The recess bell rings, and he
runs to me, his excitement growing with each step. “Hannah! Hannah!” out of
breath he yells. I look at him, “Yes, Carl?” the sight of his state brings a
smile to my face. “Hannah, I got 100 on my spelling today!” he announces
proudly, head held high. The feelings that flood my heart in that moment are
hard to describe—pride and excitement most assuredly, but even those words
don’t quite capture it. It’s a feeling too sweet for words to even express,
which makes it all the more beautiful.
My first week here I watched
him struggle to pay attention through class. I watched him choose his bicycle
over his spelling homework. I watched as he daydreamed through math and
spelling and Bible and singing. And I watched as –unsurprisingly- he failed the
spelling test he chose not to study for all week.
I found him on Saturday
afternoon that first week. “Carl,” I say as we walked in our usual way, his arm wrapped around
my waist, mine resting on his shoulders, “This upcoming week, we are going to
study your spelling words.” I stare at him, trying to read the look about his
face. “We are going to study so hard, you will get only minus two!” I speak
with more determination and faith than I feel. “Ok Hannah,” he says, “Okay.”
That next week I watch him. On
Monday I watch him copy the words from the blackboard diligently. On Tuesday
I watch him run up to me after class, notebook pages flying, yelling, “Spell
me! Spell me!” On Wednesday the sun beats our shoulders brown, and I watch him spell all his words right as sweat dripped from his brow. And on Thursday,
I watch him be one of the fastest spellers in the class. And oh, Friday…
Friday I watch his face as the teacher pinned his spelling test to the wall. 100%
for Carl.
He looks at me with a smile
that melts my heart. We walk the compound later that day, hand-in-hand. “I am
so proud of you,” I tell him, stopping to look him in the eyes. “You studied
and you studied hard and you got 100!" I bend to my knees, eye-to-eye with this little boy. "You’re my champion speller.” He looks at
me, “Champion speller...” The words roll in his mouth, as if he were tasting them,
“Champion speller.”
Some days I wonder what I’m
doing here. More often than not, I feel so unqualified, like I’m in way over my
head. And more often still, I get lost in my doubts, choosing to believe I
don’t have the experience or the knowledge or the education or the years to be
of good help. What can you do? the whisper at the back of my mind growing
stronger, more urgent. You’re 20. A
child. And you think you can have some sort of impact here? You’re such a fool.
There are days I believe the
doubts, days I get caught up believing I am of no use here, days I believe I
should just board a plane back home, because what can a 20-year-old do for a
place like this? There are days I let that voice get the best of me and
immobilize me until I really am
useless, selfishly stuck in my own self-doubt.
But another voice whispers, a
voice of Truth and Love; and some days, I choose to listen to It, to not turn a
deaf ear towards It. And I remember my little Champion Speller. Sweet child of Mine, you are more valuable
and useful than your own eyes can see. At His voice, the doubts and the
insecurities fall silent. He tells me, tenderly and gently, that His power can be
at work through me. That He longs to use you, me, all of us… no matter
how under-qualified or inexperienced or young or old we think we may be. I’m
tired of believing lies, rendering myself useless to Him in the process. My
heart is alive in this moment, wildly so. Full of the imagination of what we –His beloved
children- could be used for, if only we would stop believing the lies, and
start believing Him. Today I’m choosing to believe this hope… this crazy,
beautiful hope.
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