Sabbath on the Islands

Church in Delap doesn’t quite sit with me. It’s like a predictable montage, if such a thing exists. These fragments and elements are taken from different views on how church is supposed to be, then put together to create a sort of formality they call worship. Sermons are given, often word for word, by slides on a projector. I have hymns memorized. I wear skirts past my knees because heaven forbid anyone see that bony part of my leg. I sit, I stand, I kneel when they tell me. And I bring paper and a pen, so I can draw--but they frown at me. I go--Wednesday, Friday, and twice on Saturday--because I must. “It’s part of my service as a student missionary.”

Yesterday I did not go to church. But I did experience Sabbath. Travis, Carrie, Scott, John, and I grabbed breakfast, packed our bags, and headed out. We were off campus by 8:30, and with packs on our backs, we started walking toward the edge of our atoll. Before we hit the water, Carrie and I freed ourselves from the skirts we had over our shorts, slipped on our water shoes, and treaded the first stretch of knee-deep water to get to the next island.

We did this for six hours and eleven islands--picking up shells, talking, climbing trees, forging paths, and laughing all the while. Our last stop was a lovely, little, unoccupied island with a small, but beautiful wooden house, lawn chairs, open gazebo, and a dock where we settled to eat lunch. Scott noticed some gray clouds coming our way, and we realized that with the speed of wind, it’d soon rain on us. And it did, a rather cold and hard-hitting shower. We huddled under the shelter of canoes until the rain passed, and then decided it’d be best to start our trek back.

Walking back over the coral and through water held less laughter and excitement as the bottoms of our feet and exhausted muscles fought against us. But as we were in-between islands, I told our group that for the first time in a long time, I enjoyed my Sabbath.

God is seen in more than a building filled with pews. He can be found where you earnestly seek Him. And just as much, he can be hidden behind a forced routine and set of rules. We sometimes lose sight of God, and focus on us, on Adventism, on doing it right and looking good, rather than sharing and experiencing Him in, what seems to us, an unconventional way, but perhaps in a way others see Him best.

Stopping at our first island

Wading through the water

Travis, me, and Carrie (probably playing "I have never...")

Huddling under the canoes

Starfish :)

Wish List

A lot of people ask me what I would like them to send me. Honestly, I feel funny asking for stuff, but getting packages does make me happy. And this way, I can refer people to this list next time they ask again, perhaps in frustration because I haven't yet told them.

So if you reeeaally love me that much . . .

Laundry soap in little baggies.
Goldfish crackers!!!
Games/cards (we Sms can get rather bored at times)
Latex gloves
Goggles (a sweet, seven-year-old broke mine)
Books
Audrey Hepburn DVDs (I always feel happy after watching one of her movies. Always)
Oven mits
Paper (my high schoolers go through my stacks fast)
Jelly
Chalk
Splenda (addict)
Red pens
Air Freshener/spray (my students get sweaty)
Instant tea
Flip flops
Copy paper (I’ve been printing tests and quizzes on lined paper)
A Nalgene bottle
Gum
Clear nail polish
Tupperware
Pictures (I miss everybody so much, and I'm unhappy that I didn't bring any photos with me)

P.O. Box I (letter "i") - SDA Mission
Majuro, Marhsall Islands, 96960

English Teaching (for lack of a creative title)

A friend mentioned my slack in blog posts. I didn’t feel guilty until I realized I had people who thought I was still teaching second grade. My bad.

About five or so weeks ago, I was asked to take over high school English; a long story--one I don’t have the energy to get into, but as of today, I have been teaching sixty-three high school students for one month.

I’m now sitting in my new(ish) classroom. Notes on the American Romanticism period are scribbled across my chalkboard, and I’m hoping my Juniors study for their quiz tomorrow. I like it here. The other day, Carrie said to me, “I can tell you’re happier these days.”
I believe I am.

I’m surprised at how quickly I’ve fallen into the drawl of this high school routine. I was too intimidated to apply for English when I chose my positions early in the year. A few students are my age, and some are even older--no lie. Thankfully, that hasn’t affected my work, or their cooperation in learning. Maybe because they don’t know.

I do miss my little second graders. They still visit me on occasion. I hear them running up the steps to the high school hall after school, screaming, “Miss Julie!!” Miss Julie is their new teacher, and I’ve stopped responding to that name. I think I may sometimes glare when they call me that. Dillon told me yesterday, “I’m scared to call you Miss Julie now, because I don’t want you to be mad.” I might have to rethink my response to the accidental and automatic mix-up of our names.

And though I miss the little people, I’ve grown surprisingly attached to my new students. Very much. They give me my good days. I thought I’d have a hard time leaving my second grade students at the end of the school year. I had no idea. In chapel, as I watched some of my sophomore boys sing up front, the last thing I wanted to think about was having to leave them. I didn’t know one could care for non-family/friends this much. I smiled this week when Nikko told me he wanted to call me Sister. Though he’s younger, he does look after me. He and Keja. They would not fit so easily into my suitcase like Aana. I may have to come up with something else.
As the days go by, I fall more in love with English (I officially decided that, had I lived in the 1800s, I would have asked Washington Irving to marry me), and more in love with my students (I’ve turned down only three proposals so far). I would say life is good right now.

Keja & Nikko (Miyoshi)

What my boys do when I give them time to study for their quiz

"Freshladiez"

Keja

Mailon, Bokie, & Tyo

Sophomore boys

My ESL students

Lonely People

Last night I visited with the stars. We met at the old playground and listened to music as I stared at their unfamiliar constellations. My back felt the cool, damp wood with each breath of sea breeze I took. “Hello stars,” I whispered into the night air. Palm branches swayed to the rhythm of my song as the clouds passed between us like ghosts lit by moonlight. It was then I realized I envied their stationary brightness. Stars are simply stars. They glow. I, on the other hand, feel far from any sort of “simply.”

I’ve now listened to “Eleanor Rigby/Julia” a minimum of eight times straight. I have yet to fully comprehend what Father McKenzie’s deal is, or why Julia is featured in the song title, but I feel sorry for Eleanor Rigby. I wish I could have been her friend. Then I would have been at her funeral. And about the lonely people--I know where they come from. I’m one of them.

Everyone is lonely for something, or someone. We’re in constant search of fulfillment, a cause to fight for, a purpose--for our own needs as well as others, as if to say, “I belong in this place.” Rob Bell said, “Some people are looking for a fight because they aren’t in one.” I don’t want to be like that. I want to stand for and love things for what they mean to me, truly. As cliché as this may sound, I’ve had a need to “find myself” for a long while now. I want to have an opinion without being influenced by someone else. I want to write without worrying what other people will think. I want to live outside connections and past relationships. I wish to live my life, not for the sake of anyone, not to impress other people who are lonely themselves, not by competition, but for me and for my God. I need to let go.

So this is me as simply as I can be, fully Jaimie Nicole Myaing, no outside influences: I’ve decided I like to paint. You may not call me a painter, but I like it, so I will do it. I also like to draw. I have a sketchbook and the paper doesn’t judge me. I danced under the moon tonight. My skirt made like a flower as I twirled. Dancing has always been freeing for me. Poetry. I am in love with it and will someday create a book that will be home to my poems. I have, as of a few months ago, cared quite a bit for the earth. We should take care of it. Not as a fad to “live green,” but seriously. Speaking of earth, I love to explore its vast lands and discover its many cultures. Traveling is beyond one of the best things I’ve experienced. They say I should be into politics--I’m not. I may be the furthest thing from a musician, but I am more and more a lover of music. I hold pride in my heritage and wish and pray for peace in Burma, as well as peace for all the lonely people in our very lonely nation. I fancy the idea of someday joining the Peace Corps. As of yet, I have no idea what my next step in life is and as of yet, I’m very okay with that.

These are the things I care about, the things I love, and the things I hope for. I am a poet, a painter, a dancer, lover of music, caretaker and traveler of earth, in waiting of peace.

So where do the lonely people, like you and me, belong? We belong here--continually searching for good, in pursuit of peace, in constant practice of love, as proclaimed individuals, hopefully without a need to impress.

Letting Go.

Tidbits of Majuro

What we wish we could wear in public, we wear to bed. These items of clothing took up valuable space in our suitcases. They will be worn.

I am thankful to be in Delap where we get a breeze that blows away mosquitoes and relieves us from heat. Within ten minutes of being in Laura, the other side of Majuro, I had a bagillionkatillion bug bites. Yes, that became a real number after my experience.

Cockroaches definitely do fly and geckos are my new best friend as they eat these pesky flying devils.

Baby Gecko

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I have the craziest, quirkiest, funniest, most laughable, entertaining, palest girl on Majuro for a roommate. We make the fun. And sometimes unintentionally match.

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Fresh coconuts don’t taste as good as “coconut” flavored things. Nor do they smell as nice. And they’re not as easily cracked open in real life as they are in movies.
If not for their use as key hideaways and the closest things to pets I can keep, they’d be an all-around disappointment.

Meet Mushoo and Monessa Chung

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Out of all the guys on Majuro, I am most attracted to Pete, and I don’t think he wants me. Sad day.

Pete

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The sunsets are beautiful here. The sunrises would be just as beautiful if they weren’t at 6:00 am.

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Tape on glasses makes you a nerd in America. In Majuro, this is a very “in” thing to do. Especially when it’s pink duct tape.

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When swimming with flippers minus “booties,” do not hesitate to loosen the too-tight strap around heels. Failure to do so will result in much pain.

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During our days off, we spend way too much time at the resort using the internet, drinking way too much iced tea, adding way too much Splenda.




Today’s count: six hours, nine glasses, eighteen Splendas. And still counting.

Pants Party

We wear skirts. All the time. On occasion, we do dresses. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I’m a happy dress-wearin’ girl. But the fact that I now sigh in frustration having to put on a skirt/dress every morning means it is time for a pants party. And that is exactly what the girls did last night.
Pants, shorts, tanks, non-Jesus music, “Friends” episodes, junk food, dancing--we did everything we’re not supposed to. I had such fun. We decided this would be a monthly occurrence, because I believe girls can only take being so girly so much. Even yours truly.

My Aana

Aana is seven years old. I’m convinced that into this third week of school, I have said her name more than any other in my life. “Aana, get off the windowsill.” “Aana, that’s not where you belong.” “Aana, please pay attention.” “Aana, come here.” “That’s not okay, Aana.” “Aana, don’t jump on the desks.” “Aana, sit down. Aana…Aana…thank you.”And that’s all before our eleven o’clock lunch.

Despite the fact that by the end of the day I have spent a subject’s worth of time trying to get Aana on task, I am drawn to this child. She’s indescribable, really; one of my most hyperactive students. She’s my singer, my helper, my after-school company, my laughter. She loves me through my discipline, but refuses to fawn after me as some of my other girls do. And in that way, she is my friend. Though she loves my lap for company, she prefers my talk. Her little girl voice and stubborn temper remind me of my seven-year-old self.
Aana Hannah Pink Hana Anna. That is her real name. I envy her sweet contentment and happiness. She is small--plenty small to fit in my suitcase. I may consider it on my return home.

I Love Ocean?

Half a week and a couple days down. We are exhausted. “It’s going to get better . . . right??” we ask one another, a hint of desperation in the question. My soft-spoken voice is suffering slightly and I am more than ready for a break. Grace came to me in my classroom. “Do you want to go to the bridge?” (there’s one bridge in Majuro). Without hesitation, I was in.

Thirty minutes later we were loading the back of our campus pick-up--Scott, Nathan, Evan, Grace, Cameron, Travis (keeping up on his blue bike), and me. I left my stress on campus and happily took in the wind as we rode the couples miles to our destination.

When we arrived I got my goggles, braided my hair, and hopped down. “The bridge” has a small sandy beach (lacking at school), a cement type walkway which I can only best describe as a pier where many locals fish, and a bridge standing thirteen feet above the water.

Cameron, being the adrenaline-needing, acrobatic daredevil he is, headed to the top of the bridge to jump. The boys followed while Grace and I settled for watching from below. After they’d jumped a few times, she looked at me. “You want to do it?” I looked up to where they were standing, and then down where a small audience of Marshallese had gathered at the bottom. Being the first SM girls to hit the water from the bridge appealed to me. “I’ll do it if you do.” And with that we nervously climbed to the road.

For a jump that would be over before we knew it, we spent an unimaginably long time preparing ourselves, standing over the railing, breathing (hyperventilating more so), looking down and over at the boys who counted to three enough times to complete perhaps a couple minutes. Unable to take the pressure from anticipation any longer, I said to Grace, “We’re doing it when I count to three.” We let go and I experienced the longest three seconds of my life.

Fighting the current as we swim to the rocks, we looked at each other wide-eyed. I won’t lie--I got out of that water with a slight sense of pride and accomplishment. I exhaled. Now I was ready to swim.

Maybe it was my cursed edge of competitiveness, or perhaps I was still living off the rush from our jump, but for some reason I decided to keep up with the boys out in the big waves. Cameron told me repeatedly, “Jaimie, don’t come out here,” which of course only made me more determined. I love to swim. Always have. Who’s to tell me I can’t go further? Feeling pretty good when I manage to swim further out than the boys, I turn my back to the ocean to see where everyone else is at. I see Travis and Nathan across from me, Scott, Cameron, and Evan closer to shore, and then I hear, “Watch out!”

I turn my head with time enough to see the massive wave collapse on me. Without time to take a breath, my heart started pounding as I fought for surface, unaware that my body, like a rag doll, was hitting rock and coral. Fright took over and after what seemed an eternity, I screamed as I reached surface. Not a second later I was back under, same routine. Only this time, I thought I was going to drown. I was panicking with nothing but the pressure of water surrounding me. When I felt my lungs would burst, I managed to get above. Without thought, I screamed for Travis. He got to me after the third wave took me back down again. Pulling me up, he asked if I was okay. Shaking my head and near to tears, I said over and over, “I need to get out of here.” He grabbed me as we started swimming back to shore, trying to calm me through the waves we had to take back. Heart beating fast and still gasping for breath, I was a mess by the time he got me out of the water. I sat down, knees curled to chest, and all I could think about was how scared I had been--how I had thought I might die in the ocean. I didn’t want to touch that water again.

Not much later, the group decided to head back. I climbed in the back of the truck, and watched the water get out of view as we drove away. Bridge jumping, big waves, and body tumbling in the water--I decided I had enough of a break and would be ready for another day of school tomorrow.

Thanks to Mom

I received packages from my mother today. My kids now love her. I put our old colored pencils, dull scissors, and nearly dried-out makers in a box and filled our crooked art shelf with new school supplies. They made her Thank You cards. “Thank you for this things.” “Thank you Mrs. Julianna or Mrs. Harder” (I gave them the option, but many chose to write both). And I have real food. This is a happy day. I love you, Mom.

School as of Yet

I have little, if any, qualifications to be a teacher, but here I am--scrambling to create a sufficient second grade classroom, thrown into basic yet unimaginably difficult curriculum, and racking my brain for recyclable classroom materials. My hands ache from sharpening old pencils in preparation and I wonder why I used to find it fun, as my children do now, to do this menial task. I wonder if they notice the cardboard boxes that I use as paper trays or the capless markers I tried to salvage. Neither seem to phase them. Perhaps the teacher before me had the privilege of 12” rulers, but I don’t think my kids mind a couple inches broken off. Who uses all twelve at once anyway? And long pencils are overrated. Small, sharpened-down pencils work well for little hands, right?

With blistered fingers, I pick up broken chalk leftover from last year and write, as vertically as possible (a challenge, I admit), “Miss Jaimie.” Since most cannot yet read, I don’t hold it against them that many call me Miss Amy instead. They’re loud for their size, and quite charismatic. Six days down and I feel that this will be a constant work in progress. I hope I’ll savor every moment of it. They deserve that much from me.

From them I get light. If I don’t smile they ask me why I’m sad, and I’m gratefully reminded of all I have to be thankful for. When they tell me they’re hurting, I say I’m sorry, and they’re satisfied to have even so little sympathy. When they innocently ask, “Miss Jaimie, why are you so beautiful?,” I smile and tell them they merely see me that way, and I believe they feel they’ve then accomplished something. When they fall, I pick them up, and when I’m down, they return the favor. I have the honor of receiving freshly plucked weeds daily. And I lack the heart to scold them for using a third of our glue when they present to me lined paper stuck together, complete with abstract stick figures.

I have thirteen non-stop lively, desk-dancing, pencil-drumming, creatively spoken students. And I believe I love them. Very much.

Liking Jesus

I’m sitting on my “porch” right now. The rain’s just letting up. It’s rainy season here in Majuro and I think it’s wonderful. Maybe I’ll save some tin cans and set them outside my window. I think I’d enjoy that.
School is starting soon. When some of the SMs and I were talking, I told them the teaching part didn’t worry me. I said it was the Jesus element that was a bit unsettling. Kids I love. It was Jesus I needed to love more.

So I’m working on that.

Anyone can say “I love Jesus.” You’re supposed to, right? But to love Jesus best, you need to like Him first. And to like Him is to want to know Him. We’re doing pretty good so far, Jesus and I.

Meanwhile, I’ve attempted to make my unintentionally colorful brick room homey, though I fear it’s leaning more towards the homely side instead. And unless I’m taken by surprise, or trying to kill one, the cockroaches don’t bother me too much. Elizabeth, my apartment-mate, has enough fright over them for the all four of us.

So in-between preparing my classroom, cracking sprouting coconuts, and trying to bake better bread than Travis (still unsuccessful, but getting closer), I have been making a home out of little Majuro while also grasping Jesus in a different way. It’s all very good.

Apartment-mates

Our SM Home

Our sleeping place

Goodmorning Majuro

Carrie Cloke

Carrie and I laughed a lot tonight. I’m sitting across the bed from her as she reads her book.Eeyore is snuggled close next to her. Carrie makes for a good roommate, her and Eeyore both.

Tonight she listened to my stories and let me record her rubbing a Styrofoam cup of ice on her bug-bitten legs. That’s another good thing about Carrie—the bugs like her better. And she falls asleep with the light on (like she has now) so I can finish reading, drawing, or writing silly blogs at night. There’s also a good chance she’ll let me read her novel once she’s finished, since I only have three books and two of them are Bibles (send me books?). Carrie also takes her apartment key with her everywhere so that I don’t have to remember mine when we go out. She doesn’t talk badly of other people, which I think is pretty neat. And she’s funny. I like her.

Hm, she has just now, maybe subconsciously, lifted her head and “humphed.” Perhaps she hears the boys snoring through the wall. Regardless, I think I’ll turn the light off now. But yes, I do like her much and enjoy her company. If only she’d let me keep a hermit crab . . .