Chance Comes Once

Alayna is in her last semester at Texas A&M, preparing to graduate in May, 2018. It wasn’t easy re-integrating back into life in College Station after spending a semester in Grenoble, France.

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It wasn’t just the language and culture shock. It was the fact that most of her friends graduated last spring and life was going to look really different. She had one friend who remained, and a room in that friend’s apartment where she could put her mattress on the floor, and live out of cardboard boxes for a few months. I think we all figured she would grit her teeth and endure but hey, you only get one last-semester-of-college in life, and Alayna has never been one to pass up a chance at a new adventure.

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she flies through the air with the greatest of ease . . .
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in Rwanda, she’s always ready to engage with strangers who become friends

Last summer when she interned at Explore Austin she began to rock climb at a nearby climbing gym. What started out as a hobby turned into an obsession. Upon her return to College Station, she tried out for the Texas A&M competitive climbing team, the Craggies, and made it! For Spring Break she went climbing with friends in Arkansas.

 

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climbing in Arkansas

Since then she has competed in several competitions and most recently qualified for nationals in speed climbing!

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She is officially hooked. She makes multiple trips a week to Katy where they have a regulation speed-climbing wall where she can practice for nationals. She inhales climbing documentaries, and is asking for climbing gear for a graduation present. I am so proud of her for taking on this last semester with gusto, and re-inventing her life in College Station with this new passion. She’s met new friends, and she’s earned some gnarly callouses.

I know about re-inventing. I’ve been re-inventing my Rebeka book for almost a year now, revising and revising again. I’ve built up some tough callouses, taking constructive criticism and cutting some “darlings” to get to the heart of the story. My most recent revision was coming up with a new title when my agent wasn’t entirely happy with the first two. I had sent an email to a friend in Rwanda, asking her if the phrase “seize every opportunity and make the most of it,” was common in Rwanda. Something like “Carpe Diem,” or “seize the day.”

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Rebekkah in Rwanda, who gave me “chance comes once”

She responded that in Rwanda they say Amahirwe aza rimwe, which means “chance comes once.” The phrase captures perfectly the tension in Rebeka’s life. Many times she was given opportunities where saying “yes” wasn’t easy. At age five, she stayed alone at a clinic for eight months to receive treatments for her feet. She left family and friends and all that was familiar to come to America where she endured painful surgeries and challenging physical therapy. And when she returned to Rwanda, Rebeka left her family yet again to attend a prestigious boarding school located several hours away by car.

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Rebeka’s bed at boarding school the year she returned

They were all tough “yes’s” to once-in-a-lifetime chances. These two girls impress the heck out of me. They suck the marrow out of life, pushing themselves as they pursue new opportunities and continue saying “yes” to life’s adventures. I am forever grateful for the time they got to spend together.

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Chance comes once. Sometimes we get only one chance to take advantage of an opportunity, and these two girls embrace their chances with gusto. I did the same when I took the chance to tell Rebeka’s story, now titled CHANCE COMES ONCE: BASED ON THE TRUE STORY OF A RWANDAN GIRL’S JOURNEY, and I’m so glad I said yes.

Baby #2: No Operating Instructions

I introduced baby #1 in June 2017. Baby #2 came to our family in September of 2017. She was much different than baby #1, partly because she wasn’t a baby. She was a thirteen-month-old bundle of energy and destruction and yes, cuteness. The cheeks, the chunky thighs, the poofy pom-pom ponytail that sprouted from the top of her head in a fountain of black curls, were so very different from any of our biological kids or foster baby #1.

She came as an emergency placement in the wee hours of a Friday morning and we knew very little about what she ate, when she slept, or whether or not she had a lovey (she didn’t arrive with one). As the caseworker went over paperwork she sat in my lap, rested her cheek against my chest, and was content to be held.

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It was soon apparent that we had received a child with no operating instructions. She had arrived with only the clothes on her back and a blanket supplied by CPS, a can of formula, and some diapers. We discovered baby #2 loved bananas. And screaming. And opening all drawers and cabinets, and pulling all books from bookshelves and dumping the dog’s food and water and yanking blinds and smacking dogs and picking up anything and everything that wasn’t a toy and putting it in her mouth. Clay and I spent hours following her around and trying to toddler-proof what we thought was a pretty safe house.

 

We knew she was exhausted, and most likely afraid, bewildered, and anxious. So was I. She clung to me and I tried to keep my composure and not break down into tears. Our sweet, quiet home had turned into a disaster zone. Over the next few days it became apparent that while baby #2 was awake, one of us was one hundred percent on duty.

But Baby #2 had no interest in books.

Baby #2 had no interest in stuffed animals except to body slam them to the ground and chew on their noses.

Baby #2 had no interest in sitting still. She crawled or cruised from place to place, stopping only long enough to throw or hit or somehow destroy whatever was in her path.

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she loved pulling everything out of cabinets

Those were the first two days. Hour by hour we began to figure baby #2 out. Clay thought music might help distract her and calm her so he told Alexa to play some jazz. Baby #2’s hand shot up like a conductor and she began to beat perfect time with the rhythm, shaking her hips and shimmying her shoulders. We had made our first breakthrough!

We decided a warm bottle right before bedtime might help her sleep through the night and lo and behold, she slept over twelve hours. We learned that sometimes she just needed to wail in her crib for a while to wind down. We’d give her a few minutes and she’d roll right over and sleep twelve hours. She grew to tolerate, and then love, her bath. She started reaching for Clay, and allowing me to the leave the room without breaking down.

We got baby #2 at an exciting time in her development. She went from cruising along furniture to letting go and taking her first independent steps.

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She went from saying one word (“gog”, everything was “gog,” from the dogs to her cup to Clay), to ba (bottle?), guh-gog (same as gog?), cuh-cuh-cuh (cracker?), and mama. Oh, that one was hard. I was not her mama, but when she was sad she would cry “mama” and reach out for me. And I would take her. Because for a time, hour by hour, I realized I was the mama, in all it’s scary, frustrating, rewarding glory.

She was placed with another family a few weeks after we received her. I sent her onward with a few operating instructions, notes about what she liked to eat, when she slept, and the small victories of learning not to pull the dog’s nose hair.

I have to admit we were a bit shell-shocked, being thrust back into the toddler years, and not just any toddler years but the life and times of a distraught little girl who had been through too much in her short life. It took a Vulfpek concert with Nate and some of his buddies . . .

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A big bag of Larry the Cable Guy Cheeseburger Tater Chips at the airport . . .

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And a trip to visit Alayna, who spent her fall semester abroad in Grenoble, France, plus a giant pot of melted cheese . . .

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to fully recover. What did I learn from this whole experience? Baby #2 reminded me I’m never really in control of my life. She reminded me to delight in small victories like discovering jazz and watching first steps. She reminded me I am flawed. I still have a lot of growing to do, just like baby #2. I am grateful for the reminder, humbled by the experience, and fully re-integrated into “normal” life. Until the next phone call . . .

 

 

 

Rwanda Revisited

In July of 2017 I made my first solo trip to Rwanda to do interviews for my most recent project, based on the true story of Rebeka Uwitonze. I had been to Rwanda four times previously, with family and sometimes teams, but traveling alone for the specific purpose of interviewing Rebeka, her family, and others who know her brought a new level of intimacy and understanding. It was a privilege, and I learned all sorts of things I never knew. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Augustine, who made room in his busy schedule to translate for me and shuttle me around. We dug up old files and found treasure.

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Augustine was my translator and general “make it happen” man
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left is Rebeka’s sponsorship photo, right is Rebeka when she returned from US

Rebeka’s two youngest sisters have grown big enough to wear the clothes Rebeka once wore in Austin.

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left to right: nephew, Ooweetayka (sp?), Medi and me

Rebeka’s parents were gracious and invited me into their home two days in a row to tell me the story of Rebeka, starting with her birth.

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I got to see beyond the living room where we usually sit to the bedroom Rebeka shares with her sister, and the small dirt yard out back where goats and a cow hang out and maize dries in the sun on a blanket. I heard for the first time that Medi, Rebeka’s younger sister, was the first to go to school, before ANLM moved into the community, when the family only had enough money for one tuition. She would come home with chalk and teach Rebeka what she was learning by drawing letters and numbers on the concrete floor of their home. I saw the learning continuing with chalk letters on their back fence, scrawled by her little sisters.

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I met some of Rebeka’s friends who went running to find Rebeka when we arrived at her boarding school. She had no idea I was coming!

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left to right: Grace, Rebeka, Sharon and me

I had to break the news that it was just me visiting this time, and then I got to ask her a question that made a lump rise up in my throat. I couldn’t wait to tell her about writing her story, but what would she think? Would she want to tell it with me? Because I wasn’t going to tell it unless both our names were on the cover, side by side. It is truly her story. I just wanted to help her write it.

She said yes! She is excited to share her story and she answered my questions patiently. One of the things I have been curious about since she left in 2013 is how she described America to people back home. When I asked, she didn’t say anything about the fireplace that turned on with a press of a button, or the trampoline, or the grocery store filled with food. “I tell them about the ocean,” she said.

“What do you tell them about the ocean?” I asked her.

“I tell them it’s very big.”

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Clay holding Rebeka in ocean-California-Sprint Break 2013

The ocean is a great image, a great metaphor, for Rebeka’s time in America. It was big, from the surgeries to all her new experiences, including her first glimpse of the big blue ocean in California. Writing this book about Rebeka has been a little like wading out into the ocean. I’ve been knee-deep in facts, there have been some waves of uncertainty, but on the horizon is a big old story I can’t wait to share.

 

Extraordinary Carrots

I have always been passionate about finding the extraordinary in the ordinary. The theme creeps into my books, into this blog, and into pictures taken spontaneously on my iphone, as I’m struck by some such ordinary, extraordinary thing.

New Yorkers may find this sight ordinary, but this Texan was astonished. It's buried!
New Yorkers may find this sight ordinary, but this Texan was astonished. It’s buried!
Ordinary shoes, but I knew the boys they belong to when they were wee little men. And now, they are big boys with yeti feet, and they were all upstairs, at the same time. Good thing we have extra reinforcements in the game room floor, enough to hold a pool table, or this many boys.
Ordinary shoes, but I knew the boys they belong to when they were wee little men. And now, they are big boys with yeti feet, and they were all upstairs, at the same time. Good thing we have extra reinforcements in the game room floor, enough to hold a pool table, or this many boys.

Something I heard today made me realize that there are two ways to think about the ordinary being extraordinary. One is the whole David and Goliath story, where the ordinary looking person does something extraordinary. Like the story about a little eight-year-old girl who sold lemonade to raise over $100,000 to end child slavery.

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Vivienne Harr

And that’s wonderful, fantastic, and amazing. But when I heard the story, it also made me feel like a bit of a loser. I mean, what have I done lately? While these kinds of stories should be celebrated, I need to remind myself to look for the extraordinary in the truly ordinary. Like a carrot seed. I can relate to the lowly, tiny, strangely shaped carrot seed.

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I remind myself that mysteriously held within the trappings of this little seed is something marvelous. This week I had the privilege of working in the Genesis Gardens in East Austin. This is a little embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never picked a carrot, so Mike showed me how to take a flat head screwdriver (no, I didn’t need an expensive tool out of the pretty gardening catalog) and sink it down beside the carrot to loosen it, and then carefully slide it up, out of the ground.

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I cannot tell you how satisfying it felt, to pull up those carrots. To see this long, orange, weirdly shaped vegetable come rising out of the ground. I can’t say it as sweetly or as well as this little girl Ella (who is six, by the way). She explains how she pulls at the “bottom of the top” to reveal a “beautiful orange carrot (well, once you wash it off).” I wholeheartedly agree. And they all came from that seed that looks a little like a sticker burr. Amazing. The extraordinary in the ordinary.

I write all this because I want to point myself and others not just to the stories of ordinary people doing extraordinary things, but to the ordinary people doing ordinary things (like picking carrots) which are actually pretty extraordinary things if we open our eyes and really think about what might be happening. What might seem ordinary, like sitting around a dinner table, can become an extraordinary place where laughter and stories are created and family ties are knotted just a little tighter. A kind word to a stranger in a parking lot who’s dealt with a screaming baby for the last half hour can bring that stranger to tears and brighten her day (I was that stranger, and I still remember that incident, all these years later, and make sure to do the same for other weary mothers).

We may never know the extraordinary affect an ordinary smile or encouraging word may have on someone. We may never see our seeds sprout, no articles or spotlights or recognition. But that doesn’t make it any less important. We can arm ourselves with ordinary flat head screwdrivers, or ordinary words, and unearth treasure.

A sunset is never ordinary, it's always worthy of celebration.
A sunset is never ordinary, it’s always worthy of celebration.

 

Banana Donut Man

It’s funny the things you remember from a vacation. Sure, you remember the big events you went there for. The dives, the snorkeling, sand the perfect texture for drizzle castles and the water so clear you didn’t have to wear a mask to see the fish swimming all around you.

Drizzle castles are my favorite kind to build.
Drizzle castles are our favorite kind to build.
The water was so many colors of blue.
The water was so many colors of blue.

But there are other details you remember, too, little happenings you couldn’t have anticipated that make the trip something more than what’s promised online. Nobody told us about the cutest little hermit crabs in the whole wide world.

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Nobody told us we’d find the biggest hermit crab in the world, either.

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And nobody promised we’d come upon a pod of dolphins not once, but twice. There were dozens of them, their back fins slicing through the water, racing our boat, and beating it. One swam right side up and another upside down, the mirror image, just under the bow. Several of them jumped out of the water entirely.

As we rode at the front of a motorboat, our legs hanging over the sides and hanging on tight as it sailed over waves and slammed back to the water, we saw flying fish, their silver bodies catching the sun. We passed weathered old fisherman in weathered old boats, out for the day with their nets. We were told Honduras used to be second only to Texas in fish exporting, but that’s changed with the higher water temperatures and the bleaching of the coral and disasters like oil spills.

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Nobody told us about the flying fish or the picturesque fisherman, and nobody told us about the Santa Claus of Roatan, otherwise known as the Banana Donut Man. We first saw him on Day One, as we hung out on the beach. He wore a hat woven from palm fronds, and he had a big plastic container tucked under his arm, and he called out, no, he sang out, “Ba-naaaa-na Donuts.” There were others selling sunglasses and bracelets and parasailing rides and cigars, but this man was different. For one thing, he looked just like a very tan Santa, and for another thing, he sang, he bantered, and he had friends. People up and down the beach called out to him. So that night, on our way down the beach to dinner, we stopped him for a few donuts.

He lifted the red lid, and inside were the donuts, sprinkled with sugar, only a few left at the end of the day. He gave us a deal, 4 for $5. How could we refuse? He explained that his wife made them, and he may be back tomorrow. Quite the salesman, he left us anxious, hoping we’d see him again as we bit into the moist, sweet, fried goodness that is a banana donut. Lo and behold we found him the next day, and we got to meet his wife, too.

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She even shared her secret recipe. Use whatever donut batter you usually use (I need to find me a donut batter recipe), but instead of regular milk, use coconut milk. Add a few very ripe, brown and speckled bananas. She uses metal chafing dishes to fry them up. She just lays them across two burners on the stovetop, and fills the bottom with oil, making twelve at a time. Delicious. We got 7 for $10, and snacked on them the rest of our stay.

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They tell you about the crystal clear water and the fine sand and the amazing coral reef, but they can’t tell you about the other stuff because it’s not guaranteed. But these other things, they are what make a vacation worth taking, worth remembering. 

Alayna and I participating in the obligatory jumping at sunset picture.
Alayna and I participating in the obligatory jumping at sunset picture.
Clay is always finding treasures under the sea, like this big sand dollar.
Clay is always finding treasures under the sea, like this big sand dollar.
Will he remember the sunsets, the sand, the dolphins? I think we'll all remember the banana donut man.
Will he remember the sunsets, the drizzle sand castles, the dolphins? I think we’ll all remember the banana donut man.

Getting Off the Bus

You may notice that Stories in the Street looks a little different. What would have taken me weeks to accomplish took my daughter a day. You can now easily access specific stories, posts relating to Rebeka or the adoption or travels, by clicking on that word under the book header. You can get to the beginnings of those stories, or see the posts written during our trip around the world in 2007-2008, by going to the links on the right sidebar.

Looking at these stories from a distance, I can see things I couldn’t see while in the middle of them. There is one thing they all seem to have in common; the idea of “getting off the bus.” You can see this literally in one of the most recent stories. Two months ago, we were getting ready for our trip to Rwanda. While there with our team of thirty, we traveled in a bus each day to various locations. Often we were traveling to visit a sponsored child. When we arrived at our destination, the sponsor family would get off the bus and walk off with a translator to find the house, while the rest stayed behind.

It was such an a amazing experience, getting off that bus filled with cameras and water bottles and people who spoke English, a little bubble of westernization, and visiting our sponsored kids’ homes. To sit on a makeshift bench or the floor, the only light streaming through the windows because there was no electricity.

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No home had more than two rooms, separated by a curtain. No home had a working toilet. They were so remote, I marveled at how our bus found them. For our visit with Javinvier, the bus stopped near some stores. We got off and walked past the buildings, down a hill, over a small stream, past piles of banana trees and a few rotting piles of trash, then back over the stream on a rickety bridge, through the gate of a fence made from plants, and we were there.

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We gathered around a small fire outside, listened to his grandmother speak of her love for her grandson and the small child she’s recently begun to care for. And we hugged her, and our boy Javinvier, who has grown so tall and works so hard at school.

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We took family pictures with mamas and siblings and aunties and uncles, and began to understand the impact sponsorship was having on the entire family. This child was learning to read, to speak English, to do math and science and understand the bigger world outside their dirt walls, and we were now part of their big family in a way. The distant relatives from over yonder, across the ocean.

Ruth has lots of brothers and sisters. She is shy but is getting braver, trying out her English with us.
Ruth has lots of brothers and sisters. She is shy but is getting braver, trying out her English with us.
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Annet was the first girl we ever sponsored. She sang us a song with her older brother, she is a beautiful young woman with a bright future. Rebeka got to meet all our sponsored kids, her wide eyes taking it all in.
David lives with his grandmother. We remembered her strong hugs and big smiles from our last visit.
David lives with his grandmother. We remembered her strong hugs and big smiles from our last visit.
Esdori isn't much for smiling for pictures. He is shy but kind, his smiles are gifts.
Esdori isn’t much for smiling for pictures. He is shy but kind, his smiles are gifts.
It's amazing to meet the people who care for our sponsored kids. This is Violet's auntie.
It’s amazing to meet the people who care for our sponsored kids. This is Violet’s auntie.
We got to hold new babies.
We got to hold new babies.
Sweet Violet has a tender heart, and a persevering spirit. We pray big things for her.
Sweet Violet has a tender heart, and a persevering spirit. We pray big things for her.

These visits were joyful and teary and filled with hugs and holding hands , but it wasn’t always our turn. When the bus stopped for someone else’s home visit, we had two choices. I had two choices. I could lean my head against the window and gaze at the curious crowd gathering outside, feeling shy or tired or overwhelmed. I could take notes in my journal, stay removed. Or I could get off the bus.

Getting off the bus took effort. There were hands to hold, songs to sing. It was hard to communicate sometimes. This was the opportunity to make a fool of myself as I did the hokey pokey or acted out an animal for them to guess, oinking to make them laugh. It was the smiles I was going for. Those beautiful smiles. They were worth getting off the bus.

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And the hands. They want to touch you. Look at you. Examine your arm hair. They want to be the one who gets the coveted spot right next to you. If you sit, they want your lap. They are needy and eager and most are totally uninhibited.

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Getting off the bus, I was soon engulfed in a sea of children, and as I looked around I saw the muzungus had spread out, little islands of white in seas of dark bodies, each a little microcosm of love and affection, if only for a moment.

The kids were both terrified and in love with the puppets one team member brought.
The kids were both terrified and in love with the puppets one team member brought.

It was hard to step off the bus sometimes, but it was good. Getting off the bus, being brave, being present, is so very good.

Blessed by a sticker, the kids love them.
Blessed by a sticker, the kids love them.

Each day I have the chance to “get off the bus.” I can be brave and send out that manuscript or write that new story. I can let go of dignity and comfort and be vulnerable to get to know someone better. I can sit around the virtual fire of a coffee cup and take time to talk. And I can hold a hand. All it takes is the ability to see the opportunity, take a deep breath, get off the bus and step into story.

Summer Camp in Rwanda

Six hundred kids. Thirty Texans. Camp for two days, 9AM-3PM.

Since Rwanda is below the equator, this officially qualified as summer camp, Rwanda style. We arrived armed with Oriental Trading Company ornament kits, barrel swivels to make bracelets, white Christmas lights and extensions cords, Frisbees and soccer balls. We traveled by bus and van to Bugesera, an hour south of the capital, to the school where Rebeka’s sister, Medeatrece, and until recently, Rebeka, attended. All the kids in the community had been told of our arrival, and when we arrived we found them gathered, waiting for us.

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I saw Rebeka’s sister, Medeatrece in her pretty pink dress (Rebeka has a matching one), and wearing a Spiderman pajama top wrapped around her waist. It was the same top Rebeka had brought to America, and it wasn’t until Rebeka had been with us several months that I realized she didn’t think of it as a pajama top, but a jacket. Seeing the familiar face of Medeatrece made me a little less nervous. At least I knew two of the hundreds of kids that had showed up for camp that day.

Rebeka and her sister, Medeatrece
Rebeka and her sister, Medeatrece

They were divided by age into six groups, each with an animal name. I was one of three Texans assigned to the giraffes, a group of kids ranging from ages seven to ten. Our first activity took place in a classroom, making ornaments that said either “peace,” “hope,” or “joy.” The giraffes filed in and settled, three or four to a wooden desk and bench, and stared at us.We had an hour to fill.

A translator helped us tell them the story of baby Jesus, and then we passed out the crafts. The whole time the kids were silent and wide-eyed. These kids do not have much exposure to individually wrapped crafts, self-adhesive backing, or fake jewels. I expected them to rip into their small plastic bags, I expected bits and pieces of their crafts to get scattered all over the floor, and for them to charge ahead without listening to directions. I expected possible tears when their ornament didn’t turn out right. Instead, each child patiently waited until every craft had been passed out. All eighty of them.

They sat and stared at us some more. “First, you open the bag,” we explained, but they were hesitant to open the bags. I went from desk to desk, and each child would solemnly hand me their bag to tear open. “Look, you just do this,” I explained, sticking my finger into the plastic and making a small tear. “See, you can do it.” Still, the majority of the kids wouldn’t. Rebeka, who was in my group, was one of the few who was familiar with crafts, after her initiation in the states. She would prove invaluable as the day went on, helping us communicate with the kids and showing them what to do.

After we finally got all the bags open, it was time to take everything out. The kids took great care, emptying their bags. Next, we showed how to take off the sticky backing. And again, they wanted me to help. They were so timid. I never really figured out if they were worried they were going to mess it up, or were just unsure how to do it. Maybe they kept waiting for the punch line. In a life where the day is taken up with basic tasks of survival, getting water, making food, washing clothes, what is the point of this strange, American craft? They seemed even more puzzled when we brought in the two fake Christmas trees and showed them how to hang their new ornaments on it. I was worried they would be sad, giving up their precious new creation to sit on a tree. What strange people we are! But they seemed non-plussed, eager to please, happy to give what they never really counted as theirs in the first place.

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That’s not to say that we didn’t find a few sticker jewels on kid’s ears as the day wore on. Remember, this was only the first station. The more time we spent with each other, the more comfortable they all became. We moved on to some more active games outside. Rebeka sat in the shade, since running around with a large group of kids is still difficult for her.

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Rebeka's sister Medeatrece is running around for duck, duck, goose!
Rebeka’s sister Medeatrece is running around for duck, duck, goose!

A small group of kids gathered around Rebeka when she sat out, and I admired how easily she seemed to assume the role of interpreter and answer all sorts of questions about these people from Texas. Sometimes they would point to us, giggle, then go back to talking.

At lunchtime everyone raced to the water cistern to wash their hands, then raced to the food line. Two days later, I was asking one of the translators what activity she thought the kids liked best. Was it football? Or maybe making those cool bracelets which soon became a sort of currency with the kids, some stretching to necklace length as trades were made. Or did they like volleyball best? Maybe duck, duck, goose?  “No,” said the translator. “I think they’re favorite activity was lunch.”

She wasn’t joking. For all the planning we did (and don’t get me wrong, the kids had a lot of fun), what they really needed was to have a basic need met. Food. Rice. Potatoes. A banana. And meat, a real treat for these kids. And to top it off, a Fanta.

There was another basic need we met in those two days of camp. Touch.

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I never had fewer than four hands on me. They entangled their fingers with ours. Sometime the littlest ones scored a ride in our arms. If they could reach our hair, it was braided or knotted.

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They soaked up physical touch like dry sponges, saturating themselves with affection. At the end of the day, our bus rolled away and the kids started home, some walking three or four miles down dirt red roads. A few kids wore remnants of the ornament crafts on their faces, stickers on cheeks and foreheads. A few had bits of a broken Frisbee tucked into their pockets. I hope they all went home with their bellies swollen and their hearts full. Our Texas bodies may have been weary, but I know our hearts were very, very full.

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