To Be a Firefly

Everybody knows that a S’more is one of the best things in the world…everybody in America, that is. But four thousand miles away, in Huancayo, Peru, roasting marshmallows is a completely foreign idea. Nevertheless, I decided to bring the ingredients to the school on Friday and turn the kids’ world upside down.


“Ezmooor” the kids repeated as I explained my favorite traditional American snack. The first group of kids in my classroom were not nearly excited enough until I began placing candles in front of them. Then their eyes grew wide. They watched in awe as I demonstrated, holding the marshmallow just above the tiny flame and letting it bubble and burn.

Two seconds after I let them start, every candle had been snuffed out by their excitement. As I relit each one, I realized that I was going to need a lot more matches. I passed the flame over and over again to each person, feeling like I was trapped in a scratched DVD of a Christmas eve church service. Over the course of ten minutes, the tiny candles blinked on and off like fireflies, their golden flecks of light twinkling in the dusky room. And like fireflies, though they flickered out repeatedly, they left a happy glow in the eyes of each child.

When the marshmallows were as black as night, a mess of crumbly ashes, they put them on their S’mores with a blob of chocolate syrup, and opened wide. Those first bites brought some of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. Kids watching through the window begged to come in and have a turn.

After everyone had tasted a S’more, it was time to leave. On the way home, five year old Luis looked like he was walking on air. His sticky chocolate lips bore the grin of a child on Christmas. “Luis!” I called, very amused by his angelically joyful face. “Fue el mejor dia de tu vida? (Was that the best day of your life?)” With an enthusiastic nod, his grin grew even wider (almost like the Joker but adorable instead of creepy), and he bounced away with the gusto of the Energize Bunny fueled by sugar.

Just fyi, the blue is icing. We let them decorate the grahm crackers too, so it would take up more time.

Three Kinds of Smiles

I didn’t remember taking a ride in a time machine, but straddling my beautiful gray horse with adobe houses on both sides, I was sure that I was back in time. Could there really be parts of the world that still remained so untouched by human advancement and technology? On my right, a woman was leading a flock of sheep down the dirt road, clad in homemade clothing with a baby slung on her back. On my left, a man was training two oxen in a yoke so they could later plow his giant field. The village around me consisted of garage sized mud houses with ceramic tile roofs whose crumbling walls and collapsing ceilings made me wonder at their age. Farmland stretched for miles, and rolling mountains framed the village on every side. As we waved at the staring villagers (gringas are apparently fascinating in any age), I half expected Paul Revere to ride up behind me shouting, “The British are coming!”

But when I saw a car parked next to a tiny house with a llama tied nearby, I remembered that I was not in colonial America, but 21st century Peru. I would not be meeting George Washington or John Adams on this particular day. Nevertheless, when thunder boomed, I kicked my horse to go faster and smiled confidently as my imagination transformed me into a galloping 18th century heroine racing to beat the storm.

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When you find out you’re only going to have eight out of thirty five kids the next day, you know you have to do something fun. So yesterday when we showed up at the school, we came bearing gifts. The kids arrived to find the tables laden with cupcakes, colorful icing, fudge sauce, M&Ms, sprinkles, and everything else necessary to decorate a cupcake. With wide eyes, they each sat down next to a cake and grabbed a bag of icing. Not ten minutes later, every cupcake looked like the Mile Hile City, with mountains of icing piled on top. Towers of candies and mounds of chocolate adorned each one.

A frenzy followed the signal to begin eating. Seeing their faces, you’d have thought the day’s activity was face painting. I burst out laughing when I saw Benyi lick off his icing and hand his now plain chocolate cake to Efrain, who put it in a bag for later. Soon, the only sign of the cupcakes were the stains on the kids’ lips and noses. As they looked up at me with their Cheshire cat grins, I pitied their mothers. Sugar high…sugar low.

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A chilly breeze slipped under my blanket of hair raising goose bumps on my neck and sending a shiver down my spine. But though I was chilly, my right hand was warm. Lizbeth clutched my hand tightly as she walked next to me. Her grip was neither the reluctant hold of a child too old to hold her mother’s hand while crossing the street, nor was it the obnoxiously tight squeeze of an ornery boy trying to be difficult. Instead, she held my hand as if it contained a hundred soles that she was determined not to lose.

I felt her gaze as I talked to Krista and Molly. She watched me intently although she couldn‘t understand our English. Her smile widened each time I said goodbye to one of the children tagging along, and her satisfaction was evident when she was the only one left, finally having me to herself.

When I reached her road, I bent down to kiss her cheek and say “Hasta mañana (see you tomorrow).” But instead of kissing me back, she turned her head and clutched my hand tighter. “No!” she exclaimed. “Voy a tu casa. (I’m going to your house).” Despite my shaking head, I felt my smile stand on its tiptoes to reach my eyes and somehow also reach all the way down to my heart.

Over the Rainbow

This is an excerpt from a scholarship essay that I'm writing.

Four thousand miles away from all of my famiy and friends, my hair blows in the wind as I push three-year-old Araceli on the swing. Her eyes glitter like jewels she will never be able to afford, and her laugh is like an oasis in the Sahara. Yet despite her unadulterated joy, the marks of the pain she’s endured linger like footprints in wet cement. Her cheeks are pink with marks of abuse instead of the healthy glow or bashful blush of a happy child. Crumbs are scattered around her lips, not reminders of a tasty snack, but of a hastily devoured meal eaten in desperation and fear of when the next would come. The nippy air slips in through holes in her sweater, and her broken shoes threaten to fall off at any moment. Watching her swing, I cannot tell if the tears pooling in my eyes spring from joy or sorrow.

Suddenly, I see Araceli’s grip weaken on the handles of the swing. Just as I yell, “¡Cuidado!” she tumbles onto the dusty ground. As giggles turn to wails, I scoop up the sobbing child and cradle her in my arms while dormant pain erupts from her like an angry volcano. She cries for the mother that abandoned her in the jungle, the father that she never met, the adoptive mother that beats her, and because she feels like Dorothy, longing to escape to a world beyond the rainbow. Yet instead of living in the black and white world of Kansas, her world is bright with color: the blue of her loneliness, the red of her new mother’s rage, and the yellow of her fear. If only she would realize that I’m here to love her, to be the tornado that lifts her into a world where she is cherished and protected. How I wish I could sacrifice everything and promise to never leave.

When her well of tears begins to dry, I grab her grubby hands and start to spin. A smile plays peek-a-boo at the corner of her lips as we dizzily topple to the ground. When her smile finally takes center stage, I turn and whisper in her ear, “Araceli, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Update: Since I wrote this essay, Araceli stopped coming to the school. Apparently, she is back in the jungle working in a coffee field with her mother. However, we don't know if this is her real or adopted mother or if/when she is coming back. Please pray for her.