Through the Wardrobe

Every day at eleven o’clock, I follow my class of kindergartners out of Huancayo and into the world of their imaginations. Although we never visit the same place twice, the lands we visit are equally as complex and fascinating as Narnia. And we certainly never fail to have an adventure.

My first trip through the wardrobe was exhausting. Reeking of death, bodies of small children littered the chalky pavement, and every now and again a cry would ring through the still air. Despite the fact that the kids were clearly dead, I approached the nearest one and listened for a heartbeat, a breath of life, anything. Disappointed, I scooped up the child and lifted her into the ambulance that had suddenly appeared, sirens blaring. As we sped to the hospital, I thought I heard a giggle from the body--must’ve been my imagination. The second we arrived, I laid the child in front of a surprisingly young doctor. Expecting him to shake his head and tell me it was too late, I was shocked when he knelt beside the dead girl and started tickling her. I was even more stunned when the child’s eyes fluttered open and her hands reached to block her ticklish belly. Realizing that in this strange place, death was only temporary, I hopped in my ambulance and set out to raise the dead.

The next time I stepped into the land of imagination was a very different experience. I found myself in a world bursting with life, every shade of green clearly represented. As I studied my surroundings, I suddenly heard the whiz of an arrow shooting past my ears. Before I had time to duck, two tiny warriors charged through the tall grass, launching several grenades straight at my face. I tottered for a moment, and then collapsed, sputtering dramatically before I died. However, once again, I found that death was not permanent. When I woke, three small girls stood before me, armed with impressive swords and looking fierce. I lifted my own sword just in time to block a blow to my face, and the clang of metal on metal rang through the trees. We fought for hours, always regaining what was lost, be it limbs or life breath. Their band of warriors slowly grew, and eventually, thoroughly exhausted, I convinced them join me on a quest instead of repeatedly stabbing me to death.

So…we set off through the jungle. Creeping quietly to avoid the attention of lions and tigers, we hacked down any plants that stood in our way. We leapt across paths of stones to avoid fire spewing from the ground . The kids shot down enemies and rescued friends (even when we had to make a chain of people through the sinking sand). Everything was fine until I lagged behind with the two youngest warriors. Their little legs simply couldn’t keep up with the others. Suddenly, a huge dragon appeared before us, its emerald green scales sparkling in the sun with smoke rising from its nostrils. Sayuli clung to me as Duvan charged the mighty beast. He jabbed and swung his sword at the dragon‘s chest, ignoring the mighty flames that threatened to engulf him. His bravery came as no surprise after seeing him punch and spit at Matt, a volunteer whose knees are at the same level as Duvan‘s head. The dragon was slayed in no time, and we proceeded on our journey through the “selva“ without incident.

The last time I slipped out of reality with the class, I found myself in a nearby store. It sold everything you’d expect to find in a kid’s school lunch: yogurt, fruit, crackers, cookies, juice boxes, and even a container of rice. Nearby was the home of the family that owned the store: a young mother with several children. When I stepped into the itty bitty house, I saw several small beds filled with children: three sleeping girls and two boys who were giggling in a tone far above a whisper. With unexpected energy, the three girls leapt out of bed. Upon seeing the two boys, they screamed bloody murder and proceeded to drag them out of the house….by their hair. The boys, now laughing hysterically, resisted exit until the mother/storeowner burst into the house. With one bloodcurdling shout of “Afuera!” the troublemakers scattered. However, just after the mother left and the girls went back to “sleep“, the ornery boys snuck back in and repeated the whole scenario. Not finding my niche in this particular place, I remained a bystander, smiling and silently longing for a bit of popcorn.

There’s really no way of telling where I’ll find myself during recess with the kindergartners. Once Matt leaves, I’ll probably end up out west, the faithful steed of several crazy little cowboys. Or maybe my next stop really is Narnia. Who knows?

Who's Teaching Who

If you’ve talked to me about my time in Peru, you’ve probably heard about Benyi (pronounced Ben-jee). He’s eleven years old and has just enough charm to sweet talk me without being a flirt. He gels his hair into a faux-hawk and always wears a silver chain around his neck. While most of the boys have dry, ashy faces, his is smooth and clean. On top of all that, he’s cute as a button. Actually, button’s aren’t that cute; he’s way cuter.

Whenever I walk into the school, I look forward to Benyi’s greeting. Besides the usual pecks on the cheek, he always wraps his arms around my neck as if he hasn’t seen me for a month. He then attempts to drag me to the ground just for the fun of it. I couldn’t suppress my giggles if I tried.

During class, Benyi is always making jokes. Although I can’t always understand them, his mischievous smile gives him away every time. I can never hide my grin when he says something silly, even if he’s deliberately ignoring my command to be quiet or to raise his hand.

Although Benyi would definitely be considered the class clown, he is not one of those kids that's all brawn and no brains. He always excels in class. His assignments never fail to be neat and organized, and he often decorates them with colorful pictures. I love watching him work out his sentences with a Spanish dictionary in one hand and a tightly gripped pencil in the other, and I love seeing him jump up and down in the midst of a conjugating competition, eager for his teammate to get the spelling right. I love hearing him belt English songs that he doesn’t understand just because he likes to sing, and I love watching him dance even when there's no music. When he grabs my hand after class and begs me to go play soccer with him, my heart melts like ice cream on a sunny day. Just watching him smile fills me with joy because I love him to DEATH.

But even though he’s smart and funny and athletic, Benyi is by no means perfect. After school yesterday, I got out my red pen and a stack of exams, and started grading. The first test was a 12/24...not good. I wrote a note on Jenny’s test that she could make it up but shrugged it off. Jenny never does well on tests. However, as I kept going, I became more and more frustrated. Every test was between 10 and 15 out of 24. There wasn’t a single good grade. Finally, I got to Benyi’s paper, thankful for an escape from Ds and Fs. I graded his test with dismay. He got a 9.5 out of 24, the worst grade in the class. I nearly cried. My favorite little boy, whom I loved with all my heart, had completely failed me. My disappointment, though, was accompanied by a realization. Benyi may have ignored my command to study, but my love for him hadn't changed. I’d still marry him if he was a little older. I’d still adopt him if I was a little older. And I’d certainly still pour out my love on him every time I got the chance.

Looking back on the day, I was finally able to understand God's unconditional love. He loves spending time with us and blessing us and making us smile. But despite the fact that we bring Him joy when we succeed and love on him, we also break His heart when we fail. Yet no matter how many times we disappoint Him, His love for us never becomes any less.

It’s amazing what you can learn from an eleven year old boy.

More Than Just the Silver Lining

I have had so much fun since I’ve been in Peru! However, I don’t want my blogs to give you the idea that life here is always perfect and happy and chipper. Here’s a glimpse of the less glorious side: the ugly, the weird, and the heart wrenching.

I never once expected that I would be sleeping in during my time in Peru. However, I also never expected that I would be woken up early every morning by: dogs fighting outside my window, a woman SCREAMING a list of the things she was selling, a man using a megaphone as he collects recycling, or the garbage truck BLASTING Jennifer Lopez around 7:15 three times a week. I guess you just have to learn to expect the unexpected.

Some of the streets here get quite a bit of traffic. So naturally, that would make them a perfect place to: Do homework? Play volleyball? Both? Of course! Or better yet, why don’t we blindfold our friends and push them into the street? That sounds like the perfect way to spend a Friday afternoon. I never cease to be amazed by the things I see kids doing in the street here.

It’s very convenient to be able to buy the ingredients for dinner at the store right on the street corner by the house. But is it sanitary? Seeing a whole chicken: legs, head, and all, lying on the counter of a dusty store certainly isn’t the best prelude to a chicken dinner.

The sun was shining, and the view of the city from the roof was beautiful. Unfortunately, though, I wasn’t up on the roof to enjoy the nice weather. I sat on a stump with a tub of cold water, a bar of soap, a scrub brush, and a pile of dirty clothes. I really didn’t know where to start. Even following Molly’s directions, I felt like I was only making my clothes dirtier. Trying to scrub my sock clean without thinning the material, I wondered why, as a child, I’d always wanted to be like Cinderella.

Dinner the other night was good…but it was VERY strange. I thought you guys would appreciate a description. When you think of dinner, you probably think of a meat and a vegetable or two around 6 or 6:30. At least, that’s normal for me. A few nights ago, I sat down to eat at 8:45, and Mari sat before me: a HUGE bowl of porridge with a purple sauce and several pieces of deep fried dough (they call them pancakes there). It certainly was NOT the dinner I was expecting. The porridge was kinda like really sweet oatmeal or Cream of Wheat, and for some reason the sauce reminded me of a candle (it was very dark purple and very thick). It had chunks of apple in it, too. And the “pancakes” were really more like donuts that you dip in the porridge and sauce. Like I said, it was good, but it was one of the weirdest dinners I’ve ever had.

Recess with the kindergartners is nearly always one of the highlights of my day. I can’t say the same for the other day. I smiled and nodded with acknowledgement every time a kid yelled at me to watch them swing. Only this time, when I looked, I saw the tiniest kindergartner, Sayuli, with her Princess Lea hair, fall off her metal swing onto the dusty ground. Just as I yelled, “Cuidado (careful)!” the swing next to hers slammed into her head. She screamed bloody murder, which was quite appropriate because blood started gushing from her head. I ran over and immediately put my hand over the cut to stop the bleeding. I then exhibited multi-tasking at its finest: yelling at Molly to get the teacher, consoling the sobbing child, and praying that I wouldn’t contract AIDS or some other disease through her blood. The teacher ran over and whisked away poor Sayuli, and I turned to comfort her sister, Melissa, whose beautiful face was contorted with hysteric screaming. I hugged her tight as she begged for her mother and watched through the window as the teacher treated Sayuli’s head with the supplies in the first aid kid: toilet paper and a cotton pad. I marveled that the school had no alcohol wipes or bandaids. Thankfully, ten minutes later, both girls smiled as Sayuli sucked a lollipop with just a tiny cut on her head, and Melissa smiled, realizing that her sister was going to be okay.
About that time, though, I realized that I was not okay. My stomach quickly became as unhappy as the wailing Sayuli…and for no apparent reason. After my class in the afternoon, I took a two hour nap. By the time I woke up for dinner, I realized it was not going to go away. So I told Mari, and she fixed me some tea. Knowing that her mother is a witch doctor, I should have known that the tea would be something herbal that would taste less than delicious. Mari went into the kitchen and then placed before me a steaming mug of tea with an odor I can’t quite put my finger on (dirty socks?). I drank about half, and then…well…I’m usually big on detail, but let’s just say I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Ugh…not a good day.

None of these stories of my petty woes, though, compare to the lives of the children. It’s hard for me to keep track of all their stories, but a few of them stay in my mind. Luis, the most energetic and fun kid in the kindergarten class, lives with his aunt and cousins because his mother was a rape victim at just 13 or 14 and works in Lima six hours away. Celia does not bring a lunch to school like the other kindergartners because her family can’t afford it. The other kids all chip in to give her a meal. Sayuli’s shirt has so many holes in it that she won’t take her uniform coat off even when it’s hot outside. I don’t know Yestilin’s situation, but she nearly cried when she realized there was no school the next day, Saturday. When I see these kids, they are FULL of joy. But I don’t know if they’re always like that or if they just love school. Because all I’m seeing is the silver lining of their lives. And from what I’ve been told, their lives at home are more like the inside of a storm cloud. Please pray for better futures for all of them.

Melissa and Sayuli

Celia

Molly and I doing our laundry

Luis

the market

Kodak Moments

There are some moments in time that last barely longer than the flash of a camera, but are nevertheless worth the picture. Here are a handful of Kodak moments from my first two weeks in Peru:


“Rawr! Rawr! GRRRR!” and other similar sounds echoed throughout the schoolyard. Following the noise, I peeked into classroom two. Duran, Luis, Diego, and Manuel, the only boys in the kindergarten class of 20 kids, were inside fiercely growling like lions and tigers. When I poked my face in the window, they got right up in my face and growled with new intensity. Suddenly, Luis, who was the biggest and clearly the leader, screamed, “Escondense! (hide)” Next, several girls who had heard the growling walked into the classroom where the boys were crouched under tables and behind shelves. Suddenly, the wild little boys pounced, chasing the girls out of the room and growling just as before. The girls screamed and giggled as they ran around the corner, waited for the boys to hide again, and repeated the game. Looking at the adorable growling boys, I wondered if I could stow them on the plane as my pet cats.


I wondered to myself why I was so bad at soccer as I prepared to kick the soccer ball hard like the girls on my team were begging me too. I planted my left foot and swung my right foot towards the ball to shoot. I did not make a goal…not even close. Instead, I kicked the ball straight into Alfrain’s stomach. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!! Estas bien?” I asked with horror. He just laughed, but I felt terrible. The next time I had a good chance to shoot, I promised myself I wouldn’t hit another kid in the stomach. Is it a sin to break a promise if it’s an accident?


Luis walked up to me and took my hand. “Devuelta (spin)?” he asked. Impressed that for the first time he had spoken to me without yelling, I grabbed his other hand, walked over to an empty space, and begin singing as we spun around, “Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies…” His smile was like the sun peeking through on a cloudy day, lighting up the world and bringing warmth and happiness. When we “fell down,” two other children dove on the ground to join us. By the tenth or twelfth time, a whole flock of kids had joined. After about the twentieth time, I started getting dizzy. “Ultima vez (last time),” I said. When we fell down, I quickly brushed the dirt off my pants and transitioned to a new song before we could start again. But after just four verses of Wheels on the Bus, Luis was grabbing my hand again. It appeared I would be ringing around the rosie all day. But looking at his sunshine smile, I realized that was just fine with me.


Lizbeth took my hand and sat next to me on the grassy hill next to the playground. “Cuando vas a volver a su pais (When are you returning to your country)?” she asked, the puppy eyed pout invisible but understood. “No hasta el veinte de noviembre (not until Nov 20),” I replied with a smile. Her eyes lit up, and she leaned her head on my shoulder as if she could now love me without having to fear an approaching heartbreak.


“Que son (what are they)?” Elizabeth asked as she studied the English label on the packet of Pop Rocks. I explained that they were a candy that would “go pop, pop, pop” in her mouth. Looking both nervous and excited, she tore open the package. But instead of pouring them into her own mouth, as I expected, she walked over to Lizbeth, and poured about a fourth of the pop rocks into her hand. She proceeded to share with her sister and several other children sitting nearby that weren’t even her friends. Lizbeth giggled next to me. Covering her mouth, she muttered Spanish that I couldn‘t understand. Watching their glowing eyes and contagious smiles, I wished I had a million packets of Pop Rocks to share.


Matagente (Kill People) is by far the most confusing game I’ve ever played. This is probably due to the fact that it was explained to me in Spanish, but nevertheless, it took me two days to catch on. At first, it resembles Monkey in the Middle with twenty monkeys. Two kids stand on each side of a mob and throw the ball into the air. The “monkeys” try to catch the ball, receiving one hundred points each time they do. I quickly realized that, towering at least a foot over everyone else, I had a huge advantage. And although it seemed mean to always catch the ball, I found that the kids wanted me to because my points would benefit them later. After tossing the ball into the air five or six times, the two people on the outside are told to “mata (kill).” Now, the game resembles dodge ball as they throw the ball with the aim of hitting someone, who is then muerta (dead). If a person in the middle catches the ball, they have two options. They can take 100 points or they can revive someone that is muerta. The points are useful because if you get hit, you lose 100 points, but if you have no points, you die. Most kids, therefore, try to rack up the points, especially a particularly athletic kid named Jaime. He constantly dove for the ball, holding it up when he caught it, and never offering to save one of the “dead” children begging to be rescued. I, on the other hand, became the children’s hero, saving one kid after another and blocking the tiniest children from the ball. Eventually, a line of six little ones formed behind me, the closest child clinging to my shirt. I rarely tried to dodge the ball but instead made sacrifices to catch it. Because I had so many points from the beginning, I could afford to be hit a few times without being muerta. Jaime did the same, but with more selfish ambitions. Eventually, though, he took one too many risks diving for the ball, and he too was muerto. To my surprise, he looked at me with wide eyes and asked the same question as all the other children, “Proxima(me next)?” He was asking to be saved. I realized that this twelve year old boy was exhibiting a brilliant picture of grace. He didn’t deserve to be saved. He never saved anyone else and only cared about himself. I didn’t have to save him. I wasn’t obligated in any way; it was totally my choice. Yet, I, playing the Savior, would rescue him just the same. Because that’s what grace is all about.

Me with Anai, Sayuli, Nayeli, Dayana, Melisa, and Myli

Me with Luis

Me with Duran and Milagros