The Holy Land Institute for the Deaf!

Welcome to my new home!

Although I have only been at the Holy Land Institute for a short while, I can already tell that this is a very special place. God is at work in inspiring ways. Beautiful things are happening here. 

But beauty is often intertwined with pain, and I can also tell that living and working at this school will be very hard. I am nervous about that. Even so, I am thrilled to be here. 

Thus far, I have split my time between assisting the school’s director with administrative work and engaging the children outside of the classroom. I eat meals with them, play with them, supervise non-academic activities, and help out with bed-time. 

The one story that I want to share in this post is a bed-time story, from my first night here. But I need to begin earlier in the day...

The first four signs that I learned after arriving at the Holy Land Institute were “volunteer,” “America,” “replace/exchange,” and “Brent” -- the last one being a sign name for a specific individual and not a universal sign. I learned these four because as Rafael (a young Swiss volunteer who gave me an informal orientation) was introducing me to teachers, administrators, and students, he told them that I was the volunteer from America who was replacing Brent, the school’s previous intern from the Mennonite Central Committee. After a dozen or so introductions, I was confident in my ability to recognize these four signs. But not in much else. 

Over the course of the day, I picked up a few more: “school,” “boy” and “girl,” “good” and “bad,” “same” and “different.” Baby steps. 

Now, fast forward to 8:00 in the evening, when the kids are getting ready for bed. They sleep ten to a room, and there are four rooms filled with little boys, and it is every bit as chaotic as you are imagining. The kind of chaos that Sir James Barrie cherished. The older boys are responsible for putting the younger ones to bed and maintain an admirable semblance of order. 

Rafael and I help out. Or rather, Rafael helps out, and I do my best. The two of us give love to each of the boys before turning off the lights. Hugs, kisses, and (with many of the boys) prayers. Rafael or I face them, one-on-one, and mirror their signs -- the equivalent of a hearing parent repeating each phrase of a hearing child’s prayer. 

As Rafael explains the ritual to me on my first night, I think of how sweet it is. I also think of how much sweeter it would be if I understood what the kids were saying. Given my infantile knowledge of Jordanian Sign Language, it’s really just a game of Follow the Leader, right?

My first leader of the night is Mahmoud.

He sleeps on a top bunk, so as he sits cross-legged on his bed for the prayer, I am looking up at him. He starts praying, and the sincerity of this 2nd grade boy strikes me. His gestures are emphatic, his expressions resolute. We are not playing a game. I begin trying to emulate his heart as I imitate his body. 

Towards the end of the prayer, I catch “bless the volunteer from America who is replacing Brent.”

Here I am, a disciple of 14 years, a good theology student at a good Christian college. And here he is, a 2nd grade boy.

And he is teaching me how to pray. 

More than that. In this moment, he is my priest. He is bringing me before God. And bringing me to God.