To be and to have been.

I remember one day during recess when the children were all climbing the fence to reach the baby mango fruits that hung innocently from their drooping branches. It was a big ordeal to finally get all of them to stop picking them and interest the darling rascals in something else besides scaling fences, but I never stopped looking at those little green mangos, and wondering how juicy and sweet they would be once in season. I was told they'd be ripe right around the time I'm about to leave. I was also told that, by the time I come home, my hair will have grown back to what it was before I cut it in preparation for my trip to a tropical island. 

My coworkers had told me I would be fluent in Spanish, and Mirka had said we would be speaking Creole as well as Spanish--something my overwhelmed brain refused to accept while it attempted to grapple the foundational shreds of the Spanish language that I had laid so long ago in an effort to make some sense out this Spanish speaking world I had signed up for. 

Every morning in class, the kids repeat the month that we're in. We've gone through enero, febrero, marzo, abril, mayo, and are on the brink of junio. Akin to a calendar flipping it's way through the year during those movie montages with dramatically sentimental music, I've lived through each of those months, some longer, shorter, better, and harder than others. There was February when I made it my month's resolution to have intentional conversations with people because I was living alone, isolated and far from talkative in the midst of a 500 different people for all of January. I'd walk away from work and wonder why I was here, feeling frustrated and lonely, crying in church and eager to leave after the service as soon as possible. I felt hurt when people said I couldn't speak Spanish, but I also thought that they were right too. Yet February changed a lot of that. 

There was March, when my sister visited me and I realized how much I dearly loved her, and how greatly God is working in this place and using so many different people to do it. There was April which flew by because it was chalk full of people coming and going, lots of talking, lots of taxi rides, and lots of growing. 

And then there was May, which seemed to have started just yesterday and seems to now be ending tomorrow. 

I've watched the fruit grow and we are upon the threshold of being in the time of mangoes, juicy orange goodness splashing all over my face and dripping down my chin till it reaches my neck, leaving mango fibers stuck in my teeth which makes Kristen consider them as "ridiculous" and which makes me call them "ridiculously delicious."

 I've seen my hair inch it's way down past my shoulders and touch my back like a shy and timid guest at the door, turning lighter when I'm out in the sun. I've watched my brain grow as every day I speak, read, and understand Spanish; far from fluent but much closer than I was before. I'm picking up the beginnings of Creole, usually through hymn books, words scribbled on cardboard or my hands, and random phrases that I'm taught along the way as we walk or as I attempt communicating with the Creole-only speakers. All of this seems to indicate that our time here has almost come to an end. Yet I can't grasp it. I've grasped Spanish, Creole, the importance of vulnerability and rest, and I've grasped a bunch of other concepts while I've been here, but I can't grasp this. 

Last night I laid in my bed and imagined what it will be like to so suddenly not be with Kristen every single day; I think I felt something like an ache in my stomach. The same ache I feel when I think of my students, those who call me Mama, and those that wrap their arms around my neck and kiss my face. The ache that I feel when I consider suddenly not speaking Spanish everyday nor always having a large cluster of plantains sitting on the shelving in my kitchen. It's all these things and more, the church services, the hugs, the sense of freedom when we go into town on the chhitty chhitty bang bang. Small things, big things. All these things. 

Yet all these things are seen by my Father, by my God, and He knows why when what where and how. 

What's more than all of this though is the change I've seen in the school. In the kids and my own perception of the kids. There was a boy in my classroom who would physically fight with me, practically biting my arm once and breaking me in a million pieces because his smile could be so incredible and then he was so incredibly mean and shattered my heart because I loved him. The same boy isn't there anymore, now there's a boy who sits in his chair when I tell him to, hasn't fought me in ages, and loves me just as much as I love him. One thing that hasn't changed is his smile and the way it lights up his eyes, but I pray that never changes. 

There's another boy, one of the worst trouble makers and extremely defiant--he's a work in progress, because just the other day he punched his friend in the eye, but I see steps being taken in the right direction. One of which is responding to my love. We were standing out on the basketball court during recess and I grabbed him into a hug. We stood there for a long, long time. This boy is the same one who said to my face that one day when I was feeling so very weak that, "You don't have any strength" and punctured my heart--this heart which is getting a lot of wear and tear but thanks to God is still whole and probably better than ever because it's loving. 

There are many such students and similar changes, there are kids who couldn't do their lessons because of hunger and now run around laughing and full of energy. Too much sometimes...yet I would rather deal with life-filled rascals than hungrily stir-crazy kids any day. It's just an incredible and it's all because of God. 

 I may have questioned why I came here, why on earth God called me here because I knew He did but I didn't know why, and still don't know all the whys, but have learned to be content in that. I feel that this idea of trusting God when you don't know why is a very transferable and valuable lesson, one which I will never be perfect at, but one which I strive to learn all the same. 

I love to question, but sometimes I just need to stop the questioning and trust what God has for me. So as we step out on this last leg of our time here, I pray to trust and rely upon the One who was faithful to bring me here and will continue to be faithful till the end. II