I WISH I had a tape recorder so you could hear how enthusiastic and cute los niños were during class.
Every Tuesday I help out with the children’s program in a neighborhood called Por Fin. So far, I serve as the silent wingwoman, nodding along to the teacher’s lesson, rewarding correct answers with smiles, and attempting to quell deviance with prolonged stares. While we do our thing, a group of women (mostly moms of the kids) have Bible study in the back courtyard with the effervescent Pastora Flor.
This week we learned about el Buen Pastor (the Good Shepherd). I love that in Spanish the word for “pastor” and “shepherd” are the same. We learned that God, like a good shepherd, protects us, las ovejitas. He knows what his sheep need – apparently his sheep need toys. He leads his sheep to good pastures.
Yesterday my body went to war with itself. Burning with heat, I laid in bed for about 9 hours straight. It took me 15 minutes to call my coworkers to notify them of my absence because I kept falling asleep between each attempt.
I wonder how old you have to be before you stop wanting your mom when you’re sick. Thankfully, my host mom came home after a few hours and helped me out. My host sister also told me to put on more clothes to sweat out the fever – duh! From then on, I was on the road to recovery.
For the whole day I felt so helpless, like a little sheep. But just knowing I was being cared for by my host mom brought so much comfort. The medicine, the clementine, the wet cloths for my forehead, the shoulder rub – these were the green pastures I needed.
By the way, whether you’re in a Chinese-, English- or Spanish-speaking Christian community, you can bet that the go-to Sunday school answers will always be some form of ¡Dios! or ¡Jesús!