Kezia

 

People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.

 

I met Kezia several times in my life.

 

I can recall clearly my first encounter with her.

I was serving in a brand-new building. We didn’t even have any desk in the teacher’s office! There was no running water. The workers had not finished with the project. You could hear hardware tools everywhere. The faculty toilet was still locked, and nobody knew who had the key. There was no water nor power supply. We brought our drinking water, lest we thirst the whole day. It was certainly no fun way to meet someone new in anyone’s life!

 

There she was, sitting on a folding chair in the hallway.

A girl with pigtails, chubby cheeks and the biggest smile I’d ever seen. She was looking for a school. She’d been turned down by many before. Because she had spina bifida and hydrocephalus.

 

I teased her. “School is hard, you know? I give lots of homework and quizzes.” She told me in business matter: “I want to go to school. I promise I will go to school.”

 

She kept her promise.

Kezia became one of best students. She gave it all. Even when it took all she’d got to even physically attend school. Her schoolmates absolutely loved her. They played hide-and-seek at recess. They took turn to deliver her lunch upstairs from the school cafeteria, because the school building didn’t have an elevator. They fought for the seats next to hers at school assemblies or circle times. She was the living exhibit of a successful inclusion.

 

Days turned into years.

She left that school. Due to her deteriorating health, she had to have numerous surgeries. She had to do so in the middle of her family’s financial crisis. Her family could not afford the tuition fees. We didn’t give up, though. We sneaked out and delivered worksheets for her. Years later, she told me she brought those worksheets to work on in the hospital. Those worksheets became her lifeline – the only reminder of “normal” life. They provided her with sanity she needed to keep on living. Years after, I left that school as well. I felt I had a higher calling to answer.

 

I was in my comfort zone.

I taught in a school established by my church. All the PK’s attended my classes. I knew everyone, and everyone knew me. I live 10 minutes’ worth of driving from that school. I never finished 1 song on the CD from my front gate to the school’s parking lot. I got paid so well that I went on vacations at least twice a year. Yet there was a nudge inside me. That was not where I belong. That was not where I was needed most.

 

It wasn’t easy to say good-bye.

I cried many tears when I left. The students’ parents visited me to prove that I wasn’t teaching somewhere else. They still called me to make sure their children serve in the school Christmas Service. We still keep in touch today. That’s how much we cherish each other. I guess they can tell that I love my kiddos to death. Although there are days when I wondered whether I should’ve worked in a bank….

 

I visited her and we had noodles party for lunch.

I thought I was the generous one. I was so ashamed, though, when I learned that in the hospital, she visited the other children in her area. She gave hope and offered prayers to children who were terminally ill. She gave words of encouragement despite her own physical pain. She sang songs for children who cried in spite of her family’s no knowing how to cover the hospital bills.

 

We had to tell her tales.

Kezia’s mom decided to write her journey. To raise funds, and to raise hope for others. I helped her searching for any publisher who would read her drafts. With cold shoulders, they told us they would do it for a minimum amount of printings. We kept on searching, until we found Fanny Lesmana -- a lady who’d become a dear friend and a fellow lecturer at Petra Christian University.

 

I found her again.

This time, thanks to Instagram. Just like girls her age, she had an IG account. That’s how I tracked her down. I booked her to share her story in my class.

I am in a different stage of life now.

I teach student-teachers at a Christian University. I fervently instill the love for students with special needs to my students. After 4 years, they will become teachers. If could share the flame to 20 student-teachers each year, I believe I pass the torch to them. Let them reach different parts of the country, and even the world, and ignite this light. I believe that one day, in Indonesia, there will be no student who slips off the crack of their teachers’ fingers.

 

Today, Kezia did that exact same job.

She shared her life to my students. Thanks to the Pandemic, classes are taught online, and I could “invite” her, and others to our class. For the first time since we all had to stay home (6 months ago!!), we sang a song together again. This time, tearfully. Once again, she became the living exhibit that nothing could stop the flame inside. Nothing should be an excuse good enough not to encourage or whip you off. Under no circumstances should you have a pity party. Later on, on our class’ Learning Management System Wall, each student told me how much Kezia has taught them within minutes. Obviously, like me, they had met such a strong lady who loves Jesus so much that she just cannot help but sharing Him to anyone who would listen.

 

Today, my students made a new friend. I pray that, just like me, they will meet Kezia – and other Kezias – several times in their lives. Kezias whom God put in their lifetimes to become reminders of His love to children with special needs. And when we meet again in our Heavenly Father’s home one day, what a joy it would be!

 

Surabaya, 23 September 2020

Clay

 

Clay

          I seem to have a gift which only a few can perform: I can make a grown-up cry with one question. I just cringe every time it happens.

          I have been following Clay’s story for years. Since he was a toddler. His parents often share his progresses and setbacks. I devour each story. I read them again and again. Probably because I relate to him in terms of how it must feel like, living with Learning Disabilities.

          Clay is handsome and smart. He is such a delight to behold. His comments are short yet hit you hard. Partly because he has limited ways to describe his everyday life.

Clay’s parents suspected something must be wrong when they saw that he has been a very quiet boy. His abilities were also limited, compared to his elder brother.

Clay was diagnosed with Speech and Language Disorder early in his life. In Indonesia, people often call this special needs by “speech delay.” This term has become so common that people do not bother to check the scientific term.

You see, there is a very  limited amount and access to information, let alone formal education on special education in Indonesia. Information is strictly limited to those who speak English, who then gather information from the Internet. Access to information is more strictly limited to those who know some key words, who then also gather information from the internet. In fact, it does not work that way when you seek for professional help.

Don’t get me wrong. Clay’s parents are well-educated. They have graduate degrees from a reputable School of Theology. And they both teach. Therefore they know the urgency of early interventions. They meet numerous pediatricians who claim to be experts on child development. They dedicate their time and energy to seek for therapies for Clay.

Parents who have a child with special need usually undergo the same shock upon learning about their child’s condition. It takes them a while to overcome the hollow sound of the initial diagnosis. Then it punches them powerfully: that life would never be the same. Their conversations would be different from other families.  Their daily schedules would be drawn around therapies, accompanying the child to review their lessons at home, learning new strategies to cope with various surprises, to name a few.

Some of the parents even told me that they undergo a grieving process. They have a great loss, knowing that their child would never accomplish his or her peers’ achievements at the same rate and speed. Inasmuch as they yearn to, they might not observe stages of life such as play-dates, playing board games together, or “normal” arguments. Some children will never tell their parents, “I love you” in words. Some children will never be able to move their muscles to wave or even smile at Mom and Dad.

For some parents, their child’s teachers are God-sent lifesaver. For a few hours each day, they can run errands, or juggle careers. For a few hours, they can rest assure that their child is in a good hands. For a few hours, they know where their child is: in a safe and secured place such as schools.

Yet for some other parents, most teachers would never comprehend that it takes them all they have in order to send their child to school, fully dressed, each and every day. Those teachers would call Mom or Dad about missing homework or school supplies. Those teachers would nag that the parents have not gone through the lessons at home. That this child has not learned the way his peers do. That this child is not smart enough to earn his spot in that particular classroom.

When all your life you have been getting the same message over and over, you would tend to believe that it is true. The child sees that his parents are frustrated whenever he makes the same mistakes. The child hears the teachers raise their voices at him over the lessons. The child senses that his classmates decipher foreign language in strange codes which he cannot digest. The child internalize that he is different. That he is slower.

Problem is, Mom is the school principal in Clay’s elementary school. All teachers know him as the principal’s son. Dad is the pastor at their church. All congregation know him as the Pastor’s Kid. At such a young age, Clay already carries baggage larger than life. People expect him to live up to their expectation. Which is not fair, even cruel at times.  

One day, Clay stared at his brothers’ trophies. He quietly made a comment, “Koko (elder brother) has a lot of trophies.” His parents asked him what he meant. He told them that he had none. He never won anything in his life.

The formal school curriculum often demand students to read texts and write down their answers. For children with Learning Disabilities, this is a physical torture. For general education teachers, these students become additional task. Clay’s parents are concerned when they start looking for a middle school for him. In his current placement, there are 24 students in each class. And already Clay shows signs of struggle. How can he survive in a regular middle school setting where students move class at each period? How can he spend 3 years in such setting?

Homeschools are not the norm in Indonesia. The government has not designed a curriculum for students to pursue formal education in the comfort of the environment they are familiar with. Therefore, finding school settings for children with special needs might be a challenge for some parents.

Clay chooses avoidance. He picks his battles. He knows those which he has no chance of coming out with his head held high. His parents try to explain to him that a task is a task. You cannot push it aside by avoiding it. You cannot make it go away by not starting and finishing it.

Clay has a peculiar method of studying. He plays game while studying. His dad even says he studies while playing game. And one day Clay made a request to his parents. For them to knock on the door before entering his study area. For them to give him warning that they are approaching him. It is a simple plea, yet it shows his way to cope with losing battles. He has come up with a brilliant strategy.

Clay is an expressive worshipper. He enjoys singing songs by moving his body parts. Unfortunately, Dad serves in a conservative church. Clay’s way of worship is deemed inappropriate. How could you dictate others how to worship Jesus?

At the end of sharing session, I asked Clay’s dad whether he has a stronger faith in Jesus than we do. Then Dad stopped talking. I saw the tears started rolling down Dad’s cheeks. I heard his voice breaking.

Clay says short prayers. He talks to God in simpler vocabularies. Probably that’s all that he has got. Yet any parents who hear those prayers would feel that a dagger cuts through your heart. Because in his prayers, Clay shows that he fully understands that he is different. That he is limited. That he is unlike other children.

Dad made a plea to my students. That when they become teachers, wherever they are, they pay more attention to children like Clay. For them to encourage students instead of repeating harsh words. For them to introduce Jesus to them.

I never regret being a special education teacher. In my students, I learn my own limitations. Through their eyes, I see the wonders of God’s creations. With them, I grow in faith.

 

This one is for Clay. And other individuals out there who have heard enough of discouraging words. Please know that Jesus loves you. Unconditionally. Just the way you are.

 

Surabaya, 19 August, 2020

 

         

The Special One

It never fails. My heart just cringes when I get such a phone call. Someone has a child with special needs, who has never received any intervention. Therefore they wonder if I could spend some time to see their child and consult with me.

When it happens, I always ask God, “Who am I? Why me?” I am just a teacher. Who happens to understand what those children have gone through – because I think I have special needs as well.

Growing up, I could feel resentment from my teachers. I still remember their cynical and sarcastic remarks. I still carry with me the scars of their verbal abuse. I still live with the loneliness of having nobody who understood me, including my own mother.

Looking back, I did not blame them entirely. When you teach in the middle of the jungle with extra-limited resources (and educational background in pedagogy), teaching, handling a girl like me must have been a nightmare. Nothing could have prepared you for such a tornado who leaves behind the trails of debris in any room I enter.

You see, I have problem sitting down for extended periods. I knock things off. I run into objects when I walk. I have problem keeping my mouth shut or keeping my hands to myself when I deem something as very wrong. I have a hard time keeping my belongings organized – let alone my thoughts. My brain is always faster than my body.

I was blessed with my Papa. He grew up in a small town by the Indian Ocean. He taught me to navigate through the woods. He taught me to navigate at the sea. He taught me science by actually letting me touch and experience the wonders of God’s creation. If I have such a loving and understanding Papa, how much more loving and understanding is my

Heavenly Father?   

I believe that my sweet memories with him has shaped me to become the teacher that I am today. I never fit into the teachers’ molds. I let my students get up from their seat and move around the classroom. I integrate activities such as cooking and observing around school perimeter into my lesson plans. I took my students to the field to watch the clouds so they could write sentences, guided by their experience as well as imagination. I took my students to the parking lot so they predict the number of tires in such a square meters. My special needs enable me teach beyond the four walls of my classroom.

I keep telling those parents that I only share my experience. I am sure there are respected members of the society who are truly experts on special education. They have conducted researches, while I have no slightest idea how to compose an actual research proposal, let alone my dissertation.

However, I believe that God has chosen me to return to Indonesia in order to serve those families. It is humbling to be reminded that I was created special so I can have a heart for special children. My experience, my graduate degree, are all actually affirmations that I have nothing to boast.

I pray that those children always remind me of how special each individual is in God’s eyes. I pray that their curiosity only challenges me to present the universe into their mode of operation. I pray that the stories of their lives only enriches me. I pray that the daily challenges only whip me to my knees and give it all back to God.

I am the Lord’s servant. May your word to me be fulfilled

In memoriam: Tri Pudjohadi (1946-2014)

Don’t Get Caught

I’m a Donald Duck fan. I identify myself with his characteristics. I have a special gift: I create Trouble (notice the capital “T”). It doesn’t take long for me to spill, run into, knock off, or do any damage to something. It is so bad that someone once told me that it seems like there’s a huge sign above me – wherever I am – that says, “Here I am. Pick on me."

I love reading a book in a cozy place. Unfortunately, it’s been ages since I did it the last time. And then I often feel guilty for not doing something else instead. For me, sitting down nicely and calmly is a luxury. I just don’t do it without a huge effort. I have to make sure I finish my chores and tasks. I have to purposefully turn off any source of noise including my phones. Then I just sit and enjoy.

Christmas is no less stressful. The timing falls together with the-end-of-semester exam. Which means I’ve got grading to do, I’ve got files to upload on the university system, and paperwork to clear off. Then comes services at church. Rehearsals. Schedules. Social events. My blood pressure is up on the ceiling. And I miss my Dad….

I decided to attend the service alone last Sunday. And I’m so glad I did.

There was a lady who sang simple old Christmas carols. And they just brought me to tears. How peaceful it was to let the melody and lyrics sink in. how comforting it was to be able to communicate with God, to experience Him, to comprehend that He is more than enough for me.

I share this Donald Duck picture on my Facebook wall every single year. It becomes a reminder for me what Christmas is all about. What the time of the year means for me. And how great God’s love for me and you.

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas. I hope you also get to embrace His love, this Christmas and always!

FKIP Video Clip

More video clip from my students please click here.

FKIP

File Testimony FKIP students at Petra Christian University please click here

Whose Shoes Are You Wearing?

A few days ago, I shared this particular picture on my facebook page. Not that I'm a big fan of this actress. In fact, I judge her. She can perform any number of charity works yet I still don't regard her very highly. Well, I guess this time I have to stuff my fist into my mouth.

You see, I judge people. No. I often boast in my ability to read people. I seldom make mistakes in picking gestures and facial expressions which reflect what type of person they are. I can tell when a man has been through a lot of hardships from the way he pouts. I can tell from one's glance that she's a slick and not trustworthy. I can tell from a customer's voice over the phone, and later a visit to my office, that this man is very smart yet calm.

Too bad, seldom means not always. And that means I do make mistakes. And this evening, to my shame, I just did.

I was rushing to the clinic to drop off my mom to see the dentist. Exhausted and hungry, I ordered some satay and rice cake for dinner from a street-food vendor near the clinic. As I approached the parking lot, I saw this black car which occupied one and a-half lot. He crossed the marking spot and took over the adjacent space.

I seethed right away. Certainly someone was careless and selfish, or perhaps blind!! One spot is not enough for him. So I had to park further away. I dropped off my mom, registered her at the desk, took her to the examination room, and left the clinic to pick up my dinner.

When I went back to the clinic, I saw a vacant space right next to the ugly black car. No brainer, right? I parked in the correct space. Meaning 10 cm away from the driver's seat of that car. Meaning it's my spot. I was exercising my rights and maybe next time you could park more carefully and politely. There. I put my foot down, shook off my head and sat on a bench outside the clinic to enjoy my dinner.

The satay was good. The mosquitos were annoying. As I ate and stomped my feet to shoo the mosquitos, the clinic doors opened. A man was carrying a little girl on his shoulder. Obviously she was very sick. Then I heard: "Oh, no! I can't open the door. There's just not enough space between the cars."

"Oh," I thought. "So THIS is the not-so-smart driver. Now you see what you've done!" Serve you right.

Then the little girl started crying. The kind of cry that tells you that a little person was in serious pain. The kind of cry that tells you she needed to lie down because she could not bear the discomfort anymore. The kind of cry that made every passerby know she could not wait any longer.

"I'm so sorry," I heard Dad said to her. "But we need to pick up your meds first from the pharmacy. I will have to walk around our car and lay you down. It won't take long. Can you please hold it a little longer?"

Suddenly the satay and rice cake tasted like sawdust and cardboard in my mouth. I had done something awful to those who did not deserve it. I made it even worse than I thought the other person had done to me. I prolonged a child's suffering because I had let myself lose my cool. My temper got the best of me. And I was so, so ashamed of myself.

Tonight I learned a very valuable lesson. The hard way. The saying goes "Don't judge a person until you have tried to walk in his shoes." Well, I had obviously forgotten to do so. I had even forgotten to take off mine before I did that.

So, next time, Lily, make sure you bow down your head and look down to check whose shoes you are wearing!