There’s something about watching the sun rise that makes you pause and feel deeply human. This morning in An Binh, I caught one of those sunrises — soft, warm, and soaked in stillness. As the light slowly spread across the village rooftops, I stood there quietly, letting gratitude wash over me. It wasn’t the kind of dramatic gratitude we often feel after something big happens. It was quieter. Simpler. The kind that creeps in when you're exactly where you're meant to be.
Today was our last day of teaching. Even just writing that feels surreal. The week has moved so quickly, yet somehow, it’s also felt like time slowed down just enough for us to be present in each moment. As the bus pulled up to take us from the hostel to the school, there was a sense of anticipation, but also a gentle ache in my chest. I knew what was waiting for us — the children’s bright eyes and beaming smiles — but I also knew this would be the last time we’d experience it in this way.
Sure enough, as we stepped off the bus, the children came running up, grinning from ear to ear, calling out greetings in their sweet, familiar voices. I don’t know if they truly understood that this was our last teaching day, but something in the air told me they felt it too. The sisters greeted us with a lovingly prepared breakfast, as they have done every morning, and once again, it felt like being home. There’s something deeply moving about being nourished not just physically, but emotionally, in a place where love is shown in every simple act.
Today’s lesson theme was colours — a perfect metaphor for everything the children have brought into our lives. Vibrant, messy, expressive, and beautiful. We incorporated craft time into the lesson, and the room filled with the quiet hum of focus and the occasional outburst of excitement when someone finished their masterpiece. We watched little hands work with purpose, their eyes lighting up with every glued piece and coloured stroke. Their joy was contagious. By the end of the session, our K1 and K2 kids had filled the room — and our hearts — with the kind of creative magic only children can conjure.
With the final class completed, we jumped straight into preparation mode. The afternoon would be the gallery exhibition — a chance for every class to showcase the artwork they had created over the past few days. The energy was electric. Everyone had a job, and the sense of teamwork was beautiful. We weren’t just organizing an event; we were honouring the children’s effort, imagination, and spirit. I looked around and saw teammates smiling, parents peeking in, teachers guiding, and kids whispering excitedly. The whole place pulsed with warmth.
Alongside all the bustle, I couldn’t help but reflect on the friendships that have formed during this mission. It’s funny how quickly people can become dear to you when you’re united by a shared purpose. These are the kinds of friendships that don’t require constant communication but somehow endure. We’ve laughed, cried, supported each other through exhaustion, and shared moments that don’t need explaining. There’s something sacred about doing meaningful work with people who care deeply, and I’m endlessly grateful for each of them.
Lunch today was bittersweet. I’ve said it before, but mealtimes with the kids have become such a treasured part of each day. Their endless chatter, unfiltered giggles, and the way they cling to us as if we’ve always been there — I’ll miss it more than I can put into words. I know tomorrow will be about fun and celebration, but today’s goodbye over lunch felt quiet and deeply personal.
After eating, the sisters treated us to another meal, this time just for the team. As always, their kindness nourished far more than our bodies. I could see how tired we all were, but no one complained — because we knew what came next was worth it. The break we usually get after lunch was replaced by final exhibition prep. Each class would take turns visiting the gallery, and the children’s parents would be joining us too. There was no room for error, but more than that, we wanted to create a moment that these families could treasure — a moment that said, Your child is seen. Your child matters.
By mid-afternoon, the classrooms transformed into galleries. We hung drawings, lined tables with crafts, and made sure every piece had its place. The kids started streaming in, and their reactions made all the effort worthwhile. Eyes wide, hands pointing, laughter bouncing off the walls — they were so proud. And so were we. Seeing their parents arrive — sometimes whole families on one motorbike — made me pause. Life here is so simple, and yet so full. There was no rush, no fuss. Just people coming together to celebrate their children. It felt like a gift just to witness it.
Instead of a traditional lesson in the afternoon, we filled the time with play. We’d all agreed it was important to close our time with the kids on a note of joy. There were games, colouring, dancing, and lots of little moments that I know I’ll carry with me long after I leave Vietnam. As I walked through the exhibition with the children, watching them point to their work and beam with pride, I thought about how far we’d come in just four days. Not just the kids — but us too.
I came to An Binh believing I had so much to give: time, effort, love, and care. But these children gave me more than I could have imagined. They gave me their trust, their laughter, and their joy. They reminded me of the power of presence, of showing up with a full heart. They reminded me that sometimes, what we think we’re giving is really just a mirror for all we’re receiving.
As the day wound down and the children began to leave, I stood at the gate watching families ride off together — one bike, five people, no complaints. Just contentment. Just togetherness. That image will stay with me. There’s a kind of richness here that doesn’t come from wealth. It comes from love, from simplicity, from knowing what really matters.
Before our end-of-day reflections, I had a little balloon emergency to attend to. I’m in charge of making 150 balloon animals for tomorrow’s Fun Fair Day — and given my limited skills, I’ve settled on balloon dogs. They’re quick, easy, and universally adored. As I twisted and tied balloon after balloon, I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s the little things that bring joy, especially when shared with children.
Our reflection session tonight was especially moving. We read Matthew 10:7–15 together:
"You received without charge; give without charge."
This verse struck a deep chord. It reminded me that love, kindness, and time are not currency — they’re gifts, and we’re called to give them freely, just as we’ve received them. That’s exactly what this mission has been about. Not perfect outcomes, not grand gestures, but small, meaningful offerings of the heart.
We ended the night by writing notes to one another — simple words of gratitude, encouragement, and affirmation. It’s incredible what a sentence or two can do for someone’s spirit. Those tiny slips of paper, passed quietly from one hand to another, held the weight of our shared experience. They were proof that what we did here mattered. That we mattered.
Dinner and beers with the team closed the day. We laughed, shared stories, and let the fullness of the week settle around us. There was a sense of peace, even in our tiredness. And as I sit here now, writing all this down, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the beauty of it all.
Tomorrow is Fun Fair Day — our final celebration. But today? Today was colours and connection. Today was art and heart. Today was a thousand tiny goodbyes wrapped in joy.
And tonight, I fall asleep knowing that even though we came here to give, what we’re walking away with is so much more.
No comments:
Post a Comment