Mazapan School

It's too easy to post only the highlights of your life onto a blog, and I know I've been guilty of this. I also know that I will continue to be guilty of this.

I want to now highlight more of the place in which some days I spend from 6:45am to 5:30pm. [And yes, I have a newfound appreciation for all of my former and present teachers, that is forrrr sure.]

Here are some of my favorite poems written by my eighth graders:

Returning by: M. C.
Dropping from the sky
I say goodbye
and fall to the great mother lake

Afternoon by I..

Winter afternoon,

Unfinished dreams fade away

By the fireplace.

Religion by L.E.

Will my religion take me to heaven?

Or is that religion better and mine or least?

Are religious persons better?

Will religion make world peace?

I think religions are good and bad as a fact.

Why do we spend so much time talking about how to better our world or how to make peace?

I think it will be better to take acts.

Why do we spend so much time reading the Bible, Torah, or any religious book?

Is that what God on you will look?

Will God count the hours you spend reading these books or will God count your actions?

Religion can’t be fractions, nor the world should be.

If all those words at last were to be only words,

How would you feel?

Let that white bird not be a symbol, let it be real.

and last, but certainly not least: 

Why are you Everywhere? By A Special Young Man. 

Who are you?

Why am I seeing you everywhere?

Is it love that makes us see each other?

Or are you just a stalker that wants to see my beauty?

Oh, and some new ones from my seventh graders:

Green Dinosaurs by W.N.
Dinosaurs are green
because they like to eat beans


These people really are [mostly] a joy to spend my days with.

Mazapan is picturesque. The approximately 350 students from pre-k to 12th grade take classes in 1 of 7 houses like this. My classroom happens to be on the top floor of the building on the right. All of the well-trafficked thoroughfares are covered with that green awning because we live in the tropics.


And here are some pictures of me doing that whole teaching thang:

 The woman at the well listening to the words of futbol-jersey-wearing Jesus.

Explaining a particular poetry station to my 7th graders. Wait. Espera. Is that a crazed look on my face?

Ooooh yes it is. I've come to wear it frequently and well, if I do say so myself.

New pictures are below, and I think that's all for a while my dear friends.

Full Moon

Tropical Autumn

Lluvia

Some of the best moments of my life have involved rain.

I remember my mom letting me wade through a huge parking-lot-lake without shoes on when I was little enough to feel like Pocahontas in a blonde wig. I remember standing on the porch with Dad watching storms in awe. I remember the August storm on College Avenue last year. And I remember the hitchhike rain of 5 days ago.

Four of my colleagues and I decided to spend the majority of our day off traveling up the mountains to Río Cangrejal, which happens to be one of the premier rafting rivers in Central America. Once there, I enjoyed some wonderful sitting, jumping, and swimming. Then my group spent a few hours at a restaurant feasting on quite the delectable vista (see below). Rather then spending an hour of waiting, and 2 and ½ dollars of money taking a taxi home, my experienced friends said that the only good way to get home is: to Hitchhike.

Parents: cue the scolding.

God: cue the raining.

We raised one thumb each (which I then learned is a universal symbol) to a passing truck. He said we could hop on in, and so we did.

If I were an experienced local and had a bunch of gringos in the back of my truck, I’d probably do the same as our driver. Because of my curious nature, I’d drive over as many craters in the dirt road as I could find to see how that infamous American badonkadonk really could cushion itself. Because of the pouring rain and my compassionate heart, I’d drive as quickly as possible so hot showers could be available to those cold-blooded North Americans ASAP. And because of grief over the loss of my pigs that used to accompany me in my truck, I’d continue at such a rapid pace just to hear those squeals once more…

After just 15 minutes passed, we were safely back in the city and pounded on the side of truck to have our driver stop. I moved my lips in a “gracias” sort of fashion, and  realized I hadn’t stopped smiling until that moment.

Homage to the Shadows*

      To all who read this and/or have been my friend, thank you for choosing to love me. You have loved me so well throughout these months in word and deed.
      Words have a sad reputation of being empty. However, I know how sincerely- how fully- you have said these words; they are like the constant shadows cast from embodied actions on a cloudless day. I can't replicate all of the shadows, but I want to thank you for saying:

"How did you sleep?"

"How was your day?"

"Can I photocopy that for you?"

"Ms. Grace, you've gotten so much better. I don't get confused at all anymore!"

"I really want to cyber-hug ya." 

"It is my intention that you will always have a home here. You will always be family."

"I really do hope you are doing well and I'd love to talk on the phone sometime upon your arrival. 

You are a dear person to me Gracie" 

"I was thinking of you the other day because I attempted to climb a tree and didn't fall! ...and I think, 'Wouldn't Gracie be proud.' "

"I think of you often, especially when..." 

 "I´ve been thinking a lot about our weekend and I think it will be really important"

"Praying so much."

 "and my next comment after she almost gagged was, that was a Grace McCutcheon comment." 

"Shoot me some prayer requests when you can!"

"Dear dear friend,

   I was just sitting here thinking of you and couldn't get up before I wrote to you.  There is a beautiful storm brewing outside the window...the sky is steel grey and the light green trees have taken on a silver tint as the wind flips their leaves over.  And yet, there is a golden light that washes over all this...This storm I'm watching feels like this passage...how our Father, more loving and powerful than we will ever know, comes in light, bringing healing to this earth, triumphing over the darkness and storms of this present age, to set us free for joy this new life brings. May you be filled with joy." 

"I love her so much, and I pray that she would feel the prayers I've been praying for her. Lord continue to help her do the work out there and safely come back to us soon :) amen."

"How are YOU?Excited to see you!Please let me know your thoughts."

"Are you bringing a working cell phone for emergencies?

Do you have pepper spray?

Have fun."

I cannot love life. I love the author of it.

I cannot pay homage to those who make me relationally rich,  but to the one who has authored and enabled such loving relationships.


Author's note*

Though most of the words in this piece are not mine, I spent more time crafting this post than most. I wondered how will people read this? Is this boasting about my quality of friends? Will people feel left out if I didn't quote them? Is this plagiarism?  and more.

I am convicted now that this is a worthwhile post. 

Please do not deny the remarkable love that has been given to me in these words.
Please do not suppose this remarkable love has been given to me because I am remarkable.
I am not.
I want this to be a witness that this sincerity of love is REAL,
and the community from which it flows exists.
If you don't have this and want it, it's available to you.

You only have to ask.

"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."

"If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"

A Classic

You all ready for a classic “If I had stayed in the US I’d never…” list?  Ready or not, here it comes.

I would never:

-have a personal bathroom, or step down into my shower.

-converse in such an incredibly friendly manner. Por ejemplo (for example), I said to a passing stranger on the street, “Good evening." She promptly replied, “How are you my love?”

-start and finish 4 books in 12 days; having few friends has its perks (this was during the observation part of my practicum and would in no way be possible now)

-cook during the school year ( I <3 my cafeteria). Here, my cooking is better than it’s ever been…mostly because before, it never has been.

-be tempted to buy small animals before 6:45 am. As if it’s not hard enough for me to drive by those great big PUPPY stores in the US, here they hold bunches of puppies on the corner as I go to and from work! And with this inflation, I’m sure they only cost 20 bucks.

-say, “Then Jesus saved the whole world from their fish.”

-learn the Spanish word for plunger. àgross implications

-watch Alf on an after-school television program (that one’s for you Jess and Dan)

-make my bed ever day

-hear an 8^th grader ask in utter nonchalance, “Should we do the skit in English or Spanish?”

-mime “live birth” in front of my host family and 15 other strange, though smiley, women. I do love a good game of babyshower charades.

-wash my dishes with the neatest little soap-in-a-tub, where the sponge lives happily and so efficiently ever after

-cook lunch (the main meal here) for four at least once a week. I think I already said something like this.

-have seen a 5 gallon tub of Cheese Puffs sold at Honduras’ version of Office Max  (this one's for you ULs)

A link

https://sites.google.com/site/mrlightsclass/

Here is a little link to my classroom website. Feel free to look around; the homework for all of my classes is posted daily, and there is a little "Get to know Ms. Grace" link on the left.

Thank you for all of your prayerful support of my journey thus far. Really, it means so so much. May you be blessed today with a renewed sense of hope, joy and love.

This Is/These Are

Ixchelt, Futbol y Un Arcoiris

           Today was a great day. Hoy estuvo un dia buenisimo. The fourth day of the school year, and I determinedly began the process of knowing my 70 some students’ names. Put an emphasis on began; I address them confidently when as they sit sedentary in a neat little row, but when they exercise their mobility, eso es un otro cuento (that is another story). Hey you have brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, a navy blue skirt, white shirt, and white socks that rise above the ankle. Clearly your name is Jose...or is it Josue? Andrea..no Adrianna...Arnaldo Alejandro Mario Maria MariaDelMar Juan O. Juan C. Luis S. Luis A. Luis G? Or are you one of my personal favorites, Ixchelt?

            Though the identities of my students can still be a jumble, I do feel much more included in my classroom now. This has not really been the case thus far as I have only been observing (I start teaching in about a week). My day solely consisted of grading, observing, reading the class literature and memorizing names, yet I considered it a success. Succinctly illustrated, moments after school ended my wonderful Honduran host mama, Diana, asked me with her contagious ubiquitous smile, “Estas orgullosa?” “Are you proud? “si” I replied.  

            From school I traveled mere blocks to the supermarket with Diana and her daughter (also one of my students). Here I managed to ask a worker “where is the ham of the body?” Jamon really is just one letter different from jabon: soap. Mistakes are regular occurrences as you can understand, and they always make for a good laugh for all involved.

            Upon arriving home, I agreed to participate in the soon-becoming-ritual of playing sports with my neighbor/cousin/8-year-old friend. (First his grandmother called me over to make sure he was not manipulating me into playing with him every day. I assured her I had sufficient capacities to say no to Josue’s ador/ing/able face when I wanted to. I do really appreciate how these people are so thoughtful.) Frisbee turned into futbol in the street, and Josue and I were joined by 5,6,7 other neighborhood kids who now scream “GRAIS!” as they collide into my legs every time I am near, consequentially making my day.  Speaking of legs, who would have known that while playing against these Honduran soccer players since birth my long legs could actually compete...yet only if they are 12 and under.

            As the oldest, maintaining our physical safety falls into my jurisdiction. Abruptly made aware of a passing car, I shepherded the players to the sidewalk, wiped the sweat from my face, breathed, and glanced heavenward. Too soon the mountains above stole my barely-recovered breath. Stolen by above above the mountains, rather. It was a gift from God: an Arcoiris.

            Arcoirises are regular occurrences here, and people don’t revere the beauty as enthusiastically as I did (I may or may not have shouted to all my family members and neighbors to come outside quickly). This highlights that universal problem of, in my opinion, Inappropriate Blasé-ness. Why does one’s awe and gratitude always seem to disintegrate when routine and expectations have deeply taken root into our beings? Though I was excited about this sublime manifestation of Glory, I wonder what other awesome thing I am overlooking today? The touch of baby’s finger on my cheek, the sweet harmonies emanating from the radio tapping every foot within earshot, the projector displaying new words to be ingested by the learning. Grandiose or secret, so much really can be awesome, if only… Ok enough. This blog is not my journal after all. That said I am struggling to find the balance of what this is meant to be, and who it is meant for. Philosophy or schedule? You or me? Surely a blog can be all of the above. Wow I’m rambling.  

            Soon after the Arcoiris, I unpopularly called the game a quits and headed in to eat a light and late dinner, helped prepare lunch for tomorrow, and write most of this post in a moonlit garden in the back corner of our plot. Now to bed, and thank God for a lovely day!

Below, I have pasted together a short film for your enjoyment. I eat so much cheese here it has even permiated into this movie; feel free to shed a tear in mockery. Also listen closely to me butcher this new vocab word and hear my friend ask what on earth I am saying. The woman standing in the gate is at my house.

Oh and thanks to mom’s work for this little video camera... moreover thanks for her disinterest in technology. (And of course thank you ma for the constant generosity that is the reason for 75% of my possessions).  Hasta Luego Amigos!

Safe

I have arrived safely and am so grateful for the people here; they put my love of strangers to shame. So far I have spoken spanish more than probably all my times in a spanish class combined, swam in the carribean sea, befriended an 8 year old (he´s my best friend so far), tasted tomales y cafe, and tomorrow I start school. I´m looking forward to having an occupation. And Ill write in more detail later.

my address: Residencial Villa Mary, Bloque U casa #9, La Ceiba, Atlántida, Honduras Centro América.

Adios con besitos!

Introduction

Greetings! Please come in and make yourself at home. For those of you who don't know, I am leaving a summer at camp and venturing out to Honduras in a couple days to student teach math and possibly other subjects in an eighth grade international school classroom in La Ceiba Honduras for three months living with another teacher at that school and her family. Now that all the boring facts are over and done with in one sentence, let's get to some carne.

I entitled this blog EDventures not just to make a cutesy corny pun (I am an elementary education major though for a reason). I titled this mostly to remind myself of my main purpose in Honduras: practice educating. Yes I will experience culture, and speak en Espanol. Yes I will explore mountains and talk of God to new friends. But I seem to find myself dreaming more of these than lesson-planning and grading (can you blame me?). I know though that teaching is a privilege, and a great adventure. Ergo, welcome to EDventures.

I confess this first and foremost: while blogging I am tempted to painstakingly choose each word to impress upon you the beauty of my journey, but moreso the wonder of my own gifts and talents. The truth is, I employ speel chek and a thesaurus often.The truth is, I need to be doing other things with my life(yet will post hopefully twice a month to keep those I love fairly updated). The truth is, anything true or good is God's.  

I was inspired at HoneyRock. I was gifted with much that I desire to always remember. Harmonicas, Cabin Reflection, HPT, buckwheat pancakes, celebration service, BIF, Zacco, woodchip dust with exuberant worship, strong and courageous songs, challenging conversations. If I were to forgot these I would in fact be dis-membering myself. I must think of the past.

Now, I must think of the future. My depths have cried out to the deep of God. I know though that his breakers are all around me, and a "human merely being can not doubt unimaginable you" or so says ee cummings. I want so badly to know the way I should go each morning. I want the rough unknown Honduran places to be made smooth. What I am tempted to forget is this truth: Jesus is the way. I do know the way, and I just must follow His voice, with each step hearing more of unfailing love. What good news. And now that I come to think on it, a stubbed toe and stumble up an organic mountain path is quite stimulating and life-giving every now and then. 

It helps my easily-overwhelmed-through-transitions body to know that I am leaving one natural land where God overtly talks to go to a hotter nother. For me, God works to inspire quite frequently through grass, skies, and most other green and blue things. In fact, reflecting upon one late Sunday summer storm, and my upcoming adventures, I was inspired. And now please say to me,         

     "Grace, I know you've been verbally processing a lot already through this post, but could you in a rather dramatic and verbose way just tell me one more time how you are feeling, before you have even arrived at that country? The kids have stopped screaming for the first time in 20 hours and I'd just really love to read more of your words than anything else at present." 

     "Well, alright":

The thick air around me, mostly above me, leaves its condensing impressions.The jet-engines boom repeatedly and stimulate each and every atom that hears. Leaves dance as whirling dervishes and awaken their stiffened joints. Humans and chipmunks scurry to collect their belongings and find shelter. They pass over the gravel, laying down a crunching beat to the tune of Summer Storm.

I am a rock in the gravel. I wait for the storm; determinedly unsheltered. This vulnerability thickens the electric anticipation that now is tangible.
5 minutes pass. Boom.
Ten minutes later. Boom.
30 minutes then feel like a thousand when
blinding pink thick ribbons crash from the heavens, and the long-fought-against tears are dropped- no, thrown.
My eyelids close.
I pray. I pray for God to finesse those imminent drops in a way that upon contact, yields much good.
I think. I think of the irony:  acquiring so much dirt, so much unnecessary, so much wrong, while my days were spent sedentary and chatting in such a neat, such a pristine, such a uniform path.
I swallow; I know this storm will shake me up.
The wind hastens. It whispers how it will loosen grime, smoothen barnacles, and make jagged the places previously hollowed for coffins.

The first drop touches my head. It is cool, and I smile.