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RESTING IN THE MIDDLE

At the end of this summer, I was preparing to return to my job as a part time teacher working with English Language Learners at the local high school.  I got a registered letter in the mail from the high school.  I figured it was my contract.  Wrong!  It was from the new principal saying that actually I don’t have a job in the fall.  The funding for my position was gone, and so I was to not expect a job.  Bummer!

This was disappointing for two reasons.  One, that was my funding that we needed to send our second son to the Christian high school in town.  But more than that, my heart was passionate about helping at that school. This spring I helped pilot a new program there which saw great success!  It was with the Marshallese, Filipino, and Mexican students who had just arrived in the US.  I’d been working off and on with these kids for several years either at the high school or in the community with Salvation Army. The kids who worked with me and my little cohort of “aunties” had made almost two years progress in a few months.  (The program we were using is called Phono-Graphix.)

I decided to trust the Lord in the midst of the unknown.  I remembered His faithfulness in the past, how he’d carried me through many summers when I needed to pay bills and was just sub teaching, or waitressing and subbing, or when I was needed to train teachers overseas and He brought in every dollar (Palau, Papua New Guinea, etc.).

I have a little reader board that a parent gave me last Christmas.  I spelled out, “Resting in the Middle,” and decided to do just that.

The principal at our son’s  school heard I was without work, and decided to create a job for me.  She offered me 9th grade health and art.  I told her my heart was really at the high school with the more at-risk population.  I’d pray about it.

I was summoned to the high school to pick up my last paycheck from summer school where I’d been continuing to pour into these kids to help them become fully literate.  On the way, I realized it had to happen this day.  I was continuing on from the high school up to the Christian school to agree on that position.

I prayed.  “God, if you want me to still work with these kids, cause someone to be in the office when I swing by to get this check.”  I was tearing up as I drove, trying to not fret.

Well, there was somebody.  In fact, several somebodies.  The counselor was there with whom I’ve worked for eight years.  She pulled me outside and listened to my heart, and was able to track down the new director of the ELL dept., with whom I worked closely last spring.  She told me their biggest need was 6th period, 12:30-1:30. Could I come in just that period even as a volunteer?  I said I’d let her know.

I continued up the hill five minutes to the Christian school.  The principal let me know the two positions were there for me to take.  But there was a gap between the two periods.  I asked what the time was–12:15-1:45.  This was just perfect for me to zip down the hill to cover that needy sixth period!  So I did, and I am.  It is such a treat to be back in the saddle at the high school, and to see God meet my financial needs in a supportive, godly environment at Josiah’s Christian school.  He is good!

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Freedom in Modern America

Yesterday, the 3rd of July,  I had two different experiences here in the Kona area, both of which were unusual, left me pleasantly surprised, and caused me to ponder freedom in modern America.  

First, I stopped by one of the neediest housing projects in Kona to see about helping out next week with some literacy time.   I looked for Vita, the Russian American young leader who started a STEM/Bible camp. She was gone, but her sister Karina was there.  Karina was joined by half a dozen college students, all Russian, all from my hometown of Vancouver, Washington. They’d flown in on their summer break to contribute towards something great for kids.

I don’t know what you envision when you think of a Vacation Bible School in a low-income housing area in Hawaii.  I didn’t expect Russian young adults. Get away from stereotypes, from rumors of cyber-stealing or newer immigrants who aren’t sure where they are.  These visitors to Hawaii, these young leaders knew where they were:  they were in Hawaii, serving the same God I serve, yielding their talents to Kingdom-building at Queen Liliuokalani Housing. They showed me google spreadsheets with organized schedules, Bible plus STEM activities over a variety of sciences, and children with big smiles and messy art projects spread around an open-air pavilion.  Ivan, who introduced himself, was an Electrical Engineering major at WSU, Vancouver. He leads a youth group at a Russian church within a mile of our home back in Vancouver. He knew how to cross cultures with ease, laughing at as well as appreciating antics of his “old-style” community.

I looked at him, blinking.  He knew people and neighborhoods I knew both in Washington and Hawaii.  They were planning to meet that evening for a debrief session on their camp thus far.  Did I want to join them? No, they were doing fine without me. I’d join in next week after they go home.  I continued on to Costco for my 4th of July shopping, feeling like I’d seen some kind of new-twist of a William Saroyan play.  Young people, born in Moldova, who discovered freedom in Washington, bringing new forms of freedom to a community here in Hawaii.   Unbelievable.

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When I got to Costco, I knew I was in for a long visit.  It was the day before 4th of July and people from all over the island were there to shop big, to load up coolers in the back of their trucks, and to head back to Puna, or Hilo, or Ka’u.

I needed some lunch, so I ventured into the massive food line.  I grabbed by jumbo hot dog and a soda, surveying the sea of crowded tables.  I figured there was no way I could find a seat; I’d have to sit outside by the parking lot.  Then a gentleman at a nearby table caught my eye. He was hunched over his Coke, his University of Oregon lanyard wrapped around his wrinkled neck.  Black glasses disguised his identity, but he had space at his table, so I took a stab: “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Sure,” he piped up.

“Are you from Oregon?” I posed.  “I’m from the Portland area.”

Turns out this octogenarian had attended U of O, and had taught in Portland for 50 years.  He was teaching art at Franklin High in SE in the 50’s when my mom was attending Lincoln High in NW Portland.  “My mom could have had you as a student!” I announced incredulously. I recalled my neighborhood in St. Johns, North Portland.  He told me his wife was from St. Johns. Yet he grew up in Hilo.

“We love Hilo. My family loves the history, with the Laupahoehoe Train Museum and the Tsunami Museum.”

The man faltered.  “I know that tsunami museum.  If you watch the movie there, I am in it.”

“Wait a minute…”  It started to click for me.  “Did you live through the Hilo tsunami of 1946?”  He did. He lived through a few others  as well.  I leaned forward, forgetting my lunch. “Was your family living in the area where that giant tsunami hit?”  

“Yes.  Have you heard of ‘Japanese flats?’  That’s where my family lived.” Turns out this gentlemen’s name is Yoshi.  He is featured in that historic documentary. Some  of his family and friends lost their lives that day.   He chose to leave Hawaii to get an education, and to teach in my home area. For the second time that day, I was blinking at a man that I’d just met, at someone whose life had criss-crossed my own.  Like Ivan, Yoshi showed great character and honesty in life choices around family and education. 

“It is such an honor to meet you, Yoshi.” I said, holding out my hand.  He couldn’t see it. Of course, he was blind! “I’m holding my hand out to you,” I said with a soft voice. He took it and shook it in his weathered hand. I wondered what art instruments those hands had held, what students and natural disasters those eyes had once seen.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Yoshi said.  “Happy 4th of July to you!”