I have a problem.
Most of the time I cannot help myself.
I cannot stop kissing…
BABIES.
I really love kissing babies.
Destiny School in Matero, Zambia holds some of the world’s sweetest children. This month, I have been divinely appointed to teach them and love them and play with them and sing with them and dance with them. And kiss them. Kissing was not in the job description but I like to improvise.
We are all about the new right now. I am living with my new team of six ladies. I am on a new continent. I am learning new African tribal languages. I have been given a new name—Wupe (meaning gift in Bimba). I am new to teaching third and fourth grade math. Load shedding is new (the power in Zambia is shut off for large chunks of the day). It is new to see God so visibly ‘advertised’—it is written in the name of every shop and on the bumper sticker of every vehicle (“God Gives”, “Blessings Shop”, and my favorite bumper sticker plainly reading “Jesus Wept”). I have six new sisters—Chi Chi, Blessing, Natasha, Joy, Karen, and Precious. I am wearing a new tribal print chitanga.
It is my first time to Africa. First time to evangelize in a village. First time to pray over a man who believes in Jesus but does not go to church because he is an alcoholic. First time to be stared at everywhere I go because my skin is white. First time to have a little girl come play with my toes while I am praying (yes, I know its fascinating that they are white too). First time to be called mzungu (translates to boss—what pre-independent Zambia was taught to call the “white people”). First time to be a part of the praise team. First time to perform a song in Nyenga. First time to partake in an African dance-off.
Coinciding with these firsts, I would like to paint you a picture of the first day of school:
It is 7:30am and we all pile into the silver van with the impossible-to-open sliding door. The sun is still deciding whether or not to shine for the day. We have already eaten our cornflakes and eggs served with love by Beatrice. Her hospitality game is strong making our stay at their home in a village outside of Lusaka, Zambia a warm welcome to Africa.
After a stop by the gas station to air up the tires, stopping to drop off Chi Chi and Blessing for their first day of school, and the traffic surrounding a cargo truck crashed through a building, we arrive and pile out. Beautiful children in their brown knit sweaters with an embroidered “Destiny School” across the back are busy cleaning. Sweeping, mopping, washing windows. Everyone has a job, and everyone is not a little number. Four-hundred-seven students are enrolled in this ten classroom school.
We step into Pastor Peter’s office and are joined by the school’s staff. After eloquent remarks amounting to “Learning from one another and working side by side requires knowing one another,” Pastor Peter introduces his staff to his World Racers. We pray together and are assigned classrooms to assist in. I am asked to help with grade 3. Their teacher, Monica, smiles at me and grabs my hand to walk me to her classroom. Everyone in Africa holds hands. I like it almost as much as the kissing.
She tells me how glad she is to work with me. I walk into a classroom full of wide-eyed faces, and she leaves. I say hello, ask some awkward “Are you happy to be at school?” questions, and offer high fives. Monica returns followed by all of grade 4. “Their teacher has not reported so we combine,” she states matter of factly. “Now, tell them who you are.”
“Hello, I am Teacher Leighton and I am from America. I will be in your class for 3 weeks,” I smile. Monica wants me to write my name on the board and all forty of them copy it down in their exercise books. She asks if they are happy I am there, and there is a robotic chorus of “Yes”. “Yes,” again when asked “Do you like her?” Yet a third “Yes” in unison when asked “Do you love her?” I already love them too.
I offer myself up for helping in any way she needs and she directs me to redraw “charts”. I now have a much greater appreciation for Hobby Lobby—drawing these colorful whilst educational classroom posters to hang all over the room is a cumbersome project. However, I can happily report that Grade 3 Classroom at Destiny School in Zambia is now sporting my artwork for Months of the Year, Musical Instruments, Days of the Week, Consonants and Vowels, and every number 1 to 100 written out in words.
In the mean time, the students read aloud a paragraph written on the board, rewrite it, and do a fill in the blank exercise for their English lesson. After lunch break, Monica asks me to teach math. Grade 3 is adding three digit numbers. Grade 4 is adding four digit numbers. I get to use a chalkboard and teach about carrying a digit and the ones, tens, hundreds, and thousands place. I grade the exercises at the teacher’s desk and call children up to solve the problems on the board. When they are correct, all the classmates cheer and sing a little jingle “Good job, you are a good boy, excellent, well done, etc etc [clap, clap, clap]” It is quite precious.
After math lesson, I ask Monica if they can sing songs. She calls them up one by one and they sing solos—your typical African spiritual sung by an eight year old is the definition of adorable, let me tell you. Two little girls holding hands sing a song about being the leaders of tomorrow, planting seeds for good and not for evil. My heart melts.
I ask them if they want to learn a song from America, and of course, the answer is yes. I choose a repetitive one with fun motions “I’m all wrapped up, I’m all tied up, I’m all tangled up in Jesus…” They love it and they ask to sing it again. And again. And again. And we do.
And then it is 14:00, and school is done for the day. I wave goodbye, and they pounce on me. All forty of them. I nearly fall over; they are coming at me from all sides. There are no more answers in unison but plenty of cute little voices coming screaming “I like you”, “I like your song”, “Beautiful”. Everyone gets a hug or five.
I exit the classroom where I am invited to play all kinds of hand clapping games and kick the bottle, have my hair done, give and receive piggy back rides, and most importantly, meet my boyfriends. Two- and three-year-old Shepherd and Andrew become my minions. Wherever I go, they follow, holding onto my hands or climbing on my back or dragging by my feet. We have a good little half hour tickle session interspersed with plenty of kisses.
It is a tough goodbye. My hands are dirty, everything is sweaty, but my heart is full. The only thing that makes it okay is knowing I get to do the same thing tomorrow.
Talk to me on leaving day, and make sure I do not need to go to counseling…
Either for my broken heart or my kissing addiction.
