the village

Recently I was hit with an overwhelming sense of incapability.  After barreling into the new semester somewhat self-assured and utterly excited.  After almost a month of being horribly physically sick.  I hit a wall.  Physical sickness put me to bed for eight hours in the middle of the day.  And kept me far from par for the rest of the week.

But the next wall I hit was an emotional one.  Of insecurity.  Of self-doubt.  Of fear.  Damn that wall.

I am not a go-getter.  I like instructions.  I don't want you to watch me while I do what I'm supposed to be doing.  And the only thing that makes me squirm more than criticism are compliments.  I am messed up.

I don't get ideas like I used to.  But I can argue and advocate and intervene like my life depends on it.  I give great hugs.  And I listen well.

But sometimes those things don't seem like enough.  I wonder, in the back of my mind, if I will ever do what I do well.  If I will ever make a difference.  Or if anyone will ever want me on their team.

I've been overwhelmed by another realization lately.  A more powerful one.  One with weight and truth.

The organization I work with right now has set up this eco-map for each child involved in our program.  We call it "the Village".  A six-part system constructed to surround the child (the sixth aspect) with the community, support, direction, discipleship, and counseling he or she needs to succeed.  Standing in the office of the elementary school yesterday, I listened to a conversation about one of our favorite boys.

And I got this mental image.  Not of a village.  But of an army.

I am part of an army.  An army who has assembled in order to defend the lives and hearts of children.  One child at a time.  We have surrounded them, shields raised against the world and so much of the bad.

We are advocating for these children in a way unprecedented.

Think about it.  What if five specific, consistent people intentionally loved on, invested in, and spent time with you?  What if you had an army?  An army of soldiers who fought for you behind the scenes.  Who spent hours at night, unable to sleep, because they knew you were on the brink of transformation.  What if you had even one person praying for you?  Two or three of those five who noticed the littlest bit of progress and commended you for it.  What if your achievements, however small, were celebrated?  What if you got bombarded with hugs, and at the end of every argument, or every punishment, you were told you were loved?  That you were special.


I wish I had that.

That wall I hit knocked me out for a while.  Made me want to curl up in bed and hug a pillow and ignore the alarm.  I don't like not being good at things.  I don't like being uncertain.  But whether or not I move, whether or not I continue "doing" directly effects the lives and hearts of the ones I love most.

They don't have time for me to be insecure.

I sat down with "T" on Tuesday.  I had noticed something different in him, something which drew me to him and demanded my slowness and intentionality.  Quickly I explained to the teacher I am certified as a para educator and she smiled, sending me over to sit with T and help him with his free writing assignment.  Today I went back to the lunch room and found T, who carried on a perfectly random conversation about farmers and spoons and pudding.  It was, perhaps, the best lunch hour I'd had in weeks.  Before I left I carefully touched his shoulder and fixed the hood on his jacket.  Quietly he turned over his shoulder and mouthed "thank you" and smiled.  Well.  His eyes smiled.  And I noticed because he was making eye contact.  My heart swelled.

This afternoon I sat across from another one of my favorites.  The consistent theme of our conversation was "choices".  I watched him get rattled.  Brow furrow.  Lips purse.  Jaw set.  I leaned over and whispered, quiet enough so he'd have to lean in to listen, "You have two choices."

In a matter of minutes he had straightened up in his chair.  For the remainder of the day, whenever anger and frustration tempted, all I had to say was "make a choice".  And he would.  Good choices too.

They need me to be teachable.  And brave.  They need me to have open eyes and a healthy mind.  My capacity to hear and understand directly impacts them.

They need me to be humble.  Humble enough to know this story is not about me.  That I may not know the best way to do this.  Humble enough to know that I am not really needed -- the story goes on without me.  I am not important in the grand scheme -- but I must be humble enough to know how to play my part well.

They need me to teach them what humble means.  Maybe only by living that way.

And today, Marcus and I were hit with that realization at the same time.

"Humble -- yeah I know what humble means.  Humble means poor."

I stopped with my hand on his head and looked up at Marcus.  No, no, no.

"What does it mean then?  Sad?"

In a quiet moment at the end of the day, in the middle of the routine of lining up for the bus, truth was revealed to Marcus and me.  A seed, unearthed.  The root of a dirty weed, which has been growing in the ghettos and in the suburbs and up the walls of the high rises and on the concrete steps of the shot gun houses.  We saw it, then.  And I swear we both almost feverishly attacked it with a spade.

They don't know what it means to be humble.

And so we find ourselves here.  A village.  An army.  Fighting a battle, which makes our fatigue make sense.  It's a wonder we don't walk around with bruises and scrapes, from the forces we're up against.

It is in this, we find these children make us better.  In our attempt to rescue them from the hell they were born into, they have propelled us into growth and strength and purpose unmatched.  They require authenticity from me.  Self-examination.  Honesty.   It is because of them I am getting better.

It is because of them I will pull myself away from the shadow of that wall.  I will wash my hands of the self-pity and the insecurity, which threatens to taint everything I touch.  And I will either scale that wall and leave it behind, or hack through it -- damaging it, weakening it, so that one day it will collapse entirely.

Maybe one day I'll be wise enough to be like "A".  Who knows himself well enough that on Monday he said quietly, "I'm not mad.  I just don't want to talk right now."

Hello.  My name is Anna.  I am tired and a little lonely.  Pretty sore from fighting a fight I'm not strong enough to fight yet.  What I wouldn't give tonight for a village of my own.  For the five who suit up in their armor just to fight for me.  But then I smile.  Because my kids don't know that's what we're doing for them.  They just think I'm some bossy white girl who can't play basketball and likes to give them hugs.

I could have an army and never know it either.