Kiddos

The Call

It started out as a feeling

Which then grew into a hope

Which then turned into a quiet thought

Which then turned into a quiet word

And then that word grew louder and louder

'Til it was a battle cry

I'll come back

When you call me

No need to say goodbye

Just because everything's changing

Doesn't mean it's never

Been this way before

All you can do is try to know

Who your friends are

As you head off to the war

Pick a star on the dark horizon

And follow the light

You'll come back

When it's over

No need to say good bye

You'll come back

When it's over

No need to say goodbye

Now we're back to the beginning

It's just a feeling and no one knows yet

But just because they can't feel it too

Doesn't mean that you have to forget

Let your memories grow stronger and stronger

'Til they're before your eyes

You'll come back

When they call you

No need to say good bye

You'll come back

When they call you

No need to say good bye

Servando

Yesterday I was helping one of my students with an English project, “My Name”. Servando has been one of my favorite students to teach. I know, I shouldn’t have favorites, but he holds a special place in my heart. He is what I guess you could call the “classic” Mexican male. He fits it almost exactly to a t—on the outside. Once you get to know him, you can see he is both gentle and manly all at the same time. He does give respect easily, but once you’ve earned it, it isn’t easily revoked.

Back to the “My Name” project. Servando hates English—with his whole heart. As we answered questions like, who were you named after, do you like your name; he suddenly stopped talking. I saw tears in his eyes. Que te pasa, I asked. He silently pointed to question 6. Why are you proud of your last name? I still didn’t understand. He began to explain. See, the last name Salinas didn’t seem significant to me, but to Servando it is everything. He told me about his father; how he grew up with nothing, no shoes, no opportunities. As a young man, he moved his young family to the United States, searching for opportunities. He died last year. His legacy is wrapped-up in the name Salinas. It reminds a still young son of the life that was lost and the life that is hoped for.

Sonatina

La princesa está triste . . qué tendrá la princesa? Los suspiros se escapan de su boca de fresa, que ha perdido la risa, que ha perdido el color. La princesa está pálida en su silla de oro, está mudo el teclado de su clave sonoro; y en un vaso alvidada se desmaya una flor.

El jardín puebla el triumfo de los pavos-reales. Palanchina, la dueña dice cosas banales, y, vestido de rojo, pirueta el bufón. La princesa no ríe, la princess no siente; La princesa persigue por el cielo de OrienteLa libélula vaga de una vaga ilusión.

Piensa acaso e el príncipe de Golconda o de China,o en el que ha detenido su carroza argentinapara ver de sus ojos la dulzura de luz? O en el rey de las Islas de las Rosa fragantes, o en el que es soberano de los claros diamanteso en dueno orgulloso de las perlas de Ormuz?

Ay! La probre princesa de la boca de rosaquiere ser golondrina, quiere ser mariposatener alas ligeras, bajo el cielo volar, ir al sol por la escala luminosa de un rayo, saludar a los lirios con los versos de mayo,o perderse en el viento sobre el trueno del mar.

Ya no quiere el palacio, ni la rueca de plata,ni el halcón encantado, ni el bufón escarlata, ni los cisnes unánimes en el lago de azur. Y están las flores por la flor de la corte; los jaszmines de Oriente, los nelumbos del Norte, de Occidente las dalias y las rosas del Sur.

Pobrecita princesa de los ojos azules!Está presa en sus oros, está presa en sus tules, en la jaula de mármol del palacio real, el palacio soberbio que vigilan los guardas,que custodian cien negros con sus cien alabardasun lebrel que no duerme y un dragón colosal.

Oh quién fuera hipsipila que dejó la crisálida! (La princesa está triste. La princesa está pálida) Oh visión adorada de oro, rosa y marfil! Quién volara a la tierra donde un príncipe existe (La princesa está palida. La princesa está triste) más brillante que el alba, más hermoso que abril!

-Calla, calla, princesa! - dice el hada madrina -, e caballo con alas, hacia acá se encamina, e el cinto la espada y en la mano el azor,el feliz caballero que te adora sin verte,y que llega de lejos, vencedor la Muerte,a encenderte los labios con su beso de amor!

Alone

Recently, I have become more aware of what internationals go through. I am friends with many and have classes with several. They live through such loneliness. Each time Luis walks into class, I wonder what his life must be like. I know that he misses his family. I can see it on his face. I can see it in the tears that fill up his eyes when I asked about them. But this is the only way that they can have a better life right now. What an unjust world we live in. He is separated from his family so that he can support them. When will Luis and so many others like him get to return home?

This is something that I don't understand at all. This year, my heart has been aching for internationals. I realize that they made this choice, but how many other options did they have? Not too many I would guess. I wish I knew a way to make it better; I know a way doesn't exist. Not in this life anyways. There is only one thing that can bring them hope and escape from loneliness. The hope of a Saviour.

I don't think that I have adequatley expressed how I feel about this. They only thing that I know to say is that my heart aches for Luis and so many others just like him. Oh, that they would see hope that a Saviour can bring into their lives. Yes, they may ache for their families, but I believe that the ache of loneliness would leave.

Hands

Everyone's hands tell a story. Each time I meet a person I always look at their hands. Perhaps this is odd. But don't you ever wonder what those hands have done or where they have been? We work with our hands. We play with our hands. We serve with our hands. We love with our hands. They are both unique and universal all at the same time. No person has the same lines, scars or cuts on their hands. Everybody's hands do something different. I love that.

My dad's hands tell the story of a man who has worked hard. As a little girl I loved to hold his hand. Then there was abuelito's hand. His hands felt like a vaquero. Rough from the whip and the leather. Strong and tender all at the same time. Both dad's and abuelito's hands were both brown and were in even rough in some of the same places, but they still felt entirely different. They each told a different story.

I don't know what my hands' stroy is yet, but I'm working on it. I often wonder if the your hands' story is something that you get to choose yourself. I suppose that in part yes, but in a larger part no.