Alright, everyone cross your fingers now that I don’t fall
asleep on the keyboard. Today was a long one.
This morning I was back at Le Nid again. We spent the whole
morning with the babies - feeding them, holding them, playing with the
toddlers. I had a lot of the safe emotions to deal with as the first time, but
things were chaotic enough to keep me focused on what I was there to do. While I’m
there it’s all bottles and diapers and no room to breathe. But afterward I just
can’t help but dwell on how broken the world is. There are so many babies in
that hospital. So many little lives. I haven’t figured out how to separate
myself from it yet. I don’t know if I have the strength to, really. I held a little
boy today who captured my whole heart with his beautiful little eyes. He was so
happy to be held, giggling and snuggling his face into my chest. All I wanted was
to give him a mother and father and a home to fill with his little laugh. I think
I’m starting that I might have a passion for orphans. The actual direction of
that passion is something I’m praying hard about. I believe there is a purpose
behind this pull that I feel, but figuring out what I can actually do with it is
hugely different.
After Le Nid was the fateful moment of the day: cooking
class. The ladies started out by teaching me some more Moroccan recipes and
then I tried to show them how to make chocolate chip cookies. Turns out, I’m just
as bad at baking in Morocco as I am in the states. Surprise, surprise. Luckily
whether I could cook or not had no bearing on how much fun the ladies and I had
trying. I slightly overlooked the minor detail of metric units, so I had to
base a lot of the measuring off of my own knowledge of how much one cup is. (This
is not strong knowledge.) But, the ladies all had a good laugh about how much
of a mess I made and how awkward I was trying to explain what I was doing. It
was actually great female bonding time, which I feel like I’ve gotten more of
in the last two weeks than I have in my entire life. One of the women, Amina,
brought a new “dress” that her sister bought her. In Morocco, they wear a
special, fancier version of the traditional jlaba for special occasions like ceremonies
and weddings. When she showed us, I intended to just admire it by feeling the
fabric and telling her how “zweena” it is. She had a different plan; next thing
I knew I was wearing the dress and she was posing me for pictures. I felt
strange, but accepted. As uncomfortable as I am with social situations, I
really am learning to love how close women in Morocco are. It’s as though they
are all sisters from birth who comfort, support, and laugh with each other through
everything.
Tonight’s English class ended up being a bit of a bust as far
as actual teaching goes, but still an interesting night. I was told that my
class would be intermediate level, so I prepared a lesson plan thinking along
the lines of students who still wouldn’t have a strong grasp on the language. I
ended up with two students who are English majors at Moulay Ismail and
basically fluent, so my lesson was essentially useless. The best I could think of
on my feet was to scrap the lesson altogether and have a conversation with them
about the differences between Moroccan and American culture. We talked a lot
about holidays and celebrations, and then the girls told me about Moroccan weddings.
I cannot fathom planning a wedding that lasts three days, wearing several
dresses in one day, and being carried around in a chair by a bunch of men. On
the other hand, their customs are so rich and beautiful, it’s enough to make my
little American wedding feel meek in comparison. Overall, we had an awesome
conversation and next week I get to plan like and actual English teacher. Look
mom and dad, I’m using my degree after all!
 |
| My classroom! |
To finish off a really long day, I happened upon the chance
to spend some time talking to a Franciscan monk who helps coordinate the school
where I teach. (Think cool French guy, not balding man in a brown dress.) He
told me about the formation of the school for the poor, started about 70 years
ago by a group of monks. Our conversation escalated to a discussion about
people’s perspectives on religious customs and what it means to live a Christian
lifestyle. It was a bit of a surreal moment, walking through the streets of the
Medina, surrounded by a country full of people who share the same faith, and discussing
perspectives on Christianity with a stranger. It’s hard to describe, but I felt
really connected to a sense of spirituality. Stephan also said something that I
know I will take home with me. He told me that being a friar in Morocco has
made his life as a “missionary” so much more profound because his job isn’t to
tell the people what to believe, but just to give them a better life because
God called him to.
For now, friends, I am called to get some sleep. Tomorrow I
am going to Amina’s house to learn how Moroccans prepare couscous!
Happy Thursday!
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