing to investigate the shaker. Could there be sugar in it?

Getting some residue from the top, he licks his fingers and issues a response of "WRONG!", that seems to carry finality. Still, a grin is plastered across his face, and his head dips down to indicate that thought processes are in motion. When you are blind, you have no need to look around for help...

At this point, quite of number of spectators have gathered, amused and also surprised by the extent of M's communication and the nature of his behavior. They watch as Mohammed just gives in to the joke, and starts shaking salt over his cup of tea. The joke has been turned around, as hands rush in to stop him from ruining a perfectly good cup of tea. All the faces around him, shocked and aghast, return to their previous orientations, as Mohammed has continued to hold his grin. The sugar is passed to him and he excavates the crystals from their container.

Eyes turn to me, questioningly. Why did Mohammed come over here for tea in the first place? He has tea at his table, or an adjacent table. Does Mohammed usually do these things on his own? Why didn't he insist that he would not take the salt, even after he was being prodded?

I just laugh. He's becoming more expressive, more enigmatic. But what really makes me laugh is the overarching joke that everyone else at the table has missed, excluding myself and Mohammed.

"Look at the time."

What? No one has caught on. "So what?", is the reply. It is Wednesday, and it is 6:30, and Mohammed is supposed to be in the kitchen helping with the dishes. Tea wasn't his goal at all. It was just the decoy. They thought he was the victim of the joke, but he knew to play his part, making everyone else complicit in his quest to get out of work. I can only wonder what was going on in his head....

"You think salted tea is funny? I just got the director to assist in delaying work...who's laughing now?"

He sits, sipping slowly, savoring his sweet tea. Victory is sweet, indeed.

I eventually find my way up to the boarding house, just to chill for part of the evening. As I am about to leave, one of the students stops me and ask me if I want to wrestle. "Just some grappling, no kicking or punching. Just try." I'm not exactly a fighter, but I usually humor the young men. Since I have about 30 lbs. on him, and a significant strength advantage, I reluctantly agree thinking it won't be hard to get him on the ground (the point of the match).

We start it up, and I am immediately surprised by his intensity. Tangled up, he tries to lift me off the ground. Not happening. I push him off and smile, suddenly more confident. I know my approach. Lock arms, and all that I have to do is wrap up his knee. For a second, it also hits me that I have no idea how to execute such a move. Mostly I just fumble about defensively, as I push him away.

I get his arm, and it seems all but over (for me, as I'd soon find out). As I twist him around, I am ready to lock his other arm. He seems all but immobilized...

Thud. Eehhmmmmmm. I smile through clenched teeth (happy that my deaf adversary can't hear me groaning as I realize something does not feel good), and let him help me up. I replay the last second in my mind. As we twisted, it left him with a lower center of gravity, and also a leg behind my legs. Not a good strategy on my part. In my defense, I hardly expected that he would sweep my legs out and throw his weight backwards to pull off a rather impressively elegant reverse body slam. I didn't expect it because it seems dangerous to execute this move on a tiled floor....which I suppose is softened by concrete.

In my limited experience of such situations, I have come to realize that fracturing a rib is a possible consequence. Not that I actually went to the hospital for an x-ray...but, when there is persistent pain for several days, sharp reminders of sensitivity that accompany just about any core movement, and breathing in deeply causes discomfort, it seems safe to assume that this isn't just a bruised ego. He asks about it later, seemingly puzzled that any injury could have resulted. I reminded him that I hit stone, with force, and an extra body's worth of weight on top of me. This answer seemed rational enough to register with him, but I assure him it's no problem. Next time, I'll probably ask for a code of conduct before we wrestle, just to make sure I know what I'm supposed to be prepared for.

Hopefully, a couple weeks of caution will have me back on my feet (or comfortably on my back). After all, the last thing I need is an injury lingering over my teaching career. Peace.

Tuesdays are for Cooking

Tuesday is for cooking. There was once a time when baking a cake took less than an hour. Let's be transparent: Cake is about cake. Meaning that the ingredients are nice, and mixing them is essential, tossing the batter in the oven is necessary, but the culmination is in the finality of the process. Procurement of the tasty morsels as they're removed from the pan and escorted (by means of fingers, fork, spoon, long distance toss, or patience-building-snail-shuttle) to the mouth. This is where cake is less of a process and more of an experience, transcending time and space, spanning infinite complexity as the sensory system inadequately tries to convey its gratitude for such a pleasant and wholly invigorating encounter (Gratitude that we approach diminutively, scaling it down to chemoreceptors and merely a "pleasant taste"). How we've been deluded into thinking that a particle exceeding the speed of light is remotely important in the presence of cake, I'll never know.

Now, don't mistake me for some sort of cake connoisseur. I will issue no qualms when others offer to provide me with cake of sub-standard quality. In fact, I am entirely indifferent about my degree of participation in pastry production and preparation. Historically, I have not been involved beyond consumption and the ensuing euphoria. Which is why, when I say that there was once a time when baking a cake took less than an hour, I am perhaps being disingenuous. There was only a time when I spent each day, wandering listlessly about in the hopes that I might stumble upon a rare, wild, unsuspecting cake that I might capture and devour.

But, the present and apparent parting of those past-times has been an adjustment. Naturally, it seemed only reasonable that I could simultaneously teach and learn how to bake a cake. And this is why Tuesdays are for cooking. The morning begins with a brief prayer time in the new chapel. While it isn't always explicitly engaged, I like to be reminded that God is the context of love and service. To have time in the morning to ponder this is a good way to be thankful for my job, and the capacity in which I serve with MCC.

On to school. Mohammed starts off by preparing his braille calender, which has become more routine than enjoyable. Rather than monotony of days and numbers, I try to breach the mundane, injecting questions along the lines of "So, what will the date be when you go home for the weekend?", or "You will have vacation in 4 weeks. How many days is that?". We're sitting on a porch swing while studying, looking out over Salt as the sunlight pours over us, cutting through the dust that obscures the rolling hills that seem to extend endlessly. I wonder if Mohammed appreciates the beauty of the setting more than me, despite his blindness. I push him towards the edge of the swing, a reprisal attack for his answer that one week and two weeks are the same number of days. Resilient, he bounces back, willing to look again.

Who cares? It is Tuesday. On to the kitchen to start mixing the cake. Braille recipes have been abolished for the time being, as they are apparently repulsive and make baking more of a fight than fun. Still, ingredients have braille labels, and after approaching me for the cabinet keys, Mohammed starts pulling out everything and arranging it. It is expected of him, and I hardly marvel at how easily he accomplishes these things now. I am doing so now rather than typi.....ng.

After the inception of what I like to call "The Experience", otherwise known as Mohammed's coconut cake, the measurements of each item have been memorized. I stand back and observe as my student lackadaisically tosses cups of flour into a bowl. Mental note: remind him that even though he doesn't see the flour spilling on the table, there is less speculation about this occurence than there is regarding sounds made by trees falling in forests when listeners are not present. Not on my game, I drift off. Mohammed moves on, only to be rudely interrupted.

"How many cups of flour did you put in?"
"3 spoons of baking powder," is his reply, thinking ahead and not really answering.
"No, right here. How many cups of flour?"
Realizing the subject..."3 cups flour."
"Oh. That's right." I'll pay more attention.

This is going swimmingly. Easy as cake. On to the eggs. He lets them fit into his fists, like he's ready for a fight. Note: I think this would be a superior street fighting technique, to always have an egg ready to bust skulls. I don't like this orientation for cracking. We do the first three, with significant co-active movement as I direct the breaking of the shell, the placement of the thumbs, and the pulling apart and discarding of the shell. Oops. Sidetracked again...I step away to sign with someone else. Turning around, Mohammed is traipsing lazily towards the trashcan, shells in hand.

My thought: I like my eggshells on the side, thank you. Let's go see the damage from the fourth egg, which Mohammed dispatched on his own. Using my CSI skills, I keenly examine the mixing bowl. No evidence of a struggle or foul play. The absence of eggshell proves we have a natural in our midst. I interrupt him to express my pride in the fact that he not only went ahead on his own, but that he has performed admirably. Since I have no medals on hand, a high-five will suffice. Mohammed adds his own, characteristically peculiar victory dance. I step back to do my own victory dance as he continues, unsuspecting of the pride emanating from his equally peculiar teacher. I realize that there are other people present, and promptly stop dancing.

When he's confident, Mohammed is much more proactive in communication. On this day, his confidence level was perhaps an inverse of a chart mapping the financial gains of recent investments...this means that it was high for those of you that haven't been paying attention. The previous weeks, we've been mixing by hand and dictating when we want the other person to take a turn. Not even acknowledging this tradition, Mohammed tells me that today he wants the electric mixer. I'm hurt that I won't get to participate...Mohammed still lets me have a turn with the mixer. How sweet.

Recently, lighting the oven by means of matches has been reminiscent of epic tales that feature gargantuan reptiles of incendiary nature. This has included loss of hair on the arms, and explosive sounds that breach the limitations of deafness. After all, allowing Mohammed to light the match, find the oven valve and open it, and then guiding his had to the proper location is not the quickest of methods. It is important to keep him involved.

Back to confidence. I assume he is emboldened by today's successes, but he remembers these recent, fiery encounters all too clearly. So, he requests to go see Issa (a carpenter and painter at the school that is one of Mohammed's friends). Perpelexed, in the court of my mind, the lawyer of rationality requests to approach the bench. The judge promptly overrules the motion strike this request from the record. Okay, I'll just go with it. As Mohammed keeps signing, I realize that he is signing "lighter", as he knows Issa is a smoker. Not a bad idea. Unfortunately, we don't find Issa, and go back to the match method, both of us wary of potential consequences. Arm hair is left intact for this week.

Wielding his braille timer, we toss the cake in and learn some Arabic words while we wait. Who cares if it takes an entire morning and part of the afternoon to put this together. I would rather see a meaningful expression of independence for Mohammed trump the experience of cake. After all, cake isn't really just about cake. Cake is for wonderful interaction, and Tuesdays are for cooking. Try it out, I think you'll agree. Peace.

P.S.- The cake was delicious. If you want the recipe, hit me up.

Enjoining by Joining (Frabjous Day)

When working 6 days a week has become routine, my Friday holiday has become somewhat of a treasure. It is a day to take on many things. I can sit around and read news. I can sleep in. I get to workout for whatever amount of time that sleeping in has allowed. I can peruse the facebook, send out emails, and write blogs. I can even watch an episode of The OC to start my day (which has recently induced extreme stress, due to the fact that Seth and Summer are apart but clearly should be together).

Fridays are for rest. Recuperation. A day to renew myself in the hopes of longevity. In the interest of the students that I work with. Which leads to seclusion and reflection, while I treasure "my precious" Friday. (For clarification, I use this phrasing because I am occasionally referred to by the name Gollum. I find this name to be both endearing and fittingly descriptive, though somewhat baffling because the volunteers that issued it had previously been identifying people through Harry Potter references. Dobby would have sufficed.) It is not alarming isolation, some vociferous introspection that clutches at my throat. I quite appreciate retreating into solitude and unwinding for a day.

So, as I sit on the playground, enjoying the sounds of Salt and the chaos of children who are temporarily relieved of academic duty, I am certain that this will be a celebratory frabjous day devoid of social interaction.

Not so, said the deaf children, clinging to my shirt. "You are fantastic, wise, the purveyor of joy. Come with us, come with us, our personal toy. For today there's a trip to the almond tree's shade. Come with us, come with us, our day will be made!" (Their requests were not this poetic, but don't let that curtail your interest.)

All hope was then abandoned as the older students cajoled, "You miser, strange hermit of despicable sort. Don't go home, stay with us (was their cunning retort). If you simply walk with us, we can promise you fun. Take a hand, share your life, for your solitude's done." Again, paraphrasing...

So, I went out on this journey. The parade of foreigners and deaf children, a peculiar bunch, just out for a stroll. And we had a ball. Kids jumping around, climbing all over my body, which apparently resembles a tree when sunlight peaks over the fall clouds in Salt. Teaching a young girl the virtues of silence and proper behavior after enduring 10 minutes of her obstinate screaming as she clamored for her right to snack time (as I took in the beauty of nature and the cityscape while simultaneously tuning out her pummeling fists as she vied for attention). And, lastly, marching back into the city with a 4 year-old boy on my shoulders, as he delighted in both the vantage point and the privilege of turning a young American into his noble steed. I had thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon.

By joining the children, I had a chance to enjoin them into participating in my relaxation and fun. Not just "let the little children come", but recognizing that they can't come if you're not there. And this is where my year can change.

Mohammed has had priorities dictated to him for his whole life. His choice-making has been minimal, and the recognition of him as remarkable has been slowly misconstrued by his inability to do many things. More often than not, due primarily to misunderstandings or lack of familiarity, the "negatives" of Mohammed have commandeered his vessel of respect.

And, I have fallen prey to this as well. I think not only as a teacher, but more significantly, as a Christian. To identify a singular moral discrepancy and inflate it, allowing it to suffocate the individual as a whole. Admittedly, it is nice to have the freedom to attribute negatives to others, as it gives less time to worry about one's own faults and transgressions. Then again, it is unfailingly insufficient in terms of realizing how remarkable other people are. I don't think Jesus had much trouble with this, as a person's sins and shortcomings never seemed to even register. Mostly, he just welcomed them without reservation or classification. And while I do try to do this, I admit that there have been many instances in which have done the opposite.

With Mohammed though, I am letting him reclaim his positive image. I value him as an individual, and always will, which leads to me being interested in what he likes and who he is. And, for at least this one, last year together, I will have an opportunity to join him in his life. And as I join, I get to enjoin him into a better quality of life, as we learn together. Even after two years, I continue to be blessed with such an opportunity. Oh frabjous day, indeed. Peace.

Getting Realigned

After spending 3 weeks at the Helen Keller National Center in New York, observing and making connections in the field of deafblindness, I have returned to Jordan.

While at the HKNC, I had a lot of opportunities that showed just how intense my work in Jordan has been. Many clients at HKNC are not congenitally deafblind, having lost sight or hearing later in life. Many also still have usable vision or enough hearing for spoken language. Vocational opportunities are available through many organizations that have partnered with HKNC for many years. There are residential staff to support, many of them having background in the field. Activities for each night are organized by the residential staff, and volunteers help out so that there is always a support person for each individual who is deafblind (should it be needed). Students arrive and often talk about their priorities, helping to mold a program that is most beneficial at the individual level. There are people who studied various fields, and bring their respective expertise and master's degrees to enhance educational opportunities. There are case managers, vocational trainers, habitation specialists, speech pathologists, communications teachers, living skills teachers, technology instructors, creative arts teachers, orientation and mobility specialists, vision and audiology specialists, and interpreters. There are teams.

Had I not committed to being in Jordan, I would have loved to stay at HKNC. It was organized and easier, fun and relaxed, light and wonderful. I might even pursue a job there in the future. Those are far off possibilities.

But I am Jordan. And I have a lot to appreciate about what I have built here, but also a lot of ways to realign myself, my expectations, and my approach. In deafblind education here, I am the team. Which isn't to say that I don't have support. That would be a lie. BUT, when I am here, there are simply no individuals that have credentials in ANY of the aforementioned areas. I have taken it upon myself to become knowledgeable in those areas, and take them all into account for my role as teacher and case manager. This field is too new in Jordan, so when I want to increase life skills, I can't just write down recommendations and hand it off to someone. Occasionally, I might write it down, then bring my chair to the other side of my desk and read it as if seeing it for the first time. It's an internal memo. (It should be noted, though, that when I say "my desk", I am actually imagining what it might be like to actually have a personal office or at the least a desk, which I do not have. I need to advocate for myself on that, I think.)

It was certainly nice, though, to have professionals be impressed that I taught my student how to differentiate braille characters, fingerspelling, hundreds of Arabic words, how to count and understand numbers, use a cane, and tell time...over the course of a year. It was nice to hear suggestions, and then respond with, "Yes, we already do that, and I had to make the resources to make it happen."

I still need time to take what I saw at HKNC, and allow that to realign my passion. Because, the most important thing I learned was not simply in providing information and services to individuals, but to do so in balance and consideration that the individual needs time, and needs to enjoy life.

I sincerely hope that I can integrate that into a new school year. I will be praying that I can find the wisdom to do so, the balance to carry it out without burning out, and the perseverance to follow through. I will also be praying for the same things for those far away: former SALTERs, current MCC workers, friends, students, and family. Peace.

When Air Disappears

It isn't often that I think about breathing.

The precursors are irrelevant, as it becomes evident that the feet are no longer on the ground, assuming a position that is undoubtedly foreign. As the disorientation and panic envelop limited cognizance, the moment becomes an eternity. Gravity whips strangling belts around the body, jerking it from the pause in space back down to the earth. Time exists again, but the seconds are agonizing as the air has been ejected from your lungs. Pain becomes strangely transient when one has the awareness that breathing has ceased. The air has disappeared. You're convinced the air has disappeared. I'm certain the air has disappeared.

And there is that instance. The instance that composure, the same as the body, suffocates. It is to the frenzied appeal of surrender that the mind whirls about to face. Seemingly unbearable, this vacuum of torture. Surrender, is the plea, but it is without conviction. The disarray's deceit derided the diaphragm, but defeat isn't definite. The muscle is resurrected, and as air is inhaled, the feeling of suffocating once again becomes foreign. I was momentarily aware of breathing, notably due to its unpleasant absence. No need to think about breathing once again.

But a couple deep breaths help me appreciate the fact that the air never really disappeared. I just couldn't get to it.

As I prepare to begin my summer vacation, I am still catching my breath. Whether through carelessness, or veiled truculence, or maybe even through subscribing to obstinacy, my feet have found themselves in the orientation far too often. And I hit the ground, panic, slowly catch my breath, and once again resume NOT thinking about breathing. But, it seems, that I don't have enough time to catch my breath before a thunderous clap steals the air.

Mohammed is every bit as stubborn as I am. And it is the last week of summer school. I have planned accordingly, knowing that it is better to just designate relaxation and fun activities. The week begins, and it becomes immediately evident that he simply no longer cares. His communication skills evaporate in the heat of apathy. Self-help skills are trampled by the allure of learned helplessness. Cooperation becomes a most vile, abhorrent concept.

I taught him how to light a match, and start the gas stove, and it is his responsibility to prepare his own breakfast. He takes some bread from the freezer, lights the stove, and begins warming up the bread. Then, in the manner and mindset of a mischievous miscreant, he decides that today he is just going to let the bread burn. I watch him in disbelief, noting that he takes the bread off the stove to see if it is burning, which he followed with tossing it back on the stove. Finally, I just ask him, "What are you doing?", which startles him a bit as he realizes that I was watching. Knowing that he's caught, he simply remarks that the bread is now bad and should go in the trash. Nope. As I elaborate about his misbehavior, he tunes out until I tell him to go ahead and eat the bread that he cooked. Burnt portions and all. After he's done, we run into similar problems and I end up sending him to a timeout.

Again. And again. First, it's standing in isolation. Then, push-ups. Then standing while holding a chair. Then, a slap on the back of the hand, and a verbal warning about how angry I am with him for being so lazy and uncooperative. More time-out. He tells me he's done with school, he just wants to be punished and then go home. I oblige him, not holding back my displeasure but simultaneously being perplexed as to what I can actually do.

I don't know what to do. For that last week, everyday was filled with thunderous claps that stole my breath. And as I panic. As I turn to plead for surrender to just bestow apathy upon me, I instead lose awareness of my lack of breath. I clench my teeth, and my suffocating urgency is reflected in my teaching. I look at Mohammed, and he is hating being at school. Hating working with me. And my bitterness wants reprisal: If you want to be as stubborn as me, this will be a horrible week. And it was. So terrible, in fact, that upon the release, all that I could catch was stagnant air.

Jonah knew a little bit about stagnant air. Hanging out inside a fish for 3 days (I bet you aren't familiar with fish breath). Chilling under the shade of a vine, fantasizing about fire and brimstone raining down upon Nineveh, only to watch the vine wither as the sun was bearing down upon him and the dry air choked his lungs. His bitterness wanted reprisal, every bit as much as mine does, but for Jonah suffocating might have seemed a decent alternative to breathing.

And here I am, and although I did not hesitate to embark on my journey, I certainly have embodied Jonah's bitterness. I want God to bring down an army of enforcers. At the very least, a grandma of drill-sergeant caliber who would whip Mohammed into shape. But I am more ambitious than Jonah, and I want to even take holy retribution into my hands. And this is why I can't breathe.

God taps me on the shoulder. The vine is withering, and the air is stagnant. I am catching my breath. Jesus is the model to follow, not the misguided and suffocated path of Jonah. Jesus implores that I follow him first, but Jesus didn't teach the deafblind. He copped out and healed the blind and the deaf. I'm pretty good, but not that good. So what am I supposed to do?

Jesus changes the dynamic. It isn't a matter of what, but how. He came to inform, and to correct, but to love and to forgive first. That is the model of how. Through his grace, his forgiveness, I have a new breath. I can finally catch my breath. It is only through foolishness that I turn from that, to continually fall and take in the stagnant air of bitterness. Lord, help me turn to your grace and forgiveness, so that when I fall, you can breathe life into me. So that when air disappears, you can breathe life into me.

With that renewed life, I am certain I'll be a better teacher, and now I have summer vacation to prepare for that. Summer vacation is an opportunity to think about breathing. I want to think about breathing more often. Peace.