Seeing Home Through the Eyes of Lion

“Every night I imagine that I’m walking those streets home, and I know every single step of the way.” -- Saroo Brieley

And the Oscar goes to …

I thought La La Land was the best picture of the year. That is until I saw Lion. Not since Saving Private Ryan has a film so pierced my soul like Lion did. Whereas the horrors of war haunted me for days after seeing SPR, the story of Lion reverberated in my head for over a week. Lion is about being lost and loved. It’s about a longing for home and the journey to get there.

Lion opens by introducing us to five-year-old Saroo, who lives in extreme poverty in mid-1980’s India with his mother, brother, and sister. Saroo has a special bond with his older brother Guddu. There’s a unique love between the two, quite the opposite from the sibling rivalry we saw in 2008’s Slumdog Millionaire. One night Guddu and Saroo go out looking to earn a rupee. Guddu leaves Saroo on a vacant train platform while he goes off to find work. Saroo, bored, cold, and tired explores an empty train and winds up falling asleep. The train departs, travels for days, and finally rests half a country away in Calcutta. Little Saroo is lost and scared out of his mind. After a few close calls, he lands in an orphanage and is eventually adopted by a loving, middle-class family from Australia.

Twenty years later, Saroo has bulked up on some good down-under cooking and is about to embark on a career in hotel management. Dev Patel, who hasn’t had a haircut since Slumdog wrapped, plays the adult Saroo, who is anguished by the profound need to locate his home and find his loved ones. In the film’s second half, thanks to the Internet and Google Earth, he begins his search. As a boy, Saroo couldn’t adequately communicate the name of his rural village. So as an adult, he all he can do is calculate train speeds and distances to try to locate his home.

I’ve been trying to put my finger on why this movie so resonated with my soul. Yes, it’s heart wrenching to see a young child become so vulnerable. But I think it’s because, like Saroo, I’m equally longing for home.

We all had to leave home at one point. Sometimes it’s for college or for that post-graduation career. Maybe, it’s the moment you turned 18 or when your number came up and your country needed your service. For me, my home moved from Michigan to California during a summer between college terms. I went with the family to help unpack boxes. After one look at the Pacific Ocean, I decided that mom and dad needed my help in getting acclimated to the west-coast lifestyle.

But the home of our childhood or the residence of our parents isn’t quite the home I’m referring to. I believe we all have a desire for another home. According to Ecclesiastes 3:11, God has set eternity in the hearts of men. I believe we all, whether we acknowledge it or not, have this desire within us. It’s a desire to live forever in the house of God.

My eternal home is where the streets have no names and the houses don’t have addresses. It’s the place of freedom, grace, and peace. It’s void of disease and death, strife and separation, and greed and grief. It’s where the poison rain of politics and poverty, hunger and inhumanity is eradicated. It’s where my own messiness and failures will be washed away.

Jesus, in John 14, says he’s preparing a room in God’s house for his followers. He also says He’s coming back to take his followers there with him. Jesus was speaking these words to his disciples. He was readying them for his death and departure. He was asking them to trust him. They were afraid and worried. Jesus told them that their future was secure.

But having a place reserved for us is one thing; certainty in getting there is another. But Jesus continued by saying, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Unlike, Saroo, who didn’t have the foggiest idea on how to get home, the Christian has supreme confidence that Jesus will return and take his followers home. Jesus doesn’t simply point us toward home (“Turn left at the burning bush”). He is the map, the GPS, and the Waze to getting home.

I can relate to Saroo’s longing to rediscover his home. But he didn’t know what, if anyone, would be there waiting for him. The Christian doesn’t have that anxiety or doubt. The word for the “rooms” that Jesus is preparing refers to a place of residence, an abode with your name on it. They are rooms where fellowship with Christ will be renewed, with the presence of Jesus himself. They are rooms where he lives, in which he invites us to enter. Jesus is there waiting for us.

Saroo’s life changed when he started his journey home (not always in healthy ways however). But he had a goal and a destination. He had a vision. Similarly, the Christian who is longing for home has an eternal vantage point. As opposed to the temporal securities and comforts of our current home, our true home, our complete security, has already been built for us and is occupied by a builder waiting to give us the keys. This perspective changes our outlook on life, work, relationships, and priorities. It helps us to spend more time on giving and less time on getting. And this only strengthens my longing for what’s next. 

Unlike Saroo's, my life isn't the stuff of which movies are made. Thanks to an eternal vantage point, I'm not complaining. But I am looking forward to the sequel.

Gluten-Free Gratitude

Man does not live on bread alone, but I’ve been known to give it my best effort. I love bread and all

things related to bread. Pizza is its own food group. Bring me an old-fashioned, chocolate-glazed donut and you’re speaking my primary love language.

But, I’ve got news for you. I’m now gluten free. My new mantra is: if it’s made from dough, it’s gotta go.

For a pasta-loving Italian with very little food discipline, this has been an easy move because I don’t want to be in pain. I had been living with excruciating feet pain for as long as I can remember. The pain wasn’t constant, but it was daily. I could hike and play sports without any problem. It was standing that created the most discomfort. And standing all day is a number one on a teacher’s list of job requirements. Five minutes in line at the grocery store would create pain. Amusement parks were not amusing. Standing-room only events were my personal nightmare.

I’ve seen more podiatrists than I have toes and I’ve tried every remedy this side of surgery: ice, stretching, night-splits, physical therapy, electric-shock-wave therapy, and cortisone shots. The only thing that helped was NOT standing.

Somewhat by accident, I learned that le pan, was creating all of le pain.

I have a chiropractor friend, who has known about my pain for a while. Other aches and ailments would come up in conversation. She suggested a gluten-free diet. She was right and the relief was remarkable and quick. Apparently, the evil gluten was causing intense pain-creating inflammation in my feet. Now I can stand during 45-minute assemblies. Hour-long trips to the computer lab are no longer trouble. I don’t have to kick my shoes off in the car and ice my feet when I get home. I’m still surprised when I notice that my feet don’t hurt at the end of the day.

Like manna from heaven, this cure was completely unexpected and shocking. I had given up on finding relief. I couldn’t see a possibility for anything different and I had stopped praying for healing. I figured this was how my body was. Praying for a change was akin to asking God to make me taller. It wasn’t going to happen.

Oh me of little faith.

In the Bible, Jesus and bread appear together often. He tells us to request our daily bread. He warned his followers to beware of the yeast (the teachings) of the religious leaders (modern translations now interpret his wording as the “gluten of the Pharisees”). He refers to himself as the Bread of Life. He fed a couple of large crowds with a handful of loaves. And in his last meal, he took broken bread and before giving it to his 12 disciples … he gave thanks.

Christians commemorate this last meal with communion, a term also known as the Eucharist. Ann Voskamp, in her brilliant book, “One Thousand Gifts” explains that in the original language, “he gave thanks” reads eucharisto. “Eucharisto,” she writes, “envelops the Greek word for grace, charis. But it also holds its derivative, the Greek word chara, meaning “joy.”

Eucharisto. Thanksgiving. A combination of grace and joy.

Who doesn’t need more helpings of grace and joy? I have a friend at school who laughs all day long. Her joy is infectious. But I don’t consider myself an overly joyful person. Is the lack of joy a byproduct of ingratitude? Voskamp says that ingratitude was really the original sin. Adam and Eve were simply ungrateful for what God gave.

“Isn’t that the catalyst for all my sins?” she writes.

Like the gluten pooling in puddles of inflammation in my feet, ingratitude can settle in my heart and suffocate my joy. The eyes of my heart focus on what’s missing. I forget to be thankful for what I have.

I love the November Facebook posts of friends sharing their eucharistos. I eat them up like I used to devour a loaf of sourdough. They make my soul smile. I started the year trying to count my blessings. I even bought a “Gratitude Journal”. But it was hard. I could never get past the big, obvious things for which to be thankful: job, home, friends, family, etc. Despite the occasional random life blessings: safety while traveling, sunsets, and a good parking spot at Costco … most of the time it felt like I was repeatedly counting the same things over and over.

Sometimes I was able to go a little deeper in my eucharistos. Instead of being thankful for my dog, I noticed how listening to him snore brought me joy. These are the things Voskamp challenges her readers to discover. She went on a mission to find 1,000 under-the-radar gifts from God. Nothing is too small or insignificant for her list. All the sights, sounds, and tastes around her make the cut. From clean sheets to the way the sunlight refracts in the sink’s soapy bubbles. All of these things are gifts from God, she says, and if we see them, we experience him and his joy.

While I’m still acknowledging the big things like pain-free feet, I’m now trying to create my own list of 1,000 gifts. So far I’m up to four:

      1. Peetey waiting expectantly while I prepare food
2. Students racing across the playground for an end-of-the-day hug

      3. Listening to the teacher next door goof around with his class
4. A student’s priceless reaction after I played a little joke on her

So happy Thanksgiving everyone.

I’ll be taking today’s eucharisto with some precious friends. I’m bringing a dessert for all and gluten-free stuffing for me. I’m sure there will be enough chairs around the table, but if not, I’ll be happy to stand through the meal.

It’ll be something to joyfully add to my list.

The Olympics of Teaching

I love the Olympics.

Despite NBC’s (Nothing But Commercials) coverage, every four years I become a passionate viewer. I love the swimming, diving, gymnastics, and track (aka … the only four sports shown during Prime Time). I got hooked on the Olympics as a kid, and I’ve been a fan ever since. From Nadia in ’76 to Phelps and Co. this year, I can’t get enough. I love the rivalries in the pool, the podium’s tears of joy, and the bum, bum, bum … bum, da dum of the theme song. I love the expressions of shock, elation, and unbelief. I love newcomers bursting onto the world’s stage and I love veterans who can show that they’ve still got it. I love world records. I could watch Usain Bolt run with my hair on fire. Dan Hicks and Rowdy Gaines could make excitement out of a lawn-mowing contest.

The Olympics are founded upon dedication and sacrifice. I can’t wrap my head around the amount of work these athletes put in. The hours it takes to qualify for the Olympics is mind-boggling. And then winning or losing is potentially decided by a hundredth of a second. Unfathomable. I don’t want to smirk at how much professional athletes work. But at least they get to play regularly. Yes, many Olympic athletes compete in college or in annual national and world events. It’s still not the same. Phelps has had 30 Olympic finals. LeBron James has played 987 games. We know Mike Trout is the best because he plays every night. Simone Biles, Katie Ledecky, and Ashton Eaton have to wait every four years to display their talents.

The Olympics are just different. As a life-long sportster, I know what it’s like to hit a homer, sink a game-winner, or smack a forehand down the line. But I have no idea what it’s like to plummet 30 feet into a pool in the smallest of speedos. I can’t relate to spinning, flipping, cartwheeling, and twirling on a four-inch leather-wrapped plank. I’ve never had to stick the landing, take my mark, or answer Michelle Tafoya’s side-lane questions.

The Olympics are about simplicity, repetition, and a pursuit of perfection. Team sports have so many moving parts. There’s strategy and play calling. Even sports like golf and tennis have multiple swings, shots, specialties, and strategies. But so many of the Olympic sports can be boiled down to one simple task. Swim. Dive. Run, or jump. Then repeat 10,000 times in search of excellence. One misstep, slip, or fall can spell defeat. Every component to each race or dive or routine has to be flawless. Great baseball players fail 70 percent of the time. Superstar basketball players miss half of their attempts. Hall-of-Fame quarterbacks misfire on 40 percent of their passes. Olympic athletes can’t afford a single mistake.

School started this week, and the early morning wake-ups have put an Olympic-sized crimp in my Olympic viewing. But that’s ok, because being a teacher in itself comes with it’s own set of exhausting events. Here are just a few:

• Weightlifting – Setting up a classroom after summer break isn’t just about hanging some posters and passing out books. Teachers also have to move desks, file cabinets, and tables. Last week after changing classrooms for the umpteenth time, I also had to track down my missing files because the “district’s movers” wouldn’t lug my file cabinets upstairs. Then the bookcases in my new room were older than Noah Webster. Thankfully, I was allowed to get three new ones, but only after carting them 800 meters and hoisting them on my back up a flight of stairs.

• Heptathlon -- Olympic female track athletes compete in seven differing events. Meanwhile elementary school teachers are also adept at being medical-care providers, psychologists, counselors, entertainers, social workers, field-trip guides, and in my district, breakfast servers.  

• Decathlon – Male track athletes compete in 10 grueling events, while elementary school teachers are experts in reading, writing, math, history, geography, science, art, P.E., health, and the ever-important event “cutting and rolling eight-foot lengths of butcher paper”.

• Hurdles – As if engaging 24-36 bright little angels with mind-blowing lesson plans isn’t hard enough, teachers are also forced to jump through many hoops. Staff meeting, adjunct duties, professional developments, grade-level meetings, district assessments, and standardized testing are just a few. Plus there’s enough paperwork to keep an administrative assistant busy all day.

• High Jump – Olympic high jumpers may clear the bar at over seven feet, but every year I grade a stack of papers tall enough to make Dwight Stones shudder.

• Marathon – When Spring Break arrives early, the stretch drive to the end of the year can feel like running a 26.2 miles.

• Sprints – As soon as the recess bell sounds, teachers have to race to the nearest restroom with Bolt-like speed and precision.

The next summer games will be in Tokyo. However, in my mind, the real Olympics take place at Taper Ave. Elementary and in thousands of other schools across our nation. Every morning I get to say hello to some gold-medal-worthy instructors. I know they daily strive for pedagogical perfection in the same way that Allyson Felix and Brianna Rollins run for athletic glory. It is a pleasure to call them colleagues.

Here’s to the Olympics and to a great school year!