The Joy in Suffering

Being sick this past week has made me do two things: number one, think a lot!; number two, not feel like writing about what I’m thinking because the daunting task of actually writing it all down, is well daunting…so instead of doing one of my epic stories and forcing people to place their head on a ping-pong table to be slapped around from idea to idea with only the occasional “and” or “also” to guide them, I’ve decided to make a series of short entries to compartmentalize my different thoughts, stories, and experiences, so as not to confuse you, and make me seem more neurotic.  (ps…I know that sentence was very long, but I if can get through it in one breath, I consider it a sentence;-)

Like I said this week I was sick.  I believe it was a combination of the drastic climate change between Chicago and Israel, the many eucalyptus plants surrounding my place on inhabitation, and the fact that I believe allowing one’s body to acclimate to anything before diving head first into work is a sign of weakness.  Now I realize it’s more a sign of stupidity and ignorance; therefore, I’ve learned my lesson. But, the true lesson didn’t come from my trip to the emergency room, or the feeling like I was going to die of sore throat/emphesema-like symptoms. No, the true lesson came from allowing myself to be content with my present state of absolute misery.  I’ll explain…..

As I was lying there on my deathbed with arms outstretched to the heavens crying “beam me up…I’m ready…..take me now!!!” I began to think of others instead of myself.  Well, I also thought about another time I had wished for the rapture to take place, but we won’t talk about the evil “O” word…organic chemistry. (I just died a little inside).  The others I chose to think of were actually the men at the shelter.  I thought about what some of them have gone through, their present struggles with addiction, and their fight to assimilate into a culture that detest people who are Jewish AND believers in Christ (Messianic Jews).  Not only is there a battle to restart their lives, but after doing so they must fight to defend their new choices and in essence their identity.  As I slowly lower my arms realizing my life isn’t that bad I reach for my Bible.

Now, if I am not studying a particular book at the time, I am embarrassed to say that I sort of used my Bible as a magic eight ball.  So, I picked up my Bible and opened it to wherever the pages fell. And, would you have thought the part at which I opened was talking about Paul’s contentment with being persecuted because it allowed more people to hear of Jesus.  So, I looked and I thought of what is making me happy at the moment and what lesson can I learn that I am not seeing due to the enormous pain of my throat blocking my ability to think clearly.

The happiness in my suffering became a means to not only think about the struggles of the men, but also ways I can be of better service to them.  The program for the men is very rigid, with accountability and grace being the forefront of its philosophy.  If one of the men are caught drinking, it is an automatic dismissal from the program and the same goes for narcotic usage.  If one of the men are caught smoking a cigarette, they are given a warning and the second time they are caught, again, and automatic dismissal from the program.  With rules as strict as this, one would think it would be extremely easy to go the straight and narrow because on the other side of the river is not green grass, but Harlem….  They are on the green side of the river!!!  However, temptation and visceral reactions do not distinguish nor contain any sorts of rational, well rational only to the person who is fighting this said temptation.  I’m not going to lie to you and say we haven’t had any casualties since I’ve been here. About a week ago, one of my best students, Zaur, decided by his own volition to leave the program. He returned momentarily to collect some things and at that moment the guides of the house smelt alcohol on his breath.  I haven’t seen him since my last English class with him. 

This is real.

It is difficult for me not only as their English teacher, but as someone who speaks for them, who shows you them, who deeply cares for them.  I still think about Zaur a lot, but he is a representation of each and every man or woman who struggles with addiction.  Zaur is your neighbor, your father, you sister, your niece.  The men at the shelter would say Zaur just wasn’t ready and there are plenty of other men who could use Zaur’s spot if he chose not to stay. I suspect this is the silver lining I’m suppose to see…

I choose instead to focus on the students I have now and in just a month’s time, be filled with contentment at how much they’ve progressed.  It’s more than the English classes; it’s an opportunity to express who they are as individuals.  I don’t pretend to make sense of why I’m here, all I know that I’m blessed to be part of this intricate design.

 Zaur