About a year and a half ago, Tim and I moved an hour and a half east of the small town where we'd both grown up. We settled in Syracuse where I began teaching middle school ESL in the Syracuse City School District. It was my dream job. I have had the opportunity to build relationships with some of the most incredible, resilient, overcoming young people I have ever met. I have been blessed to come to know their families and hear their awe-inspiring stories. I have shared delicious meals, stumbled in my not-so-strong Swahili, laughed at the silliness of children that knows no cultural bounds, and cried countless tears as I've learned of the pain that so many of these precious teenagers have endured. My first year came to a close last June and I felt blessed beyond belief. I felt as though I had been successful in helping my students acclimate to American culture, learn how to read, write, speak, and understand English, and simply feel loved all along the journey.
Six months ago, I began the adventure of a new school year. On that Tuesday morning, September 2, 2014, numerous new faces filled my classroom. Many were familiar, though few were well known. Over the last six months, this new batch has changed me. They have radically transformed my life. They have challenged me, and at times, they have made me feel like a complete failure. I have begun to hear and understand their stories and I have been wrecked. There are mornings and moments that I can think of nothing else but these unbelievable young people and the unimaginable pain that they have experienced in their short lives. This year though, there is one boy, one family that has pulled at my heart strings like none other.
He is thirteen years old. An eighth grader. His family comes from Burma, a land he himself has never seen or experienced. Born in a refugee camp in Thailand, he moved to America with his father, mother, and two siblings when he was about 5 years old. After a short time living in another state, he and his mother and siblings fled from an abusive situation. They found themselves in Syracuse where they have lived for the last several years. He is thirteen years old. An eighth grader. An eighth grader that can't read at a first grade level. A thirteen year old that does not know how to subtract. A precious, resilient young man who has essentially been abandoned by his father. A child who has been abused in numerous ways by numerous people. A boy who battles deep-seeded anger, depression, shame, and frustration. An incredible teenager that I love with everything that I am.
We have experienced the joy of connection. I have seen moments where his face lights up simply because he knows that someone cares. There have been mornings that he hasn't shown up for school that I have appeared at his house, dragged him out of bed, and brought him for the rest of the day. I have seen a kid who has consistently failed every class for the last several years finally pass every single class during the second quarter. I have seen determination and hard work and perseverance. I have experienced feelings of immense, immeasurable pride as I have watched this young man excel.
And then there are the other moments. The moments during which he seems to forget all of the positives. The moments in which he becomes buried beneath the weight of the pressure. The moments that my name becomes just another word mixed into a string of expletives or the very target of such expletives. The moments in which anger rises up and takes hold of his heart, his mind, and his mouth.
Oh how it stings. At first it stings for the pain and rejection I feel after giving so much, loving so deeply and being treated so poorly. And then the sting gets worse...not because of the pain that I am actually experiencing, but because of the pain I can only imagine he must feel. The pain that causes him to feel unworthy of love, of devoted care, of words of affirmation. The sting deepens as I realize that nothing I can say or do could ever free him from the weight of this burden. It intensifies as I understand that I cannot bear the load for him. It becomes unbearable as I continue to think of the pain, the sorrow, the sadness, the shame that he must live with on a daily basis. And my heart begins to break as I pray:
Dear Jesus,
Take this precious child of yours and wrap him in your arms. Overwhelm him with your love, your peace, your fullness, your joy. Remove the burden of sorrow, sadness, and shame from his shoulders. Cause him to see himself as you see him. As a beloved child of a Father who loves him without condition. Allow him to reach a point where he can truly accept love, care, and affirmation from those around him who love him deeply. Refresh his mind and renew his heart. May you draw him to yourself in a powerful way so that he never again doubts his purpose, his value, or his past. Use me to change his life for the better. And help me to remember that you love him far, far more than I ever could. Thank you for your faithfulness and your love for this incredible, resilient young man. I trust that you have unbelievable plans for his future and I look forward to seeing all of the incredible ways that you will use him. Be with him in this moment. Hold his heart. Wipe away his tears. Comfort his mind. Restore his soul. Overwhelm him with a sense of joy he has never known. Draw him close to you.
I rest only in the knowledge that my God loves this boy more than I ever could. That he is truly a father to the fatherless. That he heals the broken-hearted and comforts the abused. That he is a helper to the helpless and a fighter for the hopeless. Tonight, this song gives me rest.
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