Sabah, where the sweat confuses the tears

We were hiking up the stairs to STS.  It was towards the end of orientation, and we were talking about Agnes Newton Keith's books about Sabah.  The first book in the series is called,  The Land Below the Wind, a description of Sabah still commonly used.  As we made it to the top the stairs very hot, sweaty and tired, Ashley thought, "Sabah, where the sweat confuses the tears," was a more appropriate description.   While it might seem a little intense, its something I've been thinking about the past few weeks.

Two weeks ago on Friday, I took an adventure to the secondary school.  As per usual, I had no idea where I was going or why, but I was told to be ready around 7:30.  So the staff picked me up and we went to the secondary school for what I found out was a ceremony to wish the Form 3 (maybe about 9th grade in the states) students taking the PMR good luck.  From what I understand the PMR is a standardized test with results that affect the students' futures.  As we walked through the school complex, each of the kids from Jireh Home called out to me from their classrooms.  I'm sure they were incredibly disruptive, but the familiarity was wonderful.  We got to the room at least an hour early and sat to wait.  The ceremony included a speech from one of the Jireh Home boys, and concluded with all of the parents forming a line to shake each student's hand.  Somehow, I was the first female, and each girl took my hand, some pressing it to their foreheads, tears in their eyes.  Then the one girl from Jireh Home in Form 3 approached me sobbing and gave me a huge hug.  As my eyes filled with tears for her and her incredibly stressed classmates, I was grateful for the sweat dripping down my face, confusing the sympathetic tears. 

The next night, Jireh Home had a farewell dinner for Brother Pascal, the Swiss volunteer who has been here for nine months.  The girls and boys each presented entertainment in the form of songs or dances  and then some students shared impromtu thank you speeches in English.  One boy could quite articulate his thoughts and just said thanks and hurried across the room for a hug.  A couple of the girls choked back tears.  Once again, I was thankful for the constant sweat to confuse the tears that wouldn't stay away. 

And last week Tuesday, Brother Pascal, my guide for my first month here left for the airport.  He came in and gave each girl a hug, many two, and walked across the street to the boys house, ready to leave.  The girls followed slowly. Everyone cried.  The older girls kept an arm around the younger girls, who didn't care to be tough, to hold back their emotions.  It will be hard for me to forget the sound of the youngest girl's sobs as she walked home across the street, led by one of her sisters here. That afternoon, there was no need for the sweat to confuse the tears, as we already felt Brother Pascal's absence. 

As often as I try to hide my tears, afraid to be lumped as in the same category as  my lovely mom, who cries at everything,  I am grateful for the emotion.  I am thankful I am feeling, beginning to understand deeper cultural practices, and sympathizing with the daily life of the kids, each of whom has an experience that runs much deeper than the smiles, games and silly broken conversations in Manglish.  And as I watched the kids say goodbye to Brother Pascal, the sweat confusing the threat of tears, I felt so blessed to have about ten more months to get to know each of them and this place in a more meaningful way.

Circles

It was almost 10 pm.  I was exhausted and hid in the living room from the girls who were diligently studying in the dining room playing FlowFree on my iPod.  Lillyiana (one of the younger girls) came to help me play, frequently making things worse.  But just like everyone else she needs love, needs someone to want her, to choose to spend time with her.

It had been a long, full day.  My morning routine with an empty house was thrown off by Pastor Repeih's day off.  I was tired after a wonderful weekend in KK with the YAGMS, and spent the morning of preparing a likely overly ambitious week of English lessons and chatting with Pascal.  The afternoon included a ride into Tuaran, the expected English class, and a jog with the girls to the falling apart playground at the entrance to the subdivision.  After playing silly games on the see-saw and being pushed on the swing by one of the younger girls, Kisa and I talked about boys and relationships while the girls went home to shower before dinner.  After dinner Lebiana gave me a back rub and we discussed body image and then I laid on the floor with Kisa, discussing the finer details of English grammar as the Jireh Home orchestra rehearsed outside.  So many activities, so much love, so much sharing.

But then the long day didn't matter anymore.  The girls began to sleepily fill the living room and we sat on the floor in a circle.  Pastor Repeih talked to them in Malay, telling them to keep studying, to keep trying hard.  I had the opportunity to make an announcement and declined.  Then the girls sang and we joined hands to pray, my fingers intertwined with the tiny delicate hand of Sufiana and the sure hand of Ratiah, who leaned her head, exhausted and heavy on my shoulder.

We prayed out loud all at once, my English murmurs hidden yet intertwined with the girl's prayers in Malay.  After a while we feel silent while Pastor Repeih finished.  Lissa began Doa Bapa Kami (the Lord's Prayer) and we were done.  The girls headed upstairs to bed with sincere wishes of "sleep tight" and "goodnight Sister Kelly."  I promised Sufiana I would go jogging with her the next morning at 6:15 and followed Pastor Repeih home, still dazed from such pure love, the complete acceptance of a circle of people, each with hard stories and different experiences, joined together in prayer.

All I could do was thank God for the small hands to keep me grounded as I experienced something so much larger than myself.