Despite my silence about Easter weekend, it was actually full of moments that I wish I could just project across the vast expanse of sky that hovers over wherever you happen to be.
It began several weeks beforehand; we planned two or three activities to which we could attach holiday explanation. My Canuck team-mate and I teach classes of same-level undergrad students, so we combined our efforts and sketched out a scavenger hunt throughout campus with clues relating back to the events of Easter. The other team-mate designed a well-organized egg decoration activity. After seeing her arsenal of dyes, I'm convinced that she subsidized the college tuition for all the children of PAAS employees.
The Canuckster and I didn't have such a stash, so after very unsuccessful attempts at homemade approaches, we gave up and supplied nothing but colored pens and markers. Note: Never trust an online authority who promotes using boiled red onion skins as a “fun and organic way” to dye eggs.
The hunt and the egg contest were both held on Saturday morning following a week of lessons about the history of Easter. We sent students all over campus by positioning volunteers at different locations, which each person holding a clue that, when answered correctly, would take groups to the next location to obtain the next clue. (Sample question: “How many people were at the Last Supper? Go the dorm which corresponds to this number.” Most figured this out and hi-tailed it dorm 13 where we had someone waiting to intercept them.) Each clue was written on a piece of paper that acted as a puzzle piece, with the puzzle forming an egg shape when completed.
The first group to finish was a quartet of boys – three of them my students. I attribute this to two things: Boys outnumber girls at this university 7:1, so they were statistically favored to win. Also, boys here are endearingly unkempt, so running around campus while panting like a pack of delusional bloodhounds isn't perceived as a challenge to their coolness.
As groups straggled in – out of breath – we offered them snacks and drinks and then set them to work decorating a group Easter egg. Once we had all the students assembled, we elected our volunteers from the scavenger hunt to act as judges for the egg contest. Each group chose a representative to display its egg at the front of the class, with judges passing by and asking questions. This sounds official, but it was actually just a ruse to get our judges – all very sweet and “available” guys – some face time with the girls. It was like a very awkward version of speed dating.
Once the winners were announced, we informed them that the Canuck and the American would take the bronze, silver and gold teams out for a victory lunch. (See how I correlate this to the Olympics, WHICH I STILL REFUSE TO BELIEVE ARE OVER! Read previous entries for details.) Considering that most of these kids eat in the dining hall out of economical necessity, this reward - plus the advantage of having so many eligible girls in one room - quickly cemented our activity as the coolest “non-dance-non-Rubik's-cube-themed activity” of the semester.
Lunch was the Canuck, me, approximately ten girls, and one nervous young man who somehow got drafted on one of the winning teams. We had a great time, made a campus cafe owner very happy, and left with full bellies. On the way back to the dorm, one of the girls in the group asked me what I would do the next day for an official Easter celebration. I explained to her that I had planned to go to a sanctioned morning service. She told me that she also attends a group and asked if she could be a guest with me. I welcomed the company, and we set off the next morning for the 45 minute walk, along with some other HIT students and personnel. En route, we discussed the events of the morning as we understood them from their 2000 year history, my own contributions settling on how it was the unlovables to whom he appeared – the Magdelenes and the Peters and the Thomases – all, in some way, facets of ourselves.
Somewhere in the discourse, I mentioned that another student would meet us there. I hadn't planned to invite him, but things had changed the week before. During the lesson on food (see previous entry), his classmates ended up wandering to different parts of the room while he and I moved from talking about Bananas Foster to – inexplicably – his life choices. I remember that he looked at me and said, “I don't know what I want to do, but it's really hard because I only have about a year to decide if I want to stay in my major, but I have to live with that decision for the next 40 years of my life. It's just so hard, and I don't have anyone I can talk to.”
Not many freshmen acknowledge that abrupt truth.
As I nodded, he looked down and refused to look back up. I knew what that meant. I said nothing and patiently waited for him to navigate the conversation. He looked up with tears gently gliding down his face and apologized for being emotional. While he wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, I gave him a reassuring smile and said that I would be available anytime for a future chat. He thanked me and then went to the restroom to wash away the evidence.
For the next few days, he was in my thoughts. I finally decided to invite him to a Sunday service and sat down to type out the email only to discover that he had acted first. He sent me a message that I'd like to post, but I promised him that I wouldn't share his information with anyone, so I intend to keep that promise, even on an international scale.
What I can share, however, is my reply:
I'm so glad that you wrote. Friday mornings are a little calmer for me since I don't have classes. Quite often, I spend several minutes thinking about the past week - the good and the bad. This morning, I thought about the conversation that you and I had on Wednesday. It appears that we both had the same thing on our minds.
Let me put to rest any fears that you may have about what you shared with me. What we discussed will stay between us. I don't share my students' personal information and stories - that's unprofessional and, more importantly, not the way a friend should behave.
Second, don't buy the idea that, "Real men don't cry." Some of the most honorable and respected men whom I have known have been men who are not afraid to show their emotions during times of great trouble, joy, sadness, etc. Human beings were never designed to act like rocks. From the moment of conception, we are living, breathing, thinking, feeling beings. In my opinion, that's a marvelous gift - to be granted so many emotions and thoughts that make us different from all other animals. So, crying isn't something for which you should apologize.
Finally, there are some other things that I would like to talk to you about, but email is my least favorite method of one-to-one communication. Are you free this weekend or next week? Maybe we can have lunch together. I think you will be very interested in what I have to say.
Take care, and thanks again for writing.
The following week, he approached me after class and I nominated a Sunday afternoon lunch, knowing full well that I could tag it onto the disclosure of where I'd be that morning. He showed immediate interest in both, and we agreed to meet at the location of the service.
He stepped inside with us to a packed room. We took side seats next to the other members of our group and began with a choral convocation, many of the songs being ones that I've sung since I was young. “In C Alone,” the first of the series, is one I know by heart. As the lyrics began, he turned around with wide eyes, I guess in surprise to hearing his teacher sing. He began to grin and whispered, “That's a beautiful song.” I smiled back and continued singing. He never sang but followed the words with his eyes, trying to absorb the meaning of what was being echoed through the building.
I took along my bi-lingual copy of the word and let him use it. As expected, he was totally unfamiliar with its contents, but I could tell that he was intrigued. As different verses were highlighted, I'd reach over and find their locations so that he could read along in his own language. During that time, I kept petitioning and asking for understanding to be granted despite the language difficulties.
As soon as the service was over, we shuffled outside and made lunch plans. He joined us, and I was so thankful to see how the other students exercised such congeniality toward him. Of course, it helps that he's one of the more confident and friendly types. After lunch, three of us encouraged him to walk back to main campus with us, and it's no coincidence that we three were also the same ones who walked TO the service. It was during that journey when I first informed the other two that he would be joining us, that he knows very little of what we believe and would need some people to come alongside him that day for explanation. What they accomplished on the walk back was something that I cannot duplicate or even improve because they're his peers and, more importantly, his national peers. I'm the foreign teacher, and that's not ever gonna change.
We arrived back and took a few extra minutes to meander through campus. Ending up at my dorm, I remembered that I had agreed to loan out a few DVDs to the girl in our group, so I ran upstairs and grabbed some movies for her. While I was rummaging through my collection, I came across the Narnia tales and decided that my morning guest might benefit from watching them. At the very least, I knew that I could use the videos as a way to introduce him to the concept of allegory.
I returned to the lobby and presented them with the selection. He immediately went for the Narnia movies. I tried not to look too excited.
And that was the last time I saw him. I teach his class again this Wednesday (and every Wednesday until the end of the semester). If you've made it this far into the reading, then please pause for this young man. Ask that his eyes and ears may be opened. Ask that he may have the peace for which he longs. Ask that my presence and influence in his life would find favor with his family. (Parents and grandparents can make or break relationships here.)
So that was my Easter weekend.
No pastel dresses and little girls with bows. Just a crowd in jeans and old people with wiry hair.
No swelling orchestra music filling the sanctuary. Just a guitar, an ill-tuned violin, and a choir of four mangling their way through a song from “Sister Act II.” I'm not kidding.
No formal dining table offering ham with macaroni and cheese. Just a restaurant full of Chinese people and me, ordering the likes of pork, eggplant, and cabbage dishes.
No overwhelming numbers surging forward during the invocation. Just a few of us going in with a hope that we desire to see flourish in this city...beginning, perhaps, with a kid who was assigned to an ordinary English class.
