Post-Haiti blog: for R&M, but don't worry you can read it, too.

Leaving was harder than I had originally thought. The week before I left I tried to focus on the amazing life I have waiting for me in California so I wouldn't be too sad. Last Thursday night after worship Willie E. and Semi changed that for me. They took turns saying the sweetest, most heart-felt thank-yous to the teachers for coming and spending our summer in Haiti.

Honestly though, how could I not?

The work I did was fleeting. Pictures fade and those origami cars/boats/boxes probably didn't make it back to the orphanage from school. What's beautiful and typical is that I was changed so much more than I could have ever changed anything in Haiti.

One thing that Haiti solidified in me now more than ever is the power of love. It truly is, as Paul writes to the Corinthians, “the most excellent way.” The most excellent way is not being red, blue, straight, vegan, or tithing our ten percent. And it's not just love as we know it, but love God's way. Patient, kind, selfless, persistent, truthful, delighting. The catch 22 is that we can really only love each other God's way if we know God.

Post-Haiti, I've never been so sure in the existence of an all-powerful God who has a plan with our best interest at heart. I am as sure of this as I am that one day I was born and one day I will die. The children that I've come to care so deeply about spoke last Thursday night about being saved from the earthquake, life on the streets, and living through the horrors of life in the days after the earthquake. They know that in a country where the average age is 42, that even if they don't meet the typical lifespan, the minutes, hours, days, and years in the balance of their life will all be orchestrated by God.

Haiti: Day 29. That's more like it.

Today my mom asked me what the turning point was when the kids went from wanting me gone to giving me their science projects for my birthday. I can see how that would be confusing. I think it happened after the third week when they discovered that I wasn't going anywhere for a while. They are so used to people coming in and staying for a week and then leaving, so there isn't a rush to get attached, you know? Sometime during week three I settled in to being here, and they settled in to having me here. It was beautiful :-)

What was even more beautiful than that was the rain storm we had on Friday. I'll start from the beginning.

In Friday afternoon's photography class Isguerda, Katiana, Evans, and Willie E. and I were sitting in the classroom making picture frames for the pictures we had taken that week and it was the same scorching temperature that it's been all week. What's awesome about Haiti though, is that when it gets really hot is when it typically rains the hardest. God is merciful like that. As Willie E. was walking me home, the clouds started coming over the mountain. I spent the next hour helping Monise and Jeannette making dinner and learning Creole. I learned how to say, “I love Haiti... I love rain... I love bean sauce” (I do love bean sauce. It's what's up) in Creole and they put me in charge of making... the salad. I guess they've seen me mess up oatmeal in the mornings and that's what they decided would be safe to trust me with. I loved it anyway, they are amazing women. During the entire time in the kitchen we could hear the thunder even though it was not yet raining.

As the clouds got darker and darker I decided it was a good time to check out what the boys were up to. Don't worry, don't worry. I finished making the salad first. In the 35 seconds it takes for me to get to the boys' house the rain was coming down so hard that I was slipping out of my 'flops. In the backyard I found Clairmond, Daniel, Diene, Keso, Markendy, Davidson, Ti-Bo, Kenson, and Brice playing dodge ball. I watched for a bit and then jumped in on the action. I quickly became the main target, and I like to think that I can hold my own, but at school on Monday I know they will remind me of their domination.

After that I went to the Ben's- a large concrete playing field next to the boys' home- and played another game of dodge ball with the older boys. I was actually petrified of playing with them because these boys are strong. Also, they are my students, and I wasn't sure if they were going to get me back for pounding PEMDAS into their brains this past week. Oh, and Clairmond's nickname for me now is Mrs. PEMDAS. He so loving refers to himself as Mr. PEMDAS. Oh, Clairmond.

The boys were so sweet; they would catch the balls and throw them so hard at each other and then the boys on my team would give me the balls to throw at the other team. Eventually I figured it out that they just thought that it was funny to watch me throw the balls, but I loved that they didn't use me as a target like the younger boys did.

And then things got wild. See, as it would turn out when 30+ boys between the ages of 6 and 18 live together, rules just don't ever apply. So if Clairmond discovers that he can fill up a 5 gallon bucket from the broken gutter at the side of the house with rain water and take said bucket into the house and dump in on his math teacher, then that's just what's going to have to happen. Over. And over. And over again. Mrs. PEMDAS was drenched this afternoon. The downstairs of the boys' house is tiled and slippery when wet, so then the boys had races to see who could slide across the tile floor on their stomach the fastest.

For the record, PEMDAS is the order in which one solves math problems with multiple operations: parenthesis, exponents, multiply, divide, add, subtract. It is also my new last name.

Day 33 (holy moly that can't be right): On birthday presents.

Did you know that the other teachers blog everyday?! Dang. I need to get on it.

Yesterday I celebrated the most memorable birthday to date. To be honest, I'm not all that into my birthday. All I had to do was not die, and statistically speaking, women in my family live upwards of 95 years. It's not hard to not die in my family. Don't get me wrong, I'm into birthdays, just not mine. One thing that I am into is half birthdays. You better believe that when January 27th rolls around each year I'm celebrating. It's unexpected, a break in routine, and quirky and weird. Kind of like me, so it works.

I think this year I wasn't that into my birthday also because the work I'm doing here, or God's work that He's willing me to do here, is so much bigger than a birthday. It transcends milestones and is so much more important than the simple fact of my not dying. Coming to Haiti is the most meaningful experience of my life and my birthday pales in comparison. I came to serve and not be served, and I didn't want to offend the sanctity of the experience.

However, the kids didn't get this memorandum, so we celebrated anyway.

When I got to school, the kids sang a beautiful rendition of the birthday song followed by Patrick raising his hand and saying, “I have a question: is Ms. Caitlin turning 15 today?” Gotta love the jokers. I told him that I was turning 14. I will meet your joke, and raise you one more slightly funnier joke, good sir.

By the time first period was over the counter in the kitchen that I use as a desk/workspace/printing room for photography was collecting letters and cards and pictures. The best surprise came when Kelly, one of the school co-principals brought me a stack of drawings that the kids made during class. My favorite is Davidson's picture of Jesus holding the Ten Commandments. If that doesn't convey “happy birthday” then nothing does.

During Community Circle instead of writing on the prompt, the girls wrote me notes and drew me flowers. In Alissa's science class the kids were drawing pictures of flowers and labeling the parts of the plant and you can probably guess that I received 7 science projects of plants complete with labeled parts. Flower, stem, roots. My favorite was Gipson's, which was actually Alissa's example drawing that he took to give to me because he didn't like the one he made.

Semi, one of the older boys in my intermediate math class, picked me flowers from the neighbor's jasmine tree during recess and as he gave them to me, my darling Willie Etienne came in and told me that now that I'm 25 I should really get married. He followed that up with, “you should marry my brother.”
“Really, Willie, I should marry your younger brother, Richard? Isn't be 10?”
“No, he's 12.”

So that's neat.

Pretty much I'm engaged.

The teachers planned a surprise dinner in Paitionville, a little town in Port-au-Prince at Pizza Garden. They got the memo that pizza is my favorite food, bless their hearts, and all the missionaries at Child Hope (all 30-something of us) went and took over the outside patio until the tropical storm rolled up (literally and figuratively... hahaha. Oh, English teacher) and we had to move inside.

It was a nice night, but honestly, I missed the kids. After morning flag salute the kids always get to ask questions about the day or the schedule or electives, and this morning's questions were:

1. Did Ms. Caitlin have a good birthday?
2. Why didn't Ms. Caitlin bring her birthday cake over last night?

So after thanking them for making it the best birthday ever I told them that I was coming over tonight for worship and to let them beat me yet again in basketball. Schneider raised his hand and said, “so, um, are you bringing anything?”

Hahaha, oh my little darlings.

Since I am advanced in the art of hint-dropping, this afternoon I went out and got ice cream for the kids, so after dinner we're headed over there for worship and ice cream. Can't go wrong with that combo. Unfortunately, on the way to the store my camera lens broke, so now I'm out a camera. God gives and He takes away, right? At this point I don't even have it in me to get upset. How cool that I even had a camera to begin with. How nice that I have shoes and can shower and have 3 meals a day. What an amazing blessing that I got to celebrate my birthday with children whose lives were spared through living on the street and through the earthquake and through illness and such tremendous and soul shaking adversity. God has spared these children for such amazing things, and the best birthday present I could have asked for is just to be in their presence.

Haiti: Day 21. On Origami

I haven't really written about teaching yet because I'm still trying to figure it out. I really can't make sense of, and get this, why some of the kids hate me. So. Passionately.

I know, right?

And you're thinking, “Caitlin, you are so lovable, why do some of the children hate you so much?!” First, thank you. It's so sweet of you to think that. Secondly, Well, where do I begin to answer your question...

I started becoming aware of the fact that I wasn't winning Teacher of the Year Award on Monday of week two when a few of the girls asked me why I hadn't left yet. Ouch. I asked them if they wanted me to leave and they just kind of looked at me and then at each other. As it would turn out, they don't expect most people to stay more than a week because that's what they're used to. Volunteers come in, play with the kids, sing songs, clap their hands, and then leave. I don't sing songs, nor do I clap my hands but I do attempt to teach them patterns in numbers on the 100's chart which, as it turns out, is a little (read: a lot) less fun.

Yesterday during during Fun with Numbers with Fun Ms. Caitlin, four of my five girls put their heads down and gave up. See, the purpose of us studying the numbers chart is to identify patterns. If they can identify that 10-5 is 5, 60-55 is 5, 90-85 is 5 on the 100's chart, they can (hopefully) begin to see that math is just a series of patterns that, once identified, make understanding the more difficult concepts so much more accessible. This is also a part of Gifted Education. I wanted the students to start recognizing patterns because it starts to build their critical thinking skills. Critical thinking is not taught in Haitian school. They are taught to memorize facts but not the concepts behind the facts. Such a big part of me is so frustrated with the concept of Gifted Education. Why aren't all students taught to recognize patterns, see things from multiple perspectives, or identify how things change across time? Wait. Tangent. Back to Haiti. Since they were never taught to think critically, when I come in and explain that 3 x 7 is just three groups of seven beads/marbles/bears/dots on your paper, eyes start to cross. And then they uncross. And then they glare.

OK, so I started this blog on Monday. Now it's Friday, and this is what has happened since then:

On Tuesday Love-Mitha told me that I'm so mean and Cherline told me that when I go running I'm going to trip and fall.

And then the wind changed.

On Wednesday Love-Mitha made me a flower hair clip with cheetah print feathers coming out of it. Guess what I'm wearing in my hair on the first day of school... and everyday up until then... and then until it breaks.

Friday Dienuithe gave me a note that said that she loves me so much and wants to be my “BFF.” I didn't tell her that the spot has already been filled (What up, Mom,).

So why the change in attitude? I don't really know. It's nice being hated less though; that's for darn tootin'. Even though they tried to make it really hard for me sometimes, I didn't stop loving them. Whoa, wait, that's a total lie. I didn't make it known to them that I didn't like them. Yeah, that sounds more accurate. When kids try to make it hard for you to love them, that's when they need it most. That whole seeing them as God sees them thing really paid off this week. People just need to feel cared for and loved.

And it's not just the girls, it's the boys, too. Ever since I started bribing them to stay focused by promising a class during recess on paper airplanes and origami they have been so much better. For the record, my paper airplanes suck and my origami animals always seem to be missing features, but I think the kids just really like that extra positive attention. This translates into 45 minutes of very focused class time and 5 minutes of Diene, Clairmond, and Daniel debating over whether they should make the “stealth bomber” or the origami cheetah that may or may not be missing its hind legs and would put PETA's panties in a twist.

I spent the morning (it's Saturday) making origami and paper planes with the boys. Since the boys' education is really spotty their fine motor skills are lacking, so I had to do all the folds for each of the little boys and then tell them that they did a great job folding. 2 planes, 2 cranes, 3 flowers, 3 frogs, 5 boats, and 1 pig later, my fingers are rubbed a little raw, but it's all in a day's work.

Day 14: Sweet Manny

After two weeks, one thing I can safety say about this country is that it's mysterious. Let's start with the architecture. As I flew into Port-au-Prince I was so intrigued by the huge houses sprawled out across the countryside. I could see columns hold up awnings over large front porches, backyards that could have been intended to be tropical orchards, home to hundreds of papaya and mango trees, and rooms that seemed as though they were big enough to host parties for royalty.

I could see that the rooms were so big because these houses didn't have roofs. It appeared that they had fallen in some time ago, years before the earthquake. In place of the roofs were the tops of trees. I couldn't help but think about the juxtaposition between what was supposed to be, and what actually is. Some time ago, wealthy people hired architects who thought over plans, hired builders, and constructed houses that could have been nestled in comfortably with the houses in Palos Verdes or Rancho Santa Fe. People had ambitious dreams and were seemingly optimistic for the future. It makes sense though, I think big dreams run in their blood here. Haiti is the only country in the history of the world to have gained its independence via slave rebellion. For over a decade the slaves brought from Africa fought against the French (and Spanish and English) in Saint Domingue for their independence. Finally in 1804 they earned their independence from France and changed the name from Saint Domingue to Haiti. I wonder how a country with such a heroic beginning has fallen to be the most needy country in the world.

Now warp yourself back to present time. In a small town outside of Port-au-Prince, something else mysterious happened. A little boy got shot in the arm and taken to Doctors Without Borders. Besides knowing his name, no one really knows where he came from or who he is. DWB passed him off to UNICEF, who then contacted Child Hope. On Monday, exactly six months after the earthquake, he was dropped off at Maison de Lumiere's boys' home with only a notebook, rubber ball, and two packages of UNICEF cookies (the kind that have thousands of calories and carbohydrates and are intended for starving children) to, get this, share with the other boys in the orphanage. He said nothing, except when asked where his parents are, he said he hasn't seen them since the earthquake.

Tuesday morning Emmanuel Gerard shows up at school and as students walk toward their respective classrooms he grabbed my hand, lifted up his sleeve and showed me a three-inch incision that had been haphazardly stitched up with ten or so stitches. I gave him the “I'm-so-sorry-poor-baby” face and he reached up, pulled my head down, kissed me on the cheek, and then walked away.

He spent most of the morning following Principal Kamala around the school, until he discovered the computer lab. During my prep period, I walked into the lab to make copies (I know this makes our school sound tech-y, but believe me, it's not) and saw him staring at a computer screen. He was using the program “Paint” and on the screen were some orange scribbles. His hand was on the mouse, and his eyes were huge. I sat down with him and showed him how to use the mouse to make boxes and stars, and then we “painted” a house. Eventually I had to leave to go teach, but he spent the entire day in the computer lab, staring at the screen. It didn't take long to figure out that he had never even seen a computer before.

On Wednesday morning, Sweet Manny (that's what I like to call him now.... the kid is seriously just SO SWEET) learned the color red. On Thursday he learned the color yellow and how to write the letter “E.” He is between eight and ten years old (he doesn't know how old he is or what year he was born) and he doesn't know his colors, letters, and we haven't even touched upon numbers yet. It seems as though he doesn't have any significant language skills, as he points and grunts or screeches at things. However, we know that he doesn't have any vision or hearing problems; he sees things that are close up and far away, and we have heard him say a few things in Creole. He has simply never been taught.

Friday school was canceled because a visiting team wanted to take everyone-kids, teachers, staff- to the beach. Going to the beach is a big deal here because if you go to a public beach you could get shot, so when we go to the beach we have to go to a resort where it costs $35USD to enter. All the teachers were worried about taking Sweet Manny to the beach. He shook his head “no” when he was asked if he had ever been to the beach before, and he's had so many new experiences that we weren't sure if he'd hit a breaking point and freak out. Thursday night Sweet Manny got the hiccups and kept taking either my or Kamala's hand and putting it on his chest and giving up this really scared look, like he didn't know what he should do with the hiccups. Let it be known that I did try to scare him and he just stared at my with those huge eyes of his.

Anyway...beach. He had the most amazing day. He can't swim (duh), so he spent the entire day with a Finding Nemo inner tube in his armpits. The beach was beautiful, one of those Caribbean beaches with clear water and palm trees and gazebos. A grip of kids and some of us teachers swam out to this floating raft maybe 300 feet from the shore. We were jumping off and fooling around when I looked over and saw my Sweet Manny wading along the shoreline with some of the younger kids and Jessica, our teacher for the second graders. He was waving his hands for someone to come in and get him and bring him out. So that's what I did, against some of the other teachers' (possibly better) judgment. As I swam him out to the raft, he didn't have the language to say that he was excited, so he just shrieked and laughed.

Side note: The last time I saw anyone that excited, it was when Tegan was 2. She, as well as every other toddler in the Western world, was obsessed with Dora the Explorer. We were walking through Albertson's or Stater Bros, or whatever that store is at the bottom of my parents' hill, and she saw one of those huge balloons that they have at supermarket check-outs. It was a three foot Dora balloon, and as she held Dora's Mylar hands in her own, she shrieked, laughed, and jumped up and down in circles. Like my Sweet Manny, she didn't have the words to express how excited she was either. But she was only two.

While watching my Sweet Manny discover that hues have names, and that the hiccups aren't nearly as scary as they seem to be, I began to think of how mysterious it is that he doesn't have language, that he had been shot, that he had survived by himself for the past six months.

Watching Brendan and Anna raise Topher and Ryan and Melissa raise Tegan, and, well, Odie and Anja raise Harvey, even though I'm not a parent I can see that parents have big dreams for their kids or their pets that they treat as their own children. I imagine that Emmanuel's parents had big dreams for him, too.

The slaves who led the rebellion against their captors had to have had ambitious dreams. Haiti is just sort of mysterious like that. How could a country with such a heroic conception have become the poorest country in the Western hemisphere? There is an unsettling disparity between what was intended and reality. We could talk forever about the freed slaves perpetuating the slave mentality. More importantly though, I wonder if the earthquake is going to be the catalyst for change here. Does any of this make sense?

Haiti: Day 10. On the Contraction of Scabies.

Here's a fun fact for you: If you pick up kid upon kid who has scabies, you'll probably get scabies too.

And now you know.

Didn't really occur to me until this morning when I woke up with... you guessed it. Scabies. I'm thinking I probably got them from the darling kid whose hand I held while Brooke the Nurse disinfected his infection... he's the one I wrote about in my last post.

A (large) part of me is screaming, “why would you put that on your blog for everyone to read!?” but a stronger part of me wants people to know about the realities of orphan life. So for all of you who don't know, scabies are mites that live under your skin. That's right. Mites. Under. Your. Skin.

And it's what I woke up with. What does one do when one wakes up with scabies? One cries. And that's what I did. And then I told my fellow teachers, against the advice of the nurse. I'm not embarrassed, ashamed, nor am I (too) grossed out by it. After all, I got scabies by picking up and loving kids who needed to be picked up and loved.

I was given a special lotion that I was only supposed to put on once (I put it on twice) and was told that I couldn't wash my hands, nor get my hands wet when I shower. Hmm. I'm still trying to be a critical problem solver with that one. The nurse said they'd probably be gone by tomorrow morning. I hope so.

Anyway, I just got back from the feeding program where I, once again, picked up and loved kids. One of the new volunteers asked if we have any cream to put on the kids who have scabies. The thing is, all the kids have it to varying degrees. If we were to give the cream to one of the kids, we'd probably have to give it to every child in the country. So as unfortunate as it is that I have it, the reality of the situation is that I won't have it tomorrow. The kids still will though.

For the record, I don't write about all this sad stuff to make you feel depressed or guilty. We shouldn't feel guilty, nor should we feel depressed, although many of us will. We should, however, be aware. Albert Schweitzer said it best when he said, “think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight.” So let's do that the next time we go to the mall, grocery store, or tanning salon.

Haiti: Day 7. On being completely unqualified.

These past few days I learned that the suspicions I had of myself and Haiti are true. I have only one thing that this country actually needs. That being said, I'll put it out there that I don't have enough of it.

The first few days of school I was feeling so frustrated because all my teacher tricks that work at home with my students just don't work here. At home when I would take the metaphorical hammer and hit the metaphorical nail on its metaphorical head, it would go into the metaphorical wood. Here, more often that not, the metaphorical nail flies in the complete opposite direction, disappears, or goes into my metaphorical finger.

I realized how unqualified I am to teach these kids on... Wednesday? Thursday? I'm a slow learner. Looking back on it I should have known Monday morning when my very first math class came in and instead of sitting at the desks, one of the girls took a nap on the floor and one of the boys asked me when I was going back to the United States.

In a country where child slavery is still legal and orphan rape is just one of the harsh realities of street life, one would have to be naive to think that kids would be excited when yet another person was coming in to help. One of the boys this week told another missionary, “you Americans keep coming and nothing here ever changes.” I understand why he would be so angry. Not all the children share this same opinion, but the truth is that we keep coming in and there is still burning trash on the streets, still hungry kids everywhere, still hurt and pain and loneliness.

We've all heard someone at some point in our lives say, “Well, I guess all we can do now is pray” when things seem to be at their worst. I disagree. If this week has shown me anything, it's that all we can ever do is pray. The brokenness that resonates within so many hearts of the children here can only by healed through prayer.

And that's the most effective way to help Haiti.

The first few days the children were standoffish because they thought I was leaving on Saturday. What's the point in getting to know someone if they're only here for a week and then they go back to the comforts of their home country and the child is still here? I have nothing to teach these kids except for the fact that I'm unqualified to teach them, however I am more than qualified to pray for them. “Our hands aren't just made for praying. They're made for helping.” Thanks, Bono. So let's help people heal while we're on this planet for a geological eye-blink, shall we? Heal our own brokenness, heal the poor of Haiti, heal the wealthy in America. From one person to the next, we are all broken in some way, many ways, maybe even every way.

This week I practiced doing something that I did a lot of last year with my students who posed a “unique instructional challenge.” That's what I'd call the little stinkers who interrupt every four minutes to try to throw off every great and wonderful activity I planned for my scholars. I asked God to help me to see these kids as He sees them. I wonder if we begin to see each other as God sees us- broken yet so lovely and wonderful- we can deal with each other so much better. We can begin to see and love each other as we were intended to be seen and loved. Sincerely? Unconditionally?

So back to this week. I just finished my first round of photography with my students. On day one we learned about culture. What is culture? I didn't really know, but according to Wikipedia it's the people, customs, food, language, habits, architecture, art, and so forth of a group of people. The next few days I took my 6 students out and we documented culture with our cameras. The first day I was at the lower end of the effective teacher bell curve, and in their defense I did say that culture was the “people” in a group of people. At the end of an hour I had hundreds of pictures of my six students posing for the camera... by a tree, by a bush, by the security guard, by the boys' bathroom, in front of a wall. Many of them don't have pictures of themselves. It's ironic because people come in and take their picture all day every day, their faces are on blogs, facebook, sent through email, but many times the most they see of these pictures are what they look like on the little screen on the back of the camera.

That changed yesterday when we plugged the cameras into the photo printer (THANK YOU, SPONSORS!!!) and printed out pictures of “culture.” Their pictures are incredible. I'm going to try to post them on this blog but the internet here is so slow that it might be hard. We had an impromptu lesson in primary colors when the printer first printed the yellow (the girls shrieked in horror and thought the printer was broken), sucked the printer paper back in and printed the red (“Mizz Keht-leen what iz hahp-pen-eeng!?”) and then sucked it in for the third time and printed out the blue. And then you'd think I just told them that they all received green cards and free rides to American universities. When the first picture was finished they were so excited, jumping up and down, running around the room. It was madness. Yesterday was the hottest day I'd endured up to that point and their energy made it even hotter. I asked God to let me be His hands and feet to help heal brokenness. A part of me wonders if this is how He is going to do it.

And then the day got hard...er.

As I wrote before, our kids help feed the hungry kids who live on the street four times a week in the feeding program. One of the boys from the street walked in and had flies swarming around his head. Upon looking closer I saw that he had a terrible infection.

I'm going to spare you the details.
You're welcome.

The other kids wouldn't sit by him, he wouldn't look us in the eye and just seemed like he was so ashamed and embarrassed by the infection that covered his scalp. Praise God, we have an incredibly gifted nurse here who took him to the clinic and poured hydrogen peroxide on his head. It was supposed to hurt. He had open wounds, and all things considered the little guy should have been so scared. Brooke (the nurse) thought that the infection probably numbed the nerves (the way she said it, it sounded much more medical and probably twelve times more accurate than how I described it). She took him into the medical clinic at the house and I'm a total creeper so I followed. This child showed such bravery and strength. I held his hand as she disinfected and wrapped his head, but for the record I asked him to hold my hand for my sake, not for his. I'm selfish like that. His bravery was such an encouragement to me. He seemed so resilient. After being shunned by hundreds of other children, he was able to march his sweet self back out there and sit among them, though he had his head completely wrapped in gauze which made his affliction all the more obvious. How many of us could do that? I couldn't.

On a final note, every lesson I teach to my scholars back in CA always has what's called a “learning target.” For example:

Day 1: By the end of class, students will be able to identify the theme of The Giver.
Day 2: By the end of class, students will be able to identify and analyze how a passage of The Giver portrays the theme.
Day 3-5: By the end of class, students will be able to articulate why it is important to not bring a dead animal back from lunch and give it to Ms. O'Connor.

In the same way, I think God creates learning targets for us every day. We can see it if we're seeking it. One thing I should add is in my class, until 80% of my students have met the learning target I don't go on. I could spend a couple of days explaining to the boys that dead birds carry diseases, I don't like dead animals, I don't think it's charming... yada yada blah... I wonder how many times I'm taught the same lesson.

This week I'm thankful that God gave me some learning targets of my own. We couldn't go on to the next lesson until I realized how unqualified I am. Then He reminded me to see His kids as He sees them, and finally, a lesson in humility.