Underdoggies and Cold Shoulders

Someone give me an underdoggie cuz I’m flying on mood swings; hand me a sweatshirt cuz I’m getting the cold shoulder.

I haven’t conducted a credible survey, but I would say there are an average of two people upset with me at the same time, all the time. I’m not usually aware they’re upset until someone, a messenger of peace and love who comes to bang on my door or bumps into me on the pasillo*, comes to inform me of this breaking development. Sometimes I am shocked, sometimes I’ve been waiting for it, and sometimes I have no idea what they’re talking about.

In the last six months I have formed relationships with many of the kids. There are some who I joke around with, some who I hug a lot, some who I listen to, some who hate me, some who follow me around and kind of get in my personal space. . . I’ve invested a lot of me into these relationships.

Last week one of the boys stole some money from my room. It’s a long and complicated story, but basically another boy pointed the finger and I began to ask questions, eventually taking the boy in question to talk to Maria Jose. I never once accused him. That night about half of my boys were upset with me. They weren’t listening or cooperating when it came time to put them to bed. A few of them were rude and disrespectful. I tried to maintain my calm, but eventually called Maria Jose to speak with them. They said many hurtful things, and it confirmed in my mind that they were guilty. The boy who was in question, Manuel, took a birthday card I’d made him and ripped it up, bringing the pathetic pile of pieces to me with a defiant grin. It took a big effort not to cry, but I sucked it up and told him to make sure he threw the pieces away in the trash can. I cried later. The next night at supper such an unexpected thing happened. One of the boys who had treated me so badly apologized, a real apology.

On Saturday night I cried a lot; I cried because, Tania, who I call my little sister, was planning on running away to another city, alone. She wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve had many talks with her, but there is so much hurt and pain inside that sometimes I wonder if I’ve even dented the surface; her surface has a lot of dents, but she’s built a wall to hide away her feelings. We spent an hour or so in each others arms, me begging her to say and her telling me she couldn’t. I prayed silently. In the end, she stayed, and it might seem like a happily ever after ending, but it’s not. There will be more tears and more struggles. Her mood swings change all the time, and it often seems like she’s more often mad than happy with me.

The kids remind me of how I must make God feel. I often push Him away, angry because He hasn’t answered a prayer, a ‘knock on His door.’ He never gives up on me though. Sometimes I want to give up on these kids. It’s not easy: Jenny’s clingy hugs, Tania’s quick temper, Manuel’s atrocious eating habits, Enrique’s attitude, Leti’s evil laugh and long stories.

Last week the Sabbath School lesson was about love. I didn’t study it, but when we discussed it in class, we read 1 Corinthians 13. Most people know it by heart, but it always seems more beautiful and meaningful each time I read it.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.Love never fails.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

I want that love, a love that forces me to keep giving, even when the kids throw it back in my face, call me names, disrespect me, ignore me, and taunt me.


*pasillo = sidewalk.