Teacher, You

“Teachah {his version of Teacher}.” He approaches while pointing to scrapes on his legs. I ask him (in English), what happened?

He replies “Teachah, YOU!”

“Me? I didn’t do that to you.” I laugh thinking he is joking.

“Teachah, YOU” he says emphatically while pointing to his pain.

“Buddy, I didn’t do that to you. Do you think I did that to you?” I start to get defensive thinking to myself ‘I’m pretty positive I would remember if I caused that.’

“TEACHAH, YOU” he says strong. Points at his wounds again, then points down that hall and says “clineek.” CLINIC.

The lightbulb goes off.

Ah yes. Teachah is stupid. Sorry buddy. You need me to go with you to the clinic room and put bandages on your legs. Got it.

I laugh and apologize for not understanding what he needs. He sits down and I try to be someone I’m not: a nurse. I don’t know why, but they come to me looking pretty normal and they leave the clinic looking like war victims because of all the bandages I put on their tiny little limbs.

I quickly tell him, oh, think we’re going to have to cut it off {while I take my fingers and make the cutting motion}. I start to hop on one leg and tell him he’ll be okay with just one leg. His eyes get a little big but he starts to laugh and says “no, teachah.”

“Well, okay, I guess you can keep it.”

“kahol” he mutters as he’s trying to tell me to use alcohol to clean it. Apparently he saw the way I was picking up multiple tubes of ointments and tried to find the small amount of English writing on it to tell me what it was for. It’s a wonder the kid actually stayed in the room.

I take the alcohol and knew it would sting. At first, I was going to do it but instead, handed it to him and let him do the swabbing around the wound – and I tried not to let him see what I saw: him wincing. I pull out gauze and iodine and tape. I secure the bandages and he says “thank you, teachah.” He goes to clean up the mess – the swabs, the cotton with iodine on it.

“I got it buddy. Go to lunch.” I smile at him.

“THANK YOU, TEACHAH!” he says again and runs out the door while I throw away the used supplies from my poor attempt at playing nurse.

I get to thinking. Wow, I’m glad my encounters with God are not like this encounter we just had.

I’m sure glad God speaks my language. The language of my heart. I’m so glad that when I’m scraped and hurting and in need of help, it doesn’t take me multiple times to explain to Him where I’m hurt, why I’m hurt and that I need it cleaned and bandaged. He knows.

He knows before I go to find Him, before I talk to Him. Before the tears brim my eyes and overflow onto my cheeks.

He knows how to fix it. He doesn’t need me to point to the iodine and cotton balls and tell Him what I need. He has the perfect antidote.

Sometimes the cleaning process hurts.

But He knows what’s best. He doesn’t turn his face when I wince. He wants me to know that He sees it. That I don’t have to be a “big girl” and bear it by myself. He comes to me with compassion and mercy.

I’m thankful he’s my “teachah” but also takes on the responsibilities as my Father, my friend, my comforter, my healer, my Savior. He doesn’t have to fake it – He is perfect.

I’m thankful I don’t have to clean up all the messes that are made from my mistakes and my sin. Granted, I have to live with my decisions here on earth – but God offers his unfailing love and grace. And more than that, he offered His Son to pay for (clean up) those mistakes and make a way for eternity with the Creator.

So today, as I’m reminded of who He is, I look up to the sky and say “Thank YOU, Teacher.”