Confused.

How much more broken can I be?
I shudder to utter that sentence; it's an open invitation to worsened circumstances.

I'm broken and drained;
Won't you fill me up?
(Yes.)
I'm stuck in this rut;
Won't you move me?
(Yes.)
I am draining my pride, my trust in myself;
Won't you use me?
(Yes.)

I'm doubting and scared.
I'm hopeful and thrilled.
My heart is in a constant state of breaking:
The pity and pain of what I see 8-5;
The beauty I see every time I look outside.
The fears of old that never cease to torment;
The joy in the smiles of the lives I've met.

Call me Bitter Sweet;
a mind divided.
A lady in waiting,
a mystery to myself.
Ever shifting: smiles to tears; frowns to laughter.
Clinging to the One consistency,
Ecstatic in His presence through the chaos of all other circumstances.

I asked for this Broken Heart;
and there it lays; cracked open like an egg.
The necessary operation taking place.
The poison draining;
the antidote pouring in.

Urban Tutoring / First Day

So, clearly this post is going to be about my first night of tutoring. And, being the word vomitter that I am, I feel the need to indulge in background information.

The program I am tutoring with is called Whiz Kids, and it's one of many awesome aspects of Des Moines' own Freedom for Youth Ministries. I first heard of this organization from one of my Bible Study leaders a couple of weeks ago, but trust me -- this place is something you have to SEE to appreciate. (So go see, locals!) My Bible study group went there to prepare and serve dinner to the teen boy group last Tuesday. That experience was fun, and while I got to talk to a few of the kids and volunteers, I mostly bonded with my fellow study groupers. We did get to take a tour and see the campus, though. And afterwards one of the directors gave us some leaflets just to give us more tangible info. I opened up the pamphlet and saw they had a tutoring program. And I knew, at that moment, that I had to get involved.

I've been looking for an organization to tutor with for a while now. It's harder than you'd think, unfortunately. I even signed up for and started the preliminary process to tutor with another local organization... but mysteriously have yet to hear back from them...
Anyway, I told the director how I was interested in getting involved and she gave me the name and number of who to call. I called the next day and spoke with the woman in charge of the Whiz Kids program... and she was fantastic. And told me they had one girl left on the waiting list. And at THAT moment I definitely knew I had to do this.

And I was terrified. I do love helping others... but my modus operandi is spontaneity. I see a need and meet it, move on to the next one. Because, you see, when you are a spontaneous volunteer, you're still allowed to be selfish. Because you can be selective. Because you aren't really committed. I absolutely agree that we should be an ever present state of awareness when it comes to our surroundings; we should actively look for needs that we can meet and then follow through. But when we take that next step, to finding a cause, finding a permanent need, and committing to it; that's a whole 'nother world.

Yesterday I woke up, packed my stuff in my brother's car (after about half a pot of coffee, which really, should go without saying.) I then sat cramped in my brother's Ford Focus (we brought home a weight set circa 1970 with us) for the next 5 hours or so. I'd slept on a broken futon at my dad's for 3 nights, I was tired and achey. The coordinator at FfY knew I might not be able to make it. The entire trip home I was torn between going to the tutoring night or not. But in the back of my mind... I knew I would go. Tired or not. Achey or not. Sneezing or not. It was the right thing to do.

As I pulled into FfY, I entertained a group of kids as I tried to squeeze into a parking place. As I walk in and catch the coordinator's eye, she's telling that same group of kids - and one girl in particular - that the new tutor was here. They all laughed good naturedly, telling her how they saw me in the parking lot. And then slightly more formal introductions were made, and a basic lay out of what the evening would entail.

We sit. We talk. We put together what we agree is the easiest Bob the Builder puzzle ever made, and obviously we are both too old for it anyway. (She's 11.) She stands close to me like I'm already her family while we go through the dinner line. I mention how I'll not be eating my share of mac 'n cheese as I'm lactose intolerant. She says she can't eat it either. (True? Too soon to tell!) :)

Kids Bible lesson time; I chat with another tutor. Kids game time; I laugh and cheer them on. Breakaway for study time; Myself, my tutee, her younger sister, and her sister's tutor all head to the art building to decorate our folders and do some 'get to know you' worksheets.

My tutee speaks three languages; French, Swahili, and English. She likes math the best. She likes to read and draw. She likes Family Guy and dolphins. She moved to America when she was 6. She lives in an apartment with her 3 siblings, 2 cousins, Uncle, and Aunt. We're going to work on spelling and reading. I suspect she's eager for approval.
She never wants to go back to Tanzania, and is baffled that I'd ask. "That's where you get killed. That's where you get killed if you go back or leave or stay. The men with their big guns...no," she matter-of-factly says in her beautiful accent.

All too soon it's 7pm; time to go home. Her sister and she join up with the group they walked over with to walk home. They point out my red car to me as we exit the building. They smile and wave. Smile and wave again. As I'm waiting to turn my car onto MLK to start the drive home, the group is in the parking lot across the street standing; watching; smiling; waving.

Tutoring at Freedom for Youth is the right thing to do.

numbers.

Dyscalculia is defined as a “genetically-linked learning disability which affects a person's ability to understand, remember, or manipulate numbers or number facts.” (wikipedia…I know, sad source choice.) I was recently urged to learn more about this disorder by a good friend who wondered if my lifelong issues with math were caused by it. After scouring some websites, I was numb. My feelings can best be described as equal parts terrified, ashamed, and comforted. Imagine, growing up being told how bright you were, how intellectually superior even you were, “except…for math.” Imagine staring at your bank statement and your bills and literally not seeing any connections. Imagine being half-mocked for your sensitivity to loud noises and bright lights and never, ever realizing that had anything to do with anything and then finding this one disorder that encompasses it all. It was extraordinary. I’m still processing it, to be honest.

The basic premise of the disorder did get me to thinking, though. Essentially for someone with dyscalculia, numbers have no value. And frankly, I think we could all learn a lesson from that. Following are examples to explain my meaning…

Bank account. Salary. Credit limit. The number of years old your vehicle is. The number of dollars your house cost to build. I could harp on the evils of consumerism and greed. The sorrowful side effects of materialism. The tragedy of letting the bottom line blind you to the beauty of a blooming flower. I could even go into the all too real presence of disparities between the classes. The corruption at every level of society; EVERY level of society, the world round. But I don’t think it’s necessary. We all know these things are a sad mess. Furthermore, I do not feel qualified. As a member of this dysfunctional society, as a girl who literally cannot balance a check book or even see the point in it… well, I’m part of the problem in a way. By paying my bills late, I’m somehow hurting everyone.

Followers. “Friends.” In grade school it wasn’t so much how many friends one had as *who* those friends were. Popular or not; A-group or not. Whatever you called it. Ageing doesn’t change that too much, but somewhere along the line for all of us the amount of friends DID start to matter. Now more so than ever, thanks to facebook and twitter. Who cares if you have hundreds of spambots following you; it’s the amount that counts. What difference does it make if you friend every student at your State University as long as you appear to know them all. Back in college, if I saw someone on facebook had 800 friends, I was impressed. Legitimately impressed. Now I’m impressed by those who have fewer than one hundred. Even more so by those who have deleted their accounts. (Depending on motivations, of course.) More and more I wish that we/I could value friendship for what it is supposed to be; for quality instead of quantity (of course).

Weight. Numbers on a scale. Numbers in your jean and dress sizes. Numbers listed under the heading “Nutrition Facts.” Now here are the only numbers I can get behind; the only numbers I can understand and calculate. The numbers that haunt me and very nearly killed me. For that reason I do not own a scale. This decision was recently confirmed for me after a standard visit to the thyroid doctor. Weight is always taken. For the first time in months I saw those numbers. That digital dance as they climbed ever upwards. If only I had the willpower to look away from them. But no. I saw the verdict; and the loophole in my calculating deficiency sprang into action. 43 pounds heavier than I was five years ago. 43. That’s the kind of weight-number society applauds people for losing. That’s the kind of weight number that is qualifiedly significant. I don’t know if we’ve met in person or not. When people describe my physical appearance (granted, few actually know of my EDO past), they use adjectives like “tiny, skinny, so little.” Now do you see why I cringe at those descriptors? In my mind, I am decidedly NOT tiny. A person who is walking around with 43 pounds more body than they have carried and survived with in the past cannot possibly be tiny. I don’t care if I’m still in a size Small. I don’t care that my weight may seem higher than I look due to my low body fat/ lean muscle mass. Because when I see those Numbers on that scale; it takes every ounce of strength I have, every drop of Faith, to NOT register my value as a life form accordingly.

So.

Instead of thinking about the amount of money I make or don’t make, it’s time that I use what I do have wisely. That I find a way to conform to the rules of paying bills.
Instead of thinking about the number of people I know, be them acquaintances or “big names,” it’s time that I appreciate them fully consistently.
Instead of thinking about the number on a scale or inside a waistband, it’s time I think about the number of dance moves I’ve learned and can execute with my now healthy heart and body.

I physically cannot comprehend the way numbers work mathematically without a little more effort than the everyman. And given the ways numbers sadden me, as illustrated above, I’m finding this to be a strength.