Silence is the perfectest herald of joy

I feel like I just need to take a moment, or several moments, or as many moments as I can, to just sit quietly and drink in what a beautiful day this has been. In the last several hours, I have felt overwhelmed with blessings—firstly, there’s this morning. Today was International Labor Day, and Care For Life had a party after the big parade downtown for all of its employees. There wasn’t a stereo around at first (and I wish one hadn’t shown up), so we started by singing some traditional local songs, some religious, some which I had never heard before, all amazing. I caught myself, dancing and singing praises to God in Sena and Ndau, and was just flooded with a feeling of how at home I felt, and how much I love this country. It’s been nearly a year now, and these songs and dances that a year ago had me watching jaw-dropped and wishing I could be a part of them now were a part of me. As the group would open a circle for dancers to enter and strut their stuff, I now felt excited rather than anxious to be pushed in the middle, only to laugh together and clasp hands in congratulations with those around me as I would eventually step out for another to enter. After the songs eventually wore us out to where we could only sit and look satisfied, people started telling jokes and stories and riddles, one jumping up to tell his as soon as another was finished, with each one feeding off of the energy and joy-of-company brought by the last. As I stood up several times to throw out my own, hearing the laughter of these friends that are so dear to me and sitting down with a smile on my own face, I felt at home. I felt that feeling of homeness that you so rarely feel outside of your actual home, that feeling of belonging and love and pure enjoyment of the company of good people that feels like what heaven must feel like.

Then, this afternoon, my good and dear BYU friend Eric arrived, here to work with Care For Life’s family gardens over the summer. It was so good to see him, and it’s so good to have him here—he’s a dear friend and a kindred spirit, and I’m so happy to be able to spend this last month with him before I leave.

Then later this evening, I was reading through some training materials I had been sent by Teach For America, and as I’ve often felt since signing up with them, I felt excited for the chance to learn more about the logistics and practical aspects of effectively teaching disadvantaged groups to overcome their disadvantages in impossible-seeming situations, from a group that draws from such an amazing pool of experience, from thousands of teachers over more than a decade. I was reminded of why, along with a rather visceral desire to give back to the system that helped me become who I am today, I joined Teach For America in the first place. But as I thought about this, I was also struck by a rather unsaid-but-felt sentiment I’ve noticed from most of the TFA people I’ve worked with, which is a sort of unspoken assumption that, in fighting educational inequality, our focus must be in the U.S. Granted, I’m sure that if any of the people who are helping me prepare for TFA were asked to compare educational inequalities in the U.S. to educational inequalities on the international level, especially in developing countries, they would say that Oh yes, of course it’s worse out there. But to recognize that, without doing anything about it—Wendy Kopp (the lady who founded Teach For America’s) has consistently used in her rhetoric the argument that it is a moral imperative for us to provide equal opportunities for all children, everywhere. How could we not want to take something like this well of practical experience and eye-lighting idealism that Teach For America has harnessed and try to use it internationally? I started thinking about the possibilities for Teach For America-type programs in Brazil, in Mozambique, all over the world, with idealists in every country fighting for their children’s rights to equal opportunity, and once again I couldn’t help but feel that fire, but feel blessed, blessed to have my life, to have this time, to have these opportunities to help facilitate or enact change.

Then there is my mother—I was just checking my email, and learned about the amazing effort she’s thrown into something as seemingly unimportant as a dentist’s appointment for me in the weeks that I’ll be home in Austin, and I felt, like I’ve felt so many times, just how much my mom loves me. No son could ask for a more amazing mother.

I think about today, and about my life, and I understand why people invented hymns, as a weak human attempt to try to display their gratitude and their love to God, because I feel like singing. But at the same time, I feel like that wouldn’t be enough—like I said at first, it almost feels like the only appropriate reaction to so many blessings is a reverent silence. Like Shakespeare said, “Silence is the perfectest herald of joy”. Or like Ammon said, “I cannot say the smallest part which I feel.” My cup runneth over. Glory to God in the highest.