When I was little I read the story of the rainbow fish.
I know you’re probably familiar with it, but just in case you need a reminder, it revolves around a fish with a body covered in precious, metallic scales. She prizes them and considers them to be a defining part of who she is. When a smaller, duller, not quite as lucky fish asks for one, she refuses, but is soon told by a wise octopus that the secret to becoming happier is sharing her rainbow scales. She agrees and with each scale she gives away, she gains a sense of happiness and wholeness until she is left with a single one. The giving away of the objects she thought she couldn’t live without ends up being the key to unlocking joy.
Today I had a rainbow fish day.
Kadi, Alex, and I planned on going to the orphanage’s church service again, but ended up sacrificing being on time for going to a store in the mall (Kadi was desperate to look at their soccer jerseys). At first I was disappointed in our sudden change of plans, but soon surrendered to the domino effect it would have on the day's events. It ended up that the act of me waiting for Kadi left me standing at the store entrance staring at three baskets full of limited edition Fifa 2010 World Cup footballs (aka soccer balls). My mind flashed back to the ragged, deflated ball innards and plastic bottles I saw the kids kicking around the previous weekend. The balls cost R220 (about $30). At first, I was hesitant thinking that I should save my money for something else that I could really treasure. But then my thoughts shifted to the kids who have next to nothing and for the sake of continuing my metaphor, weren't blessed with as many "rainbow scales."
Alex agreed to split the cost with me and we left with the shiny, fully inflated ball.
By the time we made it to the children’s home, we were fifty minutes late for the service. The priest I had met the previous Sunday welcomed us at the gate and, as a way to somehow justify our tardiness, I unzipped my backpack, revealed the top of the ball, and told her we’d brought a gift for the kids. She replied with a smile and a “God bless you.” She motioned towards the chapel and told us to go right in.
The creek of the metal barn-like doors ended our attempts to a silent and a relatively non-disturbing entrance. We walked in during the sermon and quickly took our seats in the back. A toddler in a grey and black fleece ran up to me and I scooped him up into my lap. The service continued in a similar manner as it had the previous weekend. I found myself paying more attention to people’s hand gestures, smiles, and eyes as I couldn’t understand any words except “Jesus” and “amen.”
Towards the end of the service the woman acknowledged a family in the back cradling a baby (To what I could understand, it was a congratulations and a thank you for welcoming a new child into their family.) and three children sitting quietly towards the back as well (new members to the orphanage). Then our eyes met and she motioned for me to come up to the front. I double checked that I was in fact the one she she was gesturing to. She said something in Sesotho and I made out the word “ball.” I hastily unzipped my bag, ripped the ball out of the packaging, and, with the ball in one hand and the toddler in the other, made my way to the front. When I reached the beaming woman, she took the ball from my hands and spoke words I could not understand to the kids.
“I told them you did this for love.” For love.
I quickly blinked back the hot tears coming to my eyes and put a hand over my heart and nodded, “Yes. For love.” ( I couldn’t get over how simple and innocent sounding it was, yet so pure and so true.) When she asked me who the ball was for I replied with “everyone,” as I made a sweeping motion over the room. She repeated it in Sesotho and the kids erupted with cheers. “Are you going to teach them how to play?” she asked. I laughed, “No, I think I’d love it if they could teach me.” (As if they hadn't already begun to do this in other ways.)
Then, she threw the ball into the middle of one of the pews, the kids screamed with laughter and excitement, and I watched as the ball being passed between all of their hands (in a bit of a “crowd surfing” manner).
When the service ended, we proceeded outside (Kadi, Alex and I holding many hands and leading a parade of kids). As soon as we reached the soccer field, I tossed my rainbow scale to the boy nearest me who promptly made the first kick onto the field. Everyone else swarmed behind him and we began our long game of football.
The game consisted of no clear cut teams and no defined rules. Just kids kicking it any way they liked and at whatever goal suited them: everyone eager to get a chance to get a crisp kick out of the new ball. I even gained enough courage to kick it when it came my way. At one point the ball came soaring through the air and somehow (I still don’t quite know how) my forehead made contact with it. A swarm of cheers followed my lucky header. I ran with them. I played with them. I laughed with them. In a sense, I became one of them. And as I did, the line between “us” and “them” became blurred.
I know you’re probably familiar with it, but just in case you need a reminder, it revolves around a fish with a body covered in precious, metallic scales. She prizes them and considers them to be a defining part of who she is. When a smaller, duller, not quite as lucky fish asks for one, she refuses, but is soon told by a wise octopus that the secret to becoming happier is sharing her rainbow scales. She agrees and with each scale she gives away, she gains a sense of happiness and wholeness until she is left with a single one. The giving away of the objects she thought she couldn’t live without ends up being the key to unlocking joy.
Today I had a rainbow fish day.
Kadi, Alex, and I planned on going to the orphanage’s church service again, but ended up sacrificing being on time for going to a store in the mall (Kadi was desperate to look at their soccer jerseys). At first I was disappointed in our sudden change of plans, but soon surrendered to the domino effect it would have on the day's events. It ended up that the act of me waiting for Kadi left me standing at the store entrance staring at three baskets full of limited edition Fifa 2010 World Cup footballs (aka soccer balls). My mind flashed back to the ragged, deflated ball innards and plastic bottles I saw the kids kicking around the previous weekend. The balls cost R220 (about $30). At first, I was hesitant thinking that I should save my money for something else that I could really treasure. But then my thoughts shifted to the kids who have next to nothing and for the sake of continuing my metaphor, weren't blessed with as many "rainbow scales."
Alex agreed to split the cost with me and we left with the shiny, fully inflated ball.
By the time we made it to the children’s home, we were fifty minutes late for the service. The priest I had met the previous Sunday welcomed us at the gate and, as a way to somehow justify our tardiness, I unzipped my backpack, revealed the top of the ball, and told her we’d brought a gift for the kids. She replied with a smile and a “God bless you.” She motioned towards the chapel and told us to go right in.
The creek of the metal barn-like doors ended our attempts to a silent and a relatively non-disturbing entrance. We walked in during the sermon and quickly took our seats in the back. A toddler in a grey and black fleece ran up to me and I scooped him up into my lap. The service continued in a similar manner as it had the previous weekend. I found myself paying more attention to people’s hand gestures, smiles, and eyes as I couldn’t understand any words except “Jesus” and “amen.”
Towards the end of the service the woman acknowledged a family in the back cradling a baby (To what I could understand, it was a congratulations and a thank you for welcoming a new child into their family.) and three children sitting quietly towards the back as well (new members to the orphanage). Then our eyes met and she motioned for me to come up to the front. I double checked that I was in fact the one she she was gesturing to. She said something in Sesotho and I made out the word “ball.” I hastily unzipped my bag, ripped the ball out of the packaging, and, with the ball in one hand and the toddler in the other, made my way to the front. When I reached the beaming woman, she took the ball from my hands and spoke words I could not understand to the kids.
“I told them you did this for love.” For love.
I quickly blinked back the hot tears coming to my eyes and put a hand over my heart and nodded, “Yes. For love.” ( I couldn’t get over how simple and innocent sounding it was, yet so pure and so true.) When she asked me who the ball was for I replied with “everyone,” as I made a sweeping motion over the room. She repeated it in Sesotho and the kids erupted with cheers. “Are you going to teach them how to play?” she asked. I laughed, “No, I think I’d love it if they could teach me.” (As if they hadn't already begun to do this in other ways.)
Then, she threw the ball into the middle of one of the pews, the kids screamed with laughter and excitement, and I watched as the ball being passed between all of their hands (in a bit of a “crowd surfing” manner).
When the service ended, we proceeded outside (Kadi, Alex and I holding many hands and leading a parade of kids). As soon as we reached the soccer field, I tossed my rainbow scale to the boy nearest me who promptly made the first kick onto the field. Everyone else swarmed behind him and we began our long game of football.
The game consisted of no clear cut teams and no defined rules. Just kids kicking it any way they liked and at whatever goal suited them: everyone eager to get a chance to get a crisp kick out of the new ball. I even gained enough courage to kick it when it came my way. At one point the ball came soaring through the air and somehow (I still don’t quite know how) my forehead made contact with it. A swarm of cheers followed my lucky header. I ran with them. I played with them. I laughed with them. In a sense, I became one of them. And as I did, the line between “us” and “them” became blurred.
i had some help carrying my bag.
lunch line.
this is serajae, she's seventeen, speaks english well, and has an wonderful, easy laugh
my favorite photo.
alex took a video of them, they were all eager to see iti was talking and walking with serajae while she was carrying a bucket of water, i was just following her steps and ended up going into a small shed-like building. it turned out to be the salon they run. i met the woman in charge and she talked about how the students often complete their education, but are left unemployed. she talked of the importance of teaching them life skills such as cooking, sewing, and doing hair. she was teaching serajae and mpho (who's pictured below and goes my the nickname "porsha." her deepest wish is to go to new york city.) the basics of hair care as they ran the local salon. they also offered manicures. mpho did one for me and left me with the lovely silver nails i have at this very moment.
they heated up the water in an electric water boiler for the hair washings and had a single, small television with a built in dvd drive in which they continuously played santa clause 2 for any waiting customers.
=
my silver nails
the manicure table
the nursery:
Wow - that post blew me away.
ReplyDeleteYou continue to grow in love and wisdom.
I love you.
Be well,
Uncle Marc