Looking to the Ocelot

I have pondered, for many years, what animal I would most like to be. To me, it seems a very relevant question. In virtually every conversation I have, I can imagine that the subject would come up, and it would be rather embarrassing to not have an answer loaded up. I mean, to simply say, "I have no idea what animal I would choose. That is a daft notion...being an animal." Well, it seems even more daft to not have pondered the thought. It is of tremendous importance.

Ocelot. I mean, for the purpose of small talk, I might sometimes go with newt as an icebreaker. Or platypus to garner adulation. Or even the yeti crab, to display sophistication and uniqueness. But ocelot, that is my most sincere answer.

The ocelot: Sleek. Solitary. Feline ferocity packed in a rather unimposing body. Intensely calm eyes. Pungent urine. Round ears. Lowest resting body temperature of in its family. At this point, you have probably forgotten that I was describing the ocelot, since it is so eerily similar to how you might describe me.

Which brings me to health concerns. I have had a relatively low resting body temperature for a while. Often below 97. Which doesn't indicate much, but it conveniently connects the animal talk with this paragraph. Also, and slightly more pressing, were the constant feelings of fatigue and drowsiness, accompanied by mild irritability. So, I went to the doctor and found out that I have low iron and vitamin D levels, which I suppose would explain my symptoms. If I actually were an ocelot, I would be eating more meat. Since I am not, I am settling for supplements. Woot for feeling slightly more healthy now!

Besides that, work has brought its unique challenges. I am continually discovering that I am much better at evaluation and analysis than I am at putting together a program. So, simple things like making a schedule that includes vocational opportunities, cooking skills, communication focuses, and recreation/leisure time just doesn't seem to come together. Maybe it isn't simple...but still, I have trouble conceiving of how to assemble it, and so it gets pushed back a week at a time.

I continue to feel like I am not doing enough for Mohammed, mostly because I am not active enough in communicating with him. Once communication starts to make sense, it will be a lot easier to explain concepts. Until then, we hit walls.

Still, we have our moments. At 18, Mohammed neither understands the how or the why of brushing his teeth. So, I am teaching him how to do it effectively. I am teaching him the Arabic words for brush, toothpaste, clean, teeth, mouth, towel. I am arguing with him over the tastiness of toothpaste, discussing the viability of the minty gel as a nutritional supplement (although in terms that I am sure he doesn't understand). I am getting into rather heated exchanges over the proper technique of spitting into the sink. I am hiding the toothpaste to get Mohammed to be inquisitive. To approach me and say, "Where is the toothpaste?". I wouldn't even mind if he would curse my name and tell me he is bored with my shenanigans. Mostly, he is just resolved to stand until I help him, or give him the answer.

So, I told him that this is important. I explained that he must do these things on his own, and have knowledge about why he needs to do them. It wasn't compelling. To raise the stakes, I asked him what he would do if I were dead. To illustrate, I simply snapped my neck down and became as corpse-like as possible. This, I should have known, sent Mohammed into an obnoxiously cheerful, uncontainable giggle fit. Perhaps the notion of me dying on the spot was humorous. Perhaps he thought it was quite silly to conceive of me not being around to hold him accountable and to teach him. Or, perhaps, he was actually convinced that I had indeed been smitten by the cold, indifferent hand of mortality, prompting a celebratory giddiness. Regardless, it didn't convey what I had hoped. So, we went back to work...

A couple days later, I decided to apply more pressure. As a part of his morning schedule, Mohammed makes his bed. So, in line with developing communication, I decided to leave everything in order so that there was no work to be done. The catch: Mohammed's pillow was conspicuously missing. He will need to initiate communication with me, and ask a question. So, he climbs his ladder, and realizes that this will be simple. Since we had just worked on asking the question "Where is....(object)?", with his braille schedule, I was convinced that M would ace this. Instead, he comes down and tells me, "there is nothing". I know what he is implying, and am also aware that this non-specific communication is usually sufficient enough to make it evident what he wants. So, I simply respond, "What isn't there?". He is baffled. Of course, it is so clear. He had just tapped the pillowless space on his bed, but why doesn't Brent seem to know. I just play dumb, and ask, "So....what do you want?".

All of the sudden, the kid is more nervous and agitated than I have ever seen him. Issuing heart wrenching vocalizations akin to wails from a torture chamber, he simply grabs my hands pulls them up, implying that this is the part where I end it. It hurts to see him so confused and clearly panicked, but I only help him remember the sign for "where". He starts to randomly ask things. He goes with "Where is under?", "Where is Annas (name of a student)?, "Where is the ladder?". I explain that his first question doesn't make much sense, that Annas is in school, and the ladder to his bed is right beside him. He firmly grabs my hands again, so I give him more options. Desk, chair, bed, backpack. He tries asking those things as well, and as I direct him to each one, he gets more desperate and exasperated. I am suffering as well, at this point. It is one of those things I don't want him to just repeat and memorize, I want him to UNDERSTAND. I want him to figure it out.

So, we keep going, and eventually find our way to a pillow. I ask him, "What is this?". He tells me it is Annas. I have to explain, then, that it is Annas's pillow, but it is not a part of Annas himself. Bing. Light goes on. The kid, with not much relief, finally asks me for the pillow. Specifically, he tells me he wants "Mohammed's pillow". With a huge grin, I tell him where he can find it. After retrieving it, I have to show my extreme pleasure with jumping and high-fives. Mohammed, though, is still not amused.

I hope, though, that when he finally figures out the power of asking questions, he will find it not only tremendously useful, but will become incessantly inquisitive. I, undoubtedly, will be happy about it. Until then, I will be happy with Mohammed for his willingness to endure the grueling interactions that stem from my insanely high expectations, as we work towards the moments of epiphanic awakening.

I will patiently wait for those moments, and then spring on them, with feline ferocity. Just like the ocelot. Peace.

Reality

This is a guy who, most of his basketball career, could remember each shot taken in each game of the current season. I wanted to know what shots went down. I wanted to know what my percentage was. I wanted to have reasonable deductions as to why I missed a particular shot at a particular point in the game. It drove people crazy that I could recall that in a particular streak, I might have been shooting 22% from 3. A selectively negative memory can be tremendously motivating, assuming that there is foundation to keep the entirety of the game from becoming, by association, negative.

As it turns out, that is a little harder to pull off as a volunteer. In basketball, even if I had strung together a horrible week of practice, I could then be absolutely torrid once I hit the court for a game. I had a couple occasions when I felt the perfection of a shot merited holding up three fingers while backpedaling up the court (to play shoddy defense...). I didn't have to be good to feel good. I just had to do something good from time to time. I do the same thing with dancing. Pop and lock for two seconds. That's all you need for people to be impressed.

Back to volunteering. I'm working as a deafblind educator. The lack of experience lends itself to failure. And an eagerness to do well, combined with passionate investment, can produce unattainable goals. But, as a basketball player, I could miss 20 shots in a row and still feel good about myself. As a teacher, failing a student over and over again doesn't exactly make me feel wonderful. A student who is frustrated enough to chomp down on my knuckle clearly has things to express, but I would usually use different means to convey my desires. On occasion, though, I do bite people when I am feeling especially needy and unattended to. You get the idea...there is a certain sense of urgency when someone is depending on you to do well.

I tend to focus on all the moments, over the past year and a half, that have been unproductive, ineffective, and inefficient. I see very little good in my own performance, simply because I am incredible gifted at detecting the bad. So, when I talk about Mohammed making huge strides, I see very little of myself in that progress. I only see my role as the obstacle that is preventing him from making bigger steps (which, in all honesty, is fairly accurate). I guess that is narcissism, without the grandiosity.

So, here is my admittance. I have been a part of progress made. I will never achieve what I want to, but success is found in imperfection more often than not. And these are the contrasts of a year's time. Then: Mohammed would repeat every sign I made. He did not respond to questions. He knew absolutely zero Arabic. He was incapable of having a conversation. He didn't know any signs for numbers. If he was confused, he would just sit in silence. He had no idea what "want" and "don't want" really meant. He was practically incapable of making choices. He couldn't tell time, and didn't know what "morning", "noon", or "night" were. He didn't initiate independent activity unless it was part of a memorized activity within a program.

Now: I ask Mohammed what time it is. He feels his tactile watch and tells me it is 12, then says it is time to go to the kitchen and prepare his food book (he just signed a number, gave an unprompted response, told me the time). He then goes by himself, and we review words related to the kitchen and mealtime. I ask him what he ate in the morning, and he responds "humus". He then fingerspells it in Arabic. I tell him that we are having eggplant for lunch, and ask him what that is in Arabic. He tells me that he doesn't know, and that he wants help. I tell him, then he goes through the book and find the braille card with the corresponding word. He puts his hands up for high fives, feeling pretty cocky. I decide to mess with him. I tell him I'm not hungry, and that we're not going to eat. We're going to take a nap instead. Huge grin plastered across his face, he says, "I've had enough sleep. Thanks be to God. I want to eat. Okay?"

I have no idea what I was telling Mohammed here. Maybe I was apologizing about him having to dress up as Baba Noel again. Photo credit: Ahlam Khreysat.

All those things, that he couldn't do a year ago, he puts together in a 10 minute session. I'm no miracle worker, but this kid is a miracle. And when I write it out, I think I am doing quite a bit of good as a volunteer without having to be VERY GOOD at deafblind education. As Mohammed says, thanks be to God. Peace.

Same/Different

I will attempt to elaborate on the complexity. Same. Different. No doubt, you think it is simple. You can tell the difference between socks and a shirt. If you can't, you probably have separate drawers, to ensure that you won't stumble into such a wardrobic mishap. You identify the simple, distinguishing characteristics of dirt and chocolate. Without that distinction, your friends will be much less satisfied when you sneak a pocketful of soil into a movie theater and proceed to hand out your "treats". You know that the blade of a butter knife slides safely upon your skin, and that a Miracle Blade does not so considerately discern the difference between digits and delectable treats. Maybe you weren't previously aware of that either, and are currently giving a thumbs down....sans thumb.

There are all sorts of stark contrasts in the continuum of same/different. But, it gets much more complicated when I give you four balls. A baseball. A football. A basketball. And a golf ball. I ask you which one is different. You say baseball. You're wrong. Unless, of course, you picked under that assumption that the baseball is different simply because I have never played baseball. You say football. Wrong again....unless the criteria was to choose the ball that is not spherical. Basketball. Another demerit. Maybe your rationale is that it is the biggest, and that sets it apart. You choose the golf ball. That's for strokes, all wrong, which puts you at par. I guess you might have chose it since it isn't used for a team sport.

Differences and similarities span a broad spectrum. And to classify things, you have to both know the criteria, as well as be able to accurately identify the qualities. So, my student has long been assumed to understand the same/different concept. Then, I braille a card game for him. I'm excited to teach him his first game. So, I tell him, based on the card that is on the pile, you can either play the same suit or the same number. He reads all his cards, then chooses at random. I implore him to reconsider. He won't budge. I ask him why he played that card. And, as I look at the two of hearts on top of the five of spades, he says, "They're the same suit." I give him each sign, which are clearly different, and tell him to try again. When he finally produces an acceptable card, I have him read each suit, and say, "THESE are the same."

Several hundred hands later, he is still not grasping it. And it dawns on me. To him, the concepts of same and different, no matter how many times presented, have been developed as invisible classifications. Classifications to be memorized in every context. And card playing is a new context, providing unknown divisions that he thinks he is simply supposed to memorize every combination. Which, I think he is trying to do. It isn't that he thinks he plays a heart, when a heart is on the table. He, quite possibly, tries to memorize that the last time a two of hearts was down, he was supposed to play a four of hearts. That is insane memorization, rather than thinking and classification.

It would be like me asking you, "What is the difference between a desk and a painting?"  You would, undoubtedly, think I am telling a lame joke. But, what if I was asking you to actually pinpoint some existential quality. One thing. How would you answer that? Can you imagine having developed, over 18 years of your life, without actually being able cognitively process the way that you do? I certainly can't. But, I am trying. Mohammed and I are trying, to develop these skills. So simple, but so necessary. So essential. And I take each task, one day at a time. Hoping that they will build. That I'll make progress.

Recently, I was asked by a pastor about if it is worth it for MCC to invest an entire service worker position into a one-on-one student-teacher relationship. When I look that the quality of life that Mohammed is capable of achieving, I see that he needs this kind of interaction to get there. And, I cannot help but think of Matthew 25:40, when I think of my work. In this community, and culture, Mohammed is often mistakenly identified as being one of the "least". In my eyes, his value is quite surely found in the kingdom of heaven. So, in short, yes. It is worth it.

Here is a link to an article that I recently wrote for an MCC publication (if you aren't tired of reading already):  A Common Place- Touching the World  (You can download a PDF version at the bottom, which has some pictures showing me communicating with Mohammed.)

Peace.

Baseline

I miss running 10-in-60's on the basketball court. Visiting the opposite baseline every 5 or so seconds, then exhaustively engaging in playful banter, such as, "See you later," before darting to the other end. It is grueling, and definitely not fun, but I miss it.

The baseline is where you start. The baseline is where you finish. But no one makes a delicate approach when the sprints are finishing. You always overshoot. If it is a dead stop on the baseline, it doesn't feel like you actually made it. The baseline is where you finish, but it isn't that simple. A line is soft. One-dimensional. Very unimposing. The baseline holds stark contrast to every other line on the court. It is a wall. When you finish that last length, you lower your head and you assault the formless barrier which is so imposing. If you walk it in, you'll know that you didn't really breach the baseline. You just folded under it.

Now, if any of the KU basketball players were on my reading list, I feel like I would have relevant things to tell them about their baselines. Despite my repeated attempts, though, it seems they are not interested in letting a former NAIA D-II one-year varsity off-the-bench senior become their mentor (talking to you, Josh Selby). So, I'll adjust my pep-talk accordingly. (coincidentally, if you have Selby's email on hand, maybe you could forward it...)

I had little business becoming a deafblind educator. Indeed, professional deafblind educators probably scoff (nay, guffaw) at the proximity of my name to the classification. I am increasingly aligned with their sentiments. Still, when one enters the field of deafblind education, there are (for the most confounding of reasons) inevitably some parallels drawn between "one who administers education" and "an educator", as if the two are in any way similar.

So, as I have fumbled about, meandering along in my prolonged educatorial (smooth word) debut, I have tried to find my baseline. I find the experience akin to what I imagine it would be like to, overnight, be made aware that for no reason other than availability I had been given the nod to start for a revived Seattle Supersonics franchise. Then, while averaging a modest 1.1 ppg, 0.3 apg, 0.4 rpg in 38.6 mpg, and a tremendous assist-to-turnover ratio of 1.0: 38.5, retaining status as team captain and having carte blanche through an entire season. Then, to my surprise, winning MVP as the architect and floor general of the league's first, and very cavalier, 0-82 debacle of a campaign.

You look at the numbers. You look at the situation. And none of it adds up. That is how I feel in my job. Lack of experience and skill, poor performance, and excessive amounts of recognition and praise.

So, in the midst of this, I have looked for the baseline that I hold myself accountable to. And while I get better at my job, I begin to recognize an ever expansive set of needs. A deafblind young man, needing guidance in communication, independence, social relationships. Everyday I see new things to work on, without conquering the old obstacles. I am enveloped by it, while it simultaneously expands beyond me. It isn't static, nor do I know where to begin, or what the end would even look like. This baseline doesn't play by basketball's rules. So, at the epicenter of the this perceivably inflating responsibility, I am foundering and lacking direction.

My disadvantage, though, is that I didn't start this job with any point of reference. I was just thrown in. And now, a year and 3 months later, I am finally realizing that having goals is not the same as having direction. I can have the goal of reaching that baseline, and be sprinting with great fervor, but am probably running parallel to it. Good way to get burnt out. I want to stop, turn, and actually cross it. To not only know the goal, but to know the direction.

I am praying for direction, so that progress becomes meaningful rather than redundant. So, in Matthew 18:11, when it says, "For the Son of Man has come to save that which was lost." I feel like I could use some of that. Plus (no blasphemy intended), it provides a good basketball visual, with an mop-top, sweat-drenched, tube sock wearing, headband sporting Jesus diving across the baseline to save the ball which I so careless bounced off my foot. I can relate to that. I want my life to reflect gratitude and faithfulness for that sacrifice. Peace.

Winsomnia

I am usually fairly positive, and I think that adding a "w" to insomnia makes it sound lot better. I mean, who doesn't enjoy mental exhaustion and sleepiness, almost every day, for more than 5 weeks? Who doesn't respond with elation when waking up at 3am is seemingly programmed into the body's sleep schedule? Who doesn't relish the relative impatience, lowered thresholds for outcropping of frustrations, and less than pleasant expressions plastered across their faces as tiredness takes its toll?

I have enjoyed, at times, the constant challenge of overcoming this obstacle. For the most part, it is much more draining than the lack of sleep itself. And I rarely overcome it. At best, I feel like I am operating at about 50% efficiency. Quite literally, I can count on one hand the number of days that I have felt like myself during my work day, being patient and thoughtful (It should be noted, though, that I have a normal number of digits on my hand. If I had 30 fingers, then it would be much less impressive to say such a thing...). It feels somewhat disappointing to really enjoy what I do, but to have so many breakdowns. Falling asleep in the middle of helping Mohammed spell a word in Arabic. Being inexplicably irritable, and criticizing rather than facilitating and helping. Committing to going to bed before 9pm, then waking up at midnight, 2am, and 6am.

The contrast is starkly remarkable. Tired day: I asked Mohammed a question. He did not answer, but rather mirrored my signs back to me. I quickly informed him of his lack of an answer, and the insufficiency of his response. I then allowed him time to think, but mostly struggle to identify where he went wrong. I then tell him he needs to work, and not be lazy, and that I am not satisfied with his studying.

One of my few not-tired days: I asked Mohammed a question. He did not answer. I gave him two possibilities, based on a recent exercise during a classroom session. He gave an answer, without understanding it. I had asked "How is school? Do you like it or do you not like it?". He responded, "I like school." He doesn't understand the meaning, though. This is his "program", not expressing anything, but rather reeling off a trained response learned by rote. So, I move on. I say, "How is (blank)? Do you like it or not like it?". I give him several items he likes to let him build confidence in his answer, affirming him. Then, I ask about exercise. He gives the same response "I like". 70 push-ups later, he is exhausted. Does he still like exercise, in this moment? No. Not remotely. And he is starting to make a connection, but doesn't know what to do, so when I ask him a final time, "Do you like exercise or do you not like exercise?", it is with exasperation that he says, "I don't know." He didn't even know that he could express it, even though he is perfectly capable of using the sign, "I don't like". I had to illustrate it for him. And then, suddenly, he was on the "don't like" bandwagon. So, when I asked him about his shirt and his pants he thought the answer was clear, but he was suddenly confused once again, because as I responded (in the middle of a room full of people) "if you don't like your clothes, let's get them off", he knew something was clearly wrong. As he frantically fought off my hands, while simultaneously bursting out in nervous laughter, a connection was being made. "Like" and "not like" are more than classifications. It isn't just about repeating "I like school", or "I love mama" or "I want to eat". There is meaning, and the meaning is expressive. In addition, he is allowed to express his feelings, and others can actually understand it. Not that he has suddenly mastered expressive communication, but he is moving towards awareness of it.

Ummm....which day sounded better? It is kind of like this: I tell you I'm having a party. I give the you the day and the time. You show up. I say, "Hey, it's a party". Then I get you a glass of water, make up a word like "firgled", and then tell you about my hopes for KU basketball this year. You might have a really good time, watching me fill your glass with unfettered excitement. No doubt you giggled at "firgled". If you like KU, you might feel engaged...but it all depends on if you equate boring with exciting. Or. I tell you I'm having a party. You show up and I have a Moonwalk (you know, the awesome inflatable bouncy house). I made fresh fruit cocktails. A KU game is actually on. There are fireworks, and maybe even an amateur wizard is present for all sorts of magical shenanigans. That's a party. For me, both days involve work, but only one has a lot of work being done.

Through all the tired days, we have still made progress. I wish to make much more progress though, and a not-tired day is usually ends with me entertaining other aspirations, like starting self-taught parkour around the campus. I like when I have the energy to do that. For now, I suppose I have to be thankful for the not-tired days when they come, and hope that the insomnia subsides. In the meantime, I guess I'll keep pushing myself to be accountable to the weariness. To be aware, and focus everything I have into accomplishing the same goals, no matter my energy level.

If it wasn't lack of quality sleep, it would certainly be something else influencing my work day. Thankfully, sleeplessness is easy to recognize, and helps me to be critical about how I conduct myself in the classroom. Hopefully, it will help me develop better habits as a teacher, which is definitely more of a blessing than a curse. And, in the end, everyone wins. Hence, winsomnia. Peace.

I Like Elixirs

Sometimes, I just choose a blog title, then actually try to relate the content to the chosen title. I don't think this one will work.

I have been slightly overwhelmed by looming responsibilities, most of which I haven't the slightest notion of how to approach. This pertains, quite specifically, to doing my job. I have before me the task of unifying goals for the next year within a comprehensive curriculum. I even have activities, and plenty of resources. But actually putting it all together may take weeks, even months. In the meantime, I am simply trying to integrate new things as they are produced. Which has been somewhat less than successful. I tend to lazily shift blame to my student, accusing him of lacking motivation. The precision of my job, though, actually requires me to make the learning process as successful as possible. Instead, I often make it quite difficult, and boring.

I look forward to learning from my continued failure to bring energy and excitement into education. Still, it is often hard to play it entirely off the cuff. There is usually uncertainty that accompanies each attempt, and it becomes really difficult when most methods have an implied question mark attached. A question mark changes everything. A question mark changes everything?

There has been some success in continually narrowing down my methods (basic process of elimination), which gives me hope. I am also finding new ways to motivate. I find push-ups are a perennial powerhouse of motivation. When Mohammed had been refusing to focus on reading the braille in front of him, and I told him to do some push-ups in order to "wake-up". I was quite amused when he asked to be punished with a time-out instead. I forcefully said no.

Still, all things considered, I don't take much notice of the things I should be tremendous leaps and momentous milestones. The actual progress that has been made. With a month of Arabic, followed by several months of summer holiday, and then 3 weeks since I have been back, Mohammed has developed a significant vocabulary. I often scoff at the simple knowledge of words like "food", "car", "bathroom", and even just having a recollection of the names of people he works with. But, 5 months ago, Mohammed didn't even know that Arabic existed. He didn't know there were such things as "letters". Words were anomalies, somehow connected to bumps on a page. None of it made sense, and it was all a monotonous sequence. Now, it is still repetition, but he is accumulating the awareness that is needed. It all feels normal to me, unless I actually evaluate it. It is truly incredible.

More than 8 months ago, I was scoffed at for trying to teach Mohammed how to sign the numbers 1-6. It was perceived as being useless, a waste of time on an impossible endeavor. Now, several months later, Mohammed is fingerspelling and brailling the names of the teachers that doubted he could manipulate his index finger independently to signal the number one. Perhaps this is his ever so subtle way of metaphorically manipulating his middle finger...nevermind. And I get to sit back and feel blessed by his success (and it is his, not mine). With tactful arrogance, I just let his brilliance communicate to others what I have been thinking all along the way, which is, "How about them apples?" I am by no means venerable, and perhaps could use some humility along with the pride I feel for being able to work with him. There. Tie-in. A mystical elixir of humility. The Humility Elixir. I like elixirs. You didn't even see that coming.

I have had some of my responsibilities cut back, and although they were exhausting a year ago, I also miss them. I miss my daily lunch battles with Haazim, where I would obstinately insist he must feed himself, and he would invariably reply "I want water" (or simply scream and bite the table, or attempt to bite the hand of anyone daft enough to think they should intervene). And then having the opportunity to teach him signs right after the meal, as we ventured together to a land of wonderment known to most simply as "the school". I cringe when I see him being force-fed, and simply being led around, pulled from location to location and having an implied message of "do what I force you to do". Progress is slow, but people do notice it. So, I take solace that people observe how I interact with him in hopes of figuring out how to actually communicate with him. I take solace in the knowledge that he has been angry with me several times, and for good reason, but has not yet thrown a fit while I am working with him (which is a daily, perhaps even hourly occurrence a vast majority of the time). I take solace that he smiles and casually walks back to the deafblind unit with me when I say, "Swinging is finished, now we are walking back "home" together."

Amidst the pressures, the stressors, the time constraints, and the responsibilities, there is so much goodness that goes unrecognized. And being thankful that we are given the opportunity to experience the spectrum is renewing. I am being careful, though, not to characterize the pressures, stressors, constraints and responsibilities as being on the opposite end of the spectrum. If those are a part of my job as a service worker, as a faithful follower of Christ, then I think they are wholly good by association. I just have to take the time to recognize that as well. Peace.

Newness in the Same Place

After a home leave that lasted seven weeks, I feel blessed to have returned to a Jordan that is recognizably the same, and intuitively different than when I first arrived. The intriguing newness of Jordan that happily accompanied me a year ago has deserted me in favor of other bright-eyed, vibrant young adults that venture into foreign lands. Instead, a rather faithful contentedness has revealed its commitment and consistency, perhaps keeping me uncomfortably comfortable.

It is strange to return to a familiar place, but to acknowledge its changing form. A once inconsequential step that lies three floors below the deafblind unit has taken on meaning. It is where Haazim learned his first sign, and where I cried my first joyful tear with him. Hand rails and fences surround the premises, and were once simply noted as landscape. Now, they are a part of my service, comprised of hundreds of hours of painstakingly meticulous painting, which was more often unappreciated due to its pace rather than applauded for its quality. The gates, through which I entered, a barrier between my American culture and a Jordanian deaf culture which I was invited into with a painfully evident clause to clarify my temporary status. A year later, that gate is my own door, and when I enter I am welcomed home as an old friend.

While inconspicuous, I notice the subtle difference. A newness has nonchalantly crept in, daring to redefine a place that I was quite fond of in the first place. A swelling reserve of experiences here combined with the continuity of a growing perspective and spirituality makes it impossible to return.
In truth, I was hoping to return to the place I came to a year ago. Following many opportunities for reflection, new friendships, moments of reconnection, and much valued time with family, I strangely anticipated the oddly revitalizing feeling of being a stranger again. Upon my arrival at the institute, I felt anything but that. And as touching as the hugs, kisses, and handshakes from the childre were to those who accompanied me as I moved back to Salt, it was strikingly disheartening to me at the moment. To be greeted as a brother, instead of as a detached American simply passing through, that brought on a moment of clarity. That moment, in itself, was the consummate expression of acceptance, and it was certainly not one that I had expected. A sort of newness that I thought would be unattainable, and did not even realize I had been moving towards over the past year.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful for it, but initially, that moment caused me great distress. It brought on a bit of worry, and worrying is definitely not one of my strong suits (I even worried a bit about the worrying, which is a quite vicious cycle). It was obvious that I now have an identity in my context in Jordan, and I also have an identity to those who know me in the US. To me, the two are the same, but the expression in each context has fashioned a being that is simply not sustainable. In each context, it is a simple matter to be myself. To be in one context, though, and hope to maintain each interaction from the other context...well, that is about as easy as trying to write in Arabic with my feet.

Simply, I realized the constancy that would be required of me if I were to attempt to unify both expressions within one context. To be both in Jordan, and continue to relish the lavish relationships that I experienced briefly during my time back in the US. The pursuit, even pondering the pursuit, was quite occupying. It was so daunting, especially feeling like I had to sort it out in solitude.

Henri Nouwen brings an interesting perspective in Making All Things New, writing "Today worrying means to be occupied and preoccupied with many things, while at the same time being bored, resentful, depressed, and very lonely." I certainly was utilizing an incomplete understanding to approach all of these occupying roles. A teacher. A student. A friend. A mentor. A son. A brother. Maybe without processing, I could have very well moved towards crippling experiences and delved into a dark place.

Somehow, though, when I was looking through the roles, "a Christian" was skipped. That is terrifying. I call it lack of clarity, and am thankful that moment has passed. I realized that if I want to continue to do service work, my identity has to be built upon the foundations that Jesus Christ has laid out. First and foremost, I must be faithful to that. In doing so, all of the occupying roles can seamlessly be integrated, although that is not to say there will be much deliberate planning and intentional shifts in how I utilize my time. I cannot be everywhere and do everything, but I can be present in the place and context I currently am in, share the stories of my work and life with those that I love and whose relationships I am blessed to share in (wherever they may be), and do so with the intention of serving Jesus Christ's vision. That is my prayer as I begin the next two years. Peace.