Week 10: Holy Week in the Holy Land

As a Throwback Thursday/Flashback Friday of sorts, I have decided to complete a blog post about my Holy Week in the Holy Land while I studied abroad in Jerusalem in the spring of 2013. Everything until Wednesday was written in 2013. I will try to finish up the week using my memory and pictures from that time.

As I was apparently sorry for the delay in 2013, I still apologize for being absent for a while. I promise a lot has been happening, and I will try to write an update on my year in the Philippines soon!

Spring 2013:

Sorry it has taken me such an obnoxiously long time to finish this post. I started it during Pesach Break (so approximately the first week of April).

I last left you at the end of my Yam le Yam (Sea to Sea) hiking trip that ended on Palm Sunday. Unfortunately, I was not able to attend a Palm Sunday service, but I was able to fully experience the rest of Holy Week where it all went down over 2,000 years ago.

Monday was the first day of Pesach (Passover). Through the Office of Student Activities at Hebrew U, I was able to find a family in Jerusalem that wanted to host students for a Seder meal. Jeremy and Carmi are a wonderful young couple living right outside of the Kfar. Jeremy is English, and Carmi is South African. Carmi's parents also live in Jerusalem, and her dad, Sali, helped to lead our Seder. Jeremy also invited his Christian friends, Andre and Marie, who are in the tour guide business together. We ended up having a full table with my roommate Sarah, friends Evan and Amanda, Carmi's parents, Marie and Andre, Jeremy and Carmi, and myself.

I have done three Seder meals before. Two were through Hillel at W&L, and one was with OAPC. I have never had a Seder with an actual family before, nor have I ever had a Seder in Jerusalem. I was interested by the amount of discussion and dialogue that occurred throughout the Seder. Sali would always pause and explain to the non-Jews, who made up half the table, the significance and background to whatever it was that we were doing. Most of it was in English, but the songs were mainly in Hebrew.

Sali began the Seder by explaining the purpose of Passover and the Seder meal. Each year, Jews around the world remember and live out the Hebrew exodus from Egypt (Mitzrayim, מצר'ם). Sali explained to us that Mitzrayim and Jerusalem (from "Next year in Jerusalem!" that is at the end of the Seder) were metaphors for a state of mind, in addition to geographic locations. The foundation of the Jewish faith lies on constant questioning and examination, both internally and institutionally. That was a new idea to me, but I'm surprised I didn't come to the same conclusion earlier. Passover is a time to examine yourself and to bring yourself out of Mitzrayim and into a healthier, more improved Jerusalem state. It is something that you must do each year. I definitely agree with the idea of self-examination and self-improvement each year so that you don't find yourself stuck in a rut, simply going through the motions rather than fully living life.

When we got to the part of the Haggadah about the four sons (wise, evil, simple, and one who doesn't know how to ask), Jeremy showed us different artistic portrayals of the four sons from different places at different points in history. In each depiction, the one who doesn't know how to ask is the most Orthodox or whose life revolves around studying and learning. It was interesting to see that throughout history and around the world, mainstream Judaism sees the Ultra-Orthodox as doing something wrong. However, the Ultra-Orthodox see themselves as living out the Torah and all other teachings better than any other group of Jews.

We also learned why the meal is called a Seder (סדר) and along with that, the origin of one of the most common phrases in Hebrew, beseder (בסדר). Seder means order, so throughout the Seder meal, family's go through the order of the Haggadah. Beseder means alright or ok. Literally, it means in order. So when someone asks how you are and you answer with beseder, you are really saying that everything is in order.

Our Seder lasted a total of five hours. It may have been the longest dinner I've ever had, but it was worth every second. I really enjoyed having the opportunity to experience Southern hospitality from an English and South African couple in Jerusalem.

Tuesday, I went to the Old City with my friends Austin and Evan. The goal of this outing was to go to the Temple Mount to see the Dome of the Rock because I hadn't yet been after living here for two months. When we got there, we had some time to kill before the Temple Mount was open to tourists.

We wandered around for a while and found ourselves at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. We wandered into the Coptic Monastery and Church, which is located on the roof of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Past one of the Coptic chapels is a small hallway leading downstairs to what is called Queen Helena's Cistern. It is a cistern under the church that has the most amazing acoustics. Tourists spend 5 shekels to see it. Most sing their favorite hymns and enjoy the natural acoustics. The cistern is advertised as a natural development that Queen Helena discovered when she was searching for the true place of Jesus' Death and Resurrection. However, my archaeology teacher later told me that this cistern was one of many in the city that Herod the Great (king during Jesus' birth, yup, the one that wanted to kill baby Jesus) dug in order to provide more water to the growing city. It's really funny how historical facts/probable facts seem to get twisted in this lovely Holy City.

Stairs leading to Queen Helena's Cistern

After we left the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, our little outing became a mission to see all three of the major religious sites in the Old City in one day. We ventured to the Kotel on our way to the Temple Mount. While we were there, I noticed that the wall that separates the women's side from the men's had moved. The permanent looking fence was taken down in sections, and a plastic covered fence was a few feet away, giving more space to the women's side. I still don't know if anything is changing in terms of giving more equal religious rights at the Kotel.

The brown fence is the normal fence. The white fence is new, which increases the size of the women's side of the Kotel.

The Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock were absolutely beautiful. Only Muslims are allowed in the two mosques so we were only able to admire the beauty of the exterior. Many women and children were waiting outside of the Dome of the Rock. Children were playing with balls on the open area of the Temple Mount. I thought about bringing my homework and studying in the sun sometime, but then I remembered that tourists are only allowed in the Temple Mount at very specific times and only for a short amount of time.

The Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount (the third most important Muslim Holy Site)

On Wednesday, Evan and I wandered to the Mount of Olives, which is actually just a second peak beside Har Hatsofim (Mount Scopus), where we live and go to school. Our wanderings took us to Augusta Victoria, the Lutheran hospital, which is a part of the Church of the Ascension. We wandered to an outdoor chapel that is similar to what I have experienced at both Bethelwoods and Camp Shawnee, except this one looks over the West Bank. Mount of Olives is like Church Central in Jerusalem. Just about any Orthodox denomination you could ever want has a church somewhere on the Mount. Unfortunately, many of the churches have very specific visiting hours (like Tuesday and Thursday 12-2, only). Despite that fact, we were still able to visit the Church of All Nations, (written 4/3/15) which houses the Rock of Agony, where Jesus supposedly prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane before Judas betrayed him and handed him over to the Pharisees.

The Rock of Agony inside the Church of All Nations

Just outside of the Church of All Nations is a shrine dedicated to Mary, which is marked as the place where Jesus began his Passion and sweated blood. We continued out and took a walk through the Jewish cemetery in the Kidron Valley right outside the walls of the Old City. The hills are simply covered with tombs. From what I know, you have to be pretty important or wealthy to get buried near the Mount of Olives. The grandfather of one of my roommates is buried there because of his service to the Israeli Army. Along the trail through the tombs are a few archaeological sites of interest that we visited with my Archaeology in Jerusalem class. The monuments were built to be family burial sites. Now, there are gates preventing visitors from entering the tombs...but if it's unlocked, who's to say we can't go in and check it out?

Absalom's Tomb

One of the tombs inside the Cave of Jehoshaphat beside Absalom's Tomb

For Maundy Thursday, I joined the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer community for a moving ecumenical service. We started in the Old City, walking through the narrow streets, carrying crosses and candles, and singing hymns in many languages as the sun set beyond the walls. We ventured toward the Lion's Gate and walked up to the Mount of Olives to one of the many churches. Inside the gates, we gathered in a circle and had our Maundy Thursday service, very near to where Jesus held the Last Supper, washed the feet of his disciples, and went to pray before his betrayal. The service was multilingual and represented most, if not all, of the national, cultural, and ethnic voices present in our community.

Following the Way of the Cross through the Old City of Jerusalem

Good Friday began at sunrise, as we joined the Catholic Fathers on the Via Dolorosa that they normally do at 5 am every Friday. This again was a more ecumenical service, with clergy representing many different sects, denominations, and churches found in Jerusalem. We walked through the Old City stopping for scripture reading and prayer at each of the Stations of the Cross. Our portion ended in the main sanctuary of the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. I normally do not consider the Stations of the Cross to be central to my spiritual practices, but it was definitely a surreal experience walking with so many people from so many different backgrounds in what could be way that Jesus walked to his death. Even if we weren't perfectly on target, being pretty close was an experience I will never forget.

Clergy from many Christian traditions presiding over the Stations of the Cross

I honestly don't remember what I did on Saturday, as it isn't typically a holiday with special services or traditions for me. However, I just happened to stumble upon the Holy Saturday celebration in Bethlehem on May 4, 2013, when the Orthodox Tradition celebrates Holy Week. As we approached the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem in the West Bank, I heard shouts and sounds of celebration. We arrived at the church just as the parade was coming through the main street. Because most Christians in the Holy Land are Palestinian, the chants and celebrations were in Arabic. There was an infectious energy around. You couldn't help but get excited. And what exactly was everyone excited about? Not about wanting to wipe Israel off the map. Not revenge against other religions. Not even about ending the occupation. They were yelling about the good news of the resurrection of Jesus! It was truly a celebration full of dancing, singing, chanting, sitting on shoulders, and fire. Sounds almost like a music festival. The shouts in Arabic can be translated to "Hallelujah! Jesus is alive!" Palestinian Christians were gathering to celebrate the man who dared to disrupt the Empire, who came to turn the systems of injustice upside down, who was such a threat to those in power that he was tortured and crucified, who still managed to win by defeating that death and continuing to spread a message of love, hope, and peace. We can extract so much more about the meaning of Holy Week in this time and place with these people, but I will leave that for another time.

The actual ritual celebrated during the Orthodox Holy Saturday is the Miracle of the Holy Fire, which  spontaneously originates at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The Holy Fire spreads to other Orthodox churches around the world, including the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. So the parade we stumbled upon was bringing the Holy Fire from Jerusalem, the place of Jesus's death to Bethlehem, the place of Jesus's birth. Apparently the Holy Fire does not burn anyone, so everyone in attendance was not afraid of swinging around giant torches while sitting on someone else's shoulders. Meanwhile, I was terrified someone was going to get third degree burns. Here's to the power of the Holy Spirit.

Palestinian Christians celebrating the spread of the Holy Fire on the Orthodox Holy Saturday with shouts of "Hallelujah! Jesus is alive!"

Now let's go back to March 31, 2013, when the Protestant and Catholic traditions celebrated Easter. I woke up early for the Church of the Redeemer sunrise service at their Mount of Olives campus. As I mentioned earlier, they have an outdoor worship space with an altar that overlooks the West Bank. The service was amazing and gave much to meditate on as we looked onto the view below. In front of our eyes were homes of people who still live oppressed, seeking consistent access to water and economic opportunities, fearing they may wake up to the olive tress, a source of livelihood, may be burned or torn from the ground.

The view of the West Bank from the Mount of Olives campus of the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer

After the service, we had an amazing Easter brunch, which included ham, and some good fellowship. We had pita, hummus, falafel, and breakfast casserole, but the ham is the most important part. Just as I miss cheese in the Philippines, I missed the never Kosher pork, ham, bacon, and any pig products in Israel.

Not too bad of a breakfast for my first Easter away from my family

I hope you've enjoyed this trip down memory lane for me and first opportunity to share these reflections. I'll try not to take another two years before I reflect on and post about this Holy Week in the Philippines.

Happy Easter, y'all!

Why Are You Fat?

“Angela, why are you fat?” the young girl asked me, as we swam in the rolling waves of the ocean, she, in her denim shorts, black t-shirt clinging to her body, weighing her down in the water, big, beautiful dark eyes and dark hair falling messily over her head, and I, in my purple one-piece swimsuit that shows more skin than I normally expose and details every curve of my silhouette. It is a question I have been asked more in the past 6 months than in the past 22 years of my life. It is a question I still don’t quite know how to answer.

I can channel my inner Lady Gaga and say, “Baby, I was born this way.”

I can go with a technical answer. “It’s in my genes. Every woman on my mom’s side of the family has this body type.”

I can use a pretty realistic answer. “I haven’t been as active in the Philippines as I was in the United States. When my diet consists primarily of rice, fatty meats, and salty sauces, and my body metabolizes that food at a slower rate than it used to, I end up with more of me in different places than I am used to.”

I can echo Emily’s comments when I shared the story with her. “I’m fat because someone decided that a math formula generates a number called BMI (body mass index) which allows our society to draw boundaries around persons and associates it with a shaming term.”

The reality is that my body type has been this way my entire life. I do not think I have ever used the word “fat” to describe myself, opting more for euphemisms like “curvy,” “voluptuous,” or “heavy.” My weight has been at the forefront of an internal battle for my self-esteem, self-image, and body image for my entire life even though I rarely speak those words aloud. Oftentimes this internal battle manifests itself externally in searches for romantic connections, as if someone else’s validation of this body would give me more reason to find myself worthy. Of course, any gratification generated by these experiences is short-lived and only surface deep, leaving a larger void behind.

 The reality of my body right now is that if I were to step on a scale, I would probably see the highest number that I have ever had associated with my weight. The reality of my life right now is that I have not looked into a full-length mirror in weeks. I have not stepped on a scale in months. I have decided to stop waging war against the pouches of fat that find themselves under my chin, on my arms, around my waistline, shaping my butt, and giving my thighs more jiggle. I have decided to stop trying to exercise feverishly to try to shed these pounds that have found home in my body. Instead, I use exercise to find peace of body and mind while strengthening my muscles, flexibility, and balance. I am concerned more by what my body can physically do rather than how much it can lift or how far it can run. I have decided to stop forcing my body to try to conform to Western beauty standards. Instead, my focus is to be healthy and strong, physically, emotionally, and mentally, rather than obsess over counting calories to cut pounds and inches.

Most days in the Philippines, this is much easier than it would be at home. Minutes before I found myself in the water with my innocent inquisitor, I came out of the comfort room wearing my purple swimsuit to stares and comments, “Wow!” “So sexy,” “Angela, you’re so gwapa!” I live in a small, rural town, where only a handful of people with white skin live. As far as I can tell, I am the only white woman in Kananga. To my community, I am beautiful. I am sexy. I am gwapa. I am also fat. These are simply factual statements, not meant to place any shame or judgment. My blue eyes, white skin, and narrow, pointed nose are desirable features to many in this place. (Interestingly enough, this is the first place I have traveled to that does not focus immediately on my red hair. Most times, I have to argue that yes, my hair is red, not brown or blonde.) I have never thought about the shape and size of noses so much before in my life, including when I was living in Jerusalem and trying, unsuccessfully, to understand the difference between a “Jewish nose” and an “Arab nose.”

As a culture, it is completely normal to stare at that which is different and to make comments on someone’s appearance. In fact, it is expected to make comments about someone’s physical appearance when you first see them. “You’re getting fat,” or “You’re looking slimmer” are commonplace phrases. Additionally, I am asked almost on a daily basis what the red spots on my face are from. Well, that’s called acne. Mosquito bites or stress have been my common explanations for why those spots are on my face. Even though it is simply a part of the culture, it still hurts when someone makes a joke about how I look two months pregnant or that I have the largest waistline in a group. I am not in a place mentally where I can disconnect the word and idea of “fat” from teasing chants in elementary school or rejections from potential partners throughout my life. But as most things, it is a work in progress.

Up until recently, I let these comments get under my skin. I felt irritated by those who said them to me. I could not love someone who brought up my deepest insecurities. Then I started reading Barbara Brown Taylor’s An Altar in the World, which has given much relevant food for thought at this point in the year. So much of this book centers on the idea of reverence. I tend to shy away from the word reverence because it reminds me of white-haired men and women shushing children and stopping them from running through the church. Her definition and use of the word has revived it for me, though, and gives me the language to describe much of this journey.

“By definition, [Paul Woodruff] says, reverence is the recognition of something greater than the self—something that is beyond human control or creation, that transcends full human understanding. God certainly meets those criteria, but so do birth, death, sex, nature, truth, justice, and wisdom.”

Her spiritual practice of Paying Attention involves showing reverence to every person, animal, thing, and part of Creation. It is acknowledging that we are at the center of our individual stories and journeys and at the periphery of the stories and journeys of others, but that those others are at the center of their own stories and journeys.

I had been thinking of this year as a time to learn how to be loved again. I live with a host family that cooks and cleans for me, rarely allowing me to do things for myself. When I visit other homes for meals or celebrations, I am never allowed to be full until I have had three helpings of rice, all of the dessert selections, and at least one glass of San Miguel beer or coconut wine, tuba, mixed with Pepsi Max. The running joke is that you haven’t really visited the Philippines unless you leave with an extra ten pounds on you as a souvenir. At times, this feels overbearing, and I resent someone else controlling what goes into my body. However, I now can say that I understand this as my community showing me reverence. They feed me until I am stuffed to show that they love and welcome me. They comment on my appearance to show that they are noticing me. They make a big deal out of me saying sige, ok in Visaya, because so many visitors do not care to learn the language. They show me reverence because they care about me. They love me. They welcome me into their homes, communities, and lives.

This concept of reverence embodies what I would call the difference between the YAV program and other volunteer or development programs. I have struggled with the thought that I am a voluntourist, someone coming to another part of the world to get personal gratification rather than doing any concrete, effective good for my community. The difference with YAV is that we acknowledge that we might not do any “good” to “improve” the lives of the people in our communities. What we can do is build relationships with those in our communities. That starts with showing reverence to everyone around us. If I cannot acknowledge my peripheral role in my neighbor’s story, then how can I truly build a deep relationship with my neighbor? If I box my community into a single monolithic story, then I am distancing myself from the messiness that is community and the real relationships that spread God’s love.

My community’s reverence toward me has allowed me to explore myself on a deeper level, to fully embrace my inner feminist. As I experiment, allowing my body to be completely natural, they still see me as beautiful and pretty, making more comments about the hair on my arms than on my legs. Even as it remains a tender subject, I am being conditioned to be both fat and sexy, as it should be.* I know that God is at work here, now, in this place. God uses each of us to work in each other’s lives to share the light and love with each other. By prying open closets where we hide our deepest insecurities, God gives us space to see them, to work through them, to show us that we are still loved and worthy, no matter what we think about our bodies, our minds, or ourselves. God still graces us with the peace and love that surpass all understanding. We simply have to open ourselves, to become vulnerable, so that we may share in the reverence.

*Although these comments can be considered objectification of my body, I understand that it is not the intention of most who utter them. For someone whose love language is words of affirmation, these comments are actually helping me to see and believe what those around me see and believe. We all know that who I am is more than what I look like, and I feel valued as a full, entire human being. There is a greater conversation to be had about objectification at a cultural level, but that is not what I am here to do.

Admiring the dirt that comes with manual labor after harvesting rice in November
Loving my body, Loving my life

I Did Not Sign Up for Teach for America

I did not sign up for Teach for America. Despite their heavy recruiting on campus last year, I knew that Teach for America was not really for me. I have no educational background past my own experiences in Rock Hill School District 3 and Washington and Lee University. I didn't know if I even fully believed in the Teach for America program. I have plenty of friends who were, are, and will become Teach for America teachers, and I admire them for choosing that seemingly difficult path.

Nonetheless, I feel as though I have been thrust into a Teach for America position, except at the administrative level. I am working as a Guidance Counselor at National Heroes Institute (NHI), a private school run by United Church of Christ in the Philippines. We have 477 students, grades 1-10, but we never have all 477 students at school. Since I have arrived, my main tasks have involved addressing issues of attendance and grades for the 400 high school students (grades 7-10). Class sizes in the high school range from 34 to 63. My largest classes in high school were 35, and we all complained about those crowds. I am told that these are lower than the public schools, which can have 50 students in a single fifth grade class. The elementary school classes have more reasonable class sizes of 7 to 22. The high school classes are broken up into grades and sections with three sections for grade 7 and two sections for grades 8-10. We have 16 full-time teachers and 3 employees that teach in addition to their nursing or administrative jobs. Unfortunately, if a teacher is absent for any reason, a substitute does not fill in, unless it is long-term maternity leave. This leaves classes unmonitored for one or more classes on those days.

My supervisor and one of my host moms, the highly respected Dobert Mahika Tindoy Moriles, is the current school administrator (head of staff) and daughter of the founder of NHI. Eleazar Tindoy established NHI in 1957 and served as the administrator and principal for many years. He wanted a school that could serve the community, particularly students who came from poor families. In high school, if students have to repeat a year, they may have to pay heavy fines. The school was significantly damaged by Super Typhoon Yolanda last year and is still recovering. When I arrived in October, only two of the six buildings had power, and we had no wifi access. In November, we finally received power to the classrooms and got wifi access soon after. Without power in the classrooms, I was sweating after standing for ten minutes. I cannot imagine trying to teach students 7:30-4:30 every day with no lights, fans, or air conditioning. Even now, not every classroom has a fan. The windows remain open in hopes that a breeze will come through to give some respite from the heat. The campus sits on a hill, and we are constructing another building behind the farthest classroom building. Construction wastes end up washing downhill when it rains (which is almost every day) and can flood into the windows of classrooms in the back. The students simply try to mop up most of the water and avoid the puddles when that happens.

 

Elementary School students celebrating United Nations Day in October

My only previous experience educating children has come from summer camp settings. While I will always believe that school would be better if more camp aspects were integrated into the classroom, I don't know how much of that I can apply to the Philippine educational system context. Serving as the Guidance Counselor puts me in an administrative position, which limits me from creating a specific learning environment for smaller groups of students.

I spent much of my time before Christmas developing a record-keeping system for grades, attendance, and discipline. At the very least, this box will be checked off when the Department of Education comes for their annual inspection. As one who loves creating Excel spreadsheets and organizing anything, this gave me something busy and productive to do. It kept my mind and working hours busy. I tried implementing an attendance and late policy to try to improve the punctuality of students who live in a society that runs on Filipin@ time. When I tried talking to students who were late, I found that they could understand me speaking English, but they got "nose bleeds" when they tried to answer my questions (the words they wanted to say were beyond their English language knowledge). I watched the terror on their faces, which may have come from feeling like they were in trouble, not knowing the English words to explain themselves, or fear of messing up the English statements. With my native English-speaking children, I would ask students open-ended questions and allow them to steer the answers and explanations. Unfortunately, the language barrier meant that I had to ask yes-no questions. Every time I asked one, I imagined a lawyer standing up, saying, "I object!" because I was asking leading questions. I heard stories of family situations and transportation issues that would have been excusable for me, but Ma'am Dobert explained that they were only making excuses and could make it to school on time if they really wanted to.

I feel like a fish out of water in this educational system. I don't know the educational standards or grading methods. I don't know the "typical" family situation and what should be considered out of the ordinary or excusable as a reason for being late or not studying. If I happen to learn of an abusive or unsafe situation, there isn’t institutional accountability in place to help the students or family. I actually don’t know how to keep records or do almost anything administrative without a computer. I have tried to apply what I know (shout out to Northwestern High School Attendance Office) to this Philippine system, and yet I’ve learned that that doesn't quite work out of context.

When I went back to school after Christmas, we adjusted part of the attendance policy. The security guard at the gate would have every student who arrived after the flag ceremony started, at 7:25 am, sign in. I would then receive the list of late students, write them late slips, and deliver them to each class. They would bring me the slips when they came to serve their study hall after classes ended for the day due to their late arrival. The first day we did this, 46 high school students were late, 10% of the school's population. The next day 110 students were late, over 25% of the population. I spent a majority of my 10-hour workday simply writing all of these names down and recording them on my spreadsheets. It was exhausting, and it didn't feel like anything was changing. I got frustrated when I went to deliver the slips to classes and found that some of the students who had come late had already left by jumping over the fence in the back. 

How was I making a difference? Why were we focusing on this one time of day that we wanted students to be on time? I was extremely frustrated and felt that my work was doing no good in the bigger scheme of things. I questioned a lot. What was I doing here? What could I do here? What does a guidance counselor even do? How could I work within a system I didn't know? How could I do any good without trying to change the systemic issues I saw? I questioned my motivations for coming to the Philippines. I questioned what brought me joy. 

Then, I remembered what I had said and written so many times. I want to spend my YAV year building relationships. Cobbie, our site coordinator, always tells me I'm "intensely relational," which I didn't fully believe or understand until a few days ago. What kept me going when I struggled? Those moments I spent Googling whatever it was Francis, my 11-year-old neighbor, wanted to learn. That time a child yelled out, "Hi, Angela!" as I walked through the market. Every time students tell me "Maayong udto!" (Good lunchtime) when it is still morning or "Maayong buntag" (Good morning) when it is clearly afternoon, testing my Visaya skills. The times a fourth grader comes into my office just to see what I'm doing on my computer. The fact that I can't leave my office without receiving at least 5 greetings from students. I came to build relationships with these wonderfully amazing, talented, beautiful, goofy, and brilliant students.

I may not help to improve anyone's grades. I may not encourage anyone to wake up a little bit earlier so they can arrive at school on time. What I can do is show that I care. By holding them accountable, I am saying that I noticed that you did not come to study hall or class. I will not give up on you, even if you did come to school late seven of the past eight school days. I will still love you, and I hope that you can see that through the many slips of paper I write and pass out. If I still love you and I want to keep building those relationships, then I cannot run away when I feel hopeless or that my work is meaningless. After all, it's not about what I do, but how I do it. I cannot let my job get in the way of my work, which is to love on each and every student under my care. If I truly want to be a role model for these students, then I must stay with them through the frustrations and celebrations; through the overwhelmed times and the free times; through the tardiness and the perfect attendance. I must stay at the table. It's time to look for the abundance in this simple living.

NHI students during the morning flag ceremony