Crying on My Apple Dumpling: Brookport Mission Trip Blog, Day 5

There was a moment last week when God specifically tapped me on the shoulder and pointed my direction to what was going on in front of me. I could hear him telling me to observe like I always do. That's one thing God has given me, is that eye for detail. It's helped me write stories when I was in junior high. It's helped me read situations with adults and it helped me navigate my way through college poetry sessions. While I have been patted on the back for some of the stories I have told, there's nothing like seeing a life story written by God unfold right before your eyes. He's the best scriptwriter the Oscars never acknowledged.

I found it ironic that God had sent Miss Lucille Shannon our way to begin with. Her house was our first job in Brookport. We had already begun working on it before we even met her. All of us were anxious to meet her, as mission work is truly about serving a community member in need. In she walks, all smiles and wide-eyed appreciation. I knew in my heart that Miss Shannon was someone special. When I found out she was a retired teacher, I told myself, "No way, Lord."  There was no way God would send me on a trip to meet a teacher. He knows what's been on my mind, that's for sure.

It was another God coincidence that Miss Shannon had spent over 20 years as a fifth grade teacher--the very grade I have been since 2011. It's the same grade I kick around like a stone. The same grade I sometimes ache to think about. The testing, all 29 of them, loud, with issues and all varying degrees of need. I saw myself in Miss Shannon. She talked about her classroom and her kids as if they were running through the house. I could tell she told great stories, and that she was one of those no-nonsense but loving type of people. She told me that other teachers would always say, "Miss Shannon, I don't know how you can say what you just said to a parent," and she'd reply, "Cause they know it comes from love." I know that the experiences she had were very similar to my own, regardless if the town was small. There were kids coming to her broken and needy. Kids coming to her with barely a support system or a home to call their own. The uniqueness of Miss Shannon's experience was that she had also taught cousins, siblings, sons and daughters. A big city doesn't always offer those family dynamics.

Each day we were served lunch by another local church. And I mean it was down home country love. Meatloaf, soup beans, blueberry cheesecake, made by Mr. Dale, the 2 Barbaras, Miss Shannon and a few other volunteers. We would all start the meal with a prayer, sometimes a quick one, just to alleviate the smells coming from the kitchen. On this particular afternoon, a younger daughter (probably in her late 20's) of one of the Barbaras, came in to see her mom. She had noticed Miss Shannon across the room but Miss Shannon hadn't recognized her. Now I've seen older students before, but the oldest I have are in college, my daughter's age. By the time the girl came around, Miss Shannon recognized her.

After a hug, Miss Shannon introduces her to all of us, letting us know that she was an all around best-student-ever kind of kids. The rest here is as close as possible to the retelling:

I had a kid that year. Trouble trouble. But he had no family and all sorts of problems. Well, the school wanted to kick him out, and I told them, "no way, you can't kick this kid out." Then I told my class, she was in it. You remember, right? Barbara's daughter knows exactly who Miss Shannon is referring to.

Well, I get to telling the class why he needs to stay. The class was always used to my stories. Everybody knows Miss Lucille likes to tell them stories. I told 'em, "every one of us is one event away from not having a home. Or from not having a mother or a father. Don't make no difference between you and him." 

Barbara's daughter nods in agreement.

So listen here, pulling her closer. All this time, Miss Shannon has her arm around her. This one gets to high school. They get a chance to nominate a teacher for teacher of the year. It was that story she used to nominate me. The topic was 'What teacher inspired you?'

I'm going to admit that men do cry. Especially me. And sometimes we cry in our apple dumpling dessert.

For the past several months, despite the feeling of rejuvenation at my job, I still felt at times that the work I was doing wasn't amounting to much. That goes with the service and volunteer work with the youth at my church as well. I didn't realize that I had basically been asking God for a limited contract. One that I could sign that promised I'd see some tangible results. Can I get my own this-kid-came-to-Jesus story? Can I get some satisfaction that some kid down the line remembers the rants and the lunch bunches and the semi-sermons? But I wasn't really asking God for a miracle, I was asking for a sign. I was testing him. So when Rocky, our leader, brought up Gideon from the Bible, it had cemented for me what I had already feared. Stop asking for signs or the blessings may not be evident when they arrive. So in that embrace of a former student and Miss Lucille I saw my life, and the lives of all the teachers I loved, for all the teachers that are grading papers on a weekend, buying supplies out of their own money. Finally, the spotlight was off of me and onto what was more important--others.

And so despite some of the other frustrations of the trip--like not having my breathing machine!--I came to love the little nuances and annoyances. As I sit here days removed, I'm thankful for the shooting ache I had in my right knee every time I hoisted myself up into the church van. I miss the midnight trips to the bathroom in my bare feet when the weather was 7 degrees and the side door had to be propped open to allow the water hose from the shower trailer to run. I miss the pile up of outstanding young women in the back of the van, with their lack of self-importance but with an abundance of selfies. I miss the trim and sanding work that gave my arm twitches of carpal tunnel, or the fact I was rationing my underwear and clean shirts.

I had a student today who was reading my shirt I received from Brookport. It was given to us by the Presbyterian pastor (who said that we Methodist are just as bad about having a shirt for every occasion) without worrying about order forms. The date on the shirt is from November 2013, and the student of mine said, "That shirt is old." I told him that was when a tornado hit. "That's where I was all week working on getting Miss Lucille back into her home."

"You help people who are homeless?"

I guess you could say that. It's on my official credentials.
Reynaldo Cordova, home builder. Heart wrecked.