The days start early here in An Binh. The kind of early that most people would groan at — 5:30am sharp. And yet, as the days pass, I find my body slowly adapting to the rhythm of this new life. Maybe it’s the simplicity of our mission routine, or maybe it’s the anticipation of the moments I know await me — moments that are both wildly chaotic and beautifully grounding.
That Wednesday morning, 9 July 2025, began like the rest. A quiet moment to catch the sunrise before our 6:30am bus arrived. There’s something spiritual about those first golden rays over the sleepy streets of Vietnam. It’s as if the day gently opens its arms to us. We reached the school just in time for breakfast, prepared by the Sisters — always warm, always made with love. These meals are humble but nourishing, not just for the body but for the soul. In their presence, I feel cared for, like family.
Then — as if someone pressed a fast-forward button — the energy shifted. Lessons, laughter, little feet running, hands tugging at my shirt, excited voices calling out, “Hello Teacher!” That chorus still rings in my ears, and it’s the sweetest music. The children greet us like celebrities, like we’ve just stepped onto a stage — but theirs is a stage of pure joy and open-hearted affection. Whatever tiredness I thought I had? It melted away.
The K1 and K2 children — oh, they’re a force. Managing them is like trying to herd butterflies in a thunderstorm. One second they’re all seated; the next, they’ve burst into dance or tears or laughter. It's exhausting in every way imaginable… and yet, I love it. I love their unfiltered personalities, their strange and wonderful questions, their giggles that bounce off the classroom walls and into the corners of my heart. These tiny humans are unafraid to be themselves. How many adults can say the same?
There are certain snapshots from that day that I know I’ll carry with me forever. The kind of memories that don’t need a camera — moments where I was completely present. A little girl wrapping her arms around me mid-lesson, a group of boys erupting into laughter over a mispronounced word, a chorus of children bursting into song without prompting. These flashes of life — raw and real — remind me why I’m here.
During our second morning class, we switched gears and dived into a lesson about emotions. The K2 kids were given a simple task: draw your face to show how you feel today. What came back to us was a sea of smiley faces — round, simple crayon-drawn circles with big grins. And in that moment, I thought, maybe we’re doing okay. Maybe, in our own small way, we’re helping create a safe, happy space for these children to just be kids. To laugh, to learn, to feel joy.
Then came lunch — my absolute favourite part of the day. Not just because I was hungry, but because of what it represents. We sit cross-legged or side by side with the children, sharing food and trading stories, or sometimes just sharing a quiet moment of contentment. Their chatter fills the air like birdsong. There's a sacredness in these shared meals — a reminder that connection doesn’t need a common language, just a shared heart. And again, the Sisters outdid themselves. Their food carries with it the weight of tradition, love, and a generosity that humbles me every single time.
After lunch, we took a short stroll to find a coffee fix. It’s become a little ritual for us — our own kind of breather. We’ve learned by now: never trust the ice. Hot drinks only. Our stomachs thank us later. But beyond the caffeine, these mini walks through the neighbourhood help me see a different side of An Binh — the slower, quieter life that hums beneath the chaos of the classroom. It grounds me.
Our afternoon session was gentler, more reflective. We taught the children about the environment and the importance of caring for it — of taking ownership of their own little world. One of the activities involved giving them wipes and asking them to clean their classroom. What started as a lesson in cleanliness quickly became a joyful flurry of teamwork and pride. They were thorough, giggling as they scrubbed desks and wiped windows. At the end, the room sparkled, and so did their faces. What I saw wasn’t just kids having fun — it was children learning that they mattered, that their actions could make a difference.
We closed the day the way we always do — a quiet reflection session, followed by Mass and dinner. It’s in these moments, as I sit in silence and let the day wash over me, that I realise just how full I feel. Not just from the food (though I’ll never stop praising the Sisters for their cooking), but from everything — the sticky hugs, the crayon smiles, the soft hands reaching for mine, the sound of laughter echoing down the corridor.
This mission has become more than an experience. It’s become a mirror. It reflects back the parts of me I’ve forgotten — the parts that know how to slow down, to be fully present, to find joy in simplicity, to give without expecting. I came here thinking I was going to teach, to serve, to offer what I could. And I have — but the truth is, I’ve received far more than I’ve given.
Something is changing in me. Quietly, slowly, but deeply. I can feel it in the way I look at the children, in the way I savour each small moment, in the way I walk more gently through each day. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but if it’s anything like today — filled with sticky hugs, endless “Hello Teacher!” chants, and smiley faces drawn in crayon — then I know I’ll be alright.
And maybe that’s what mission work really is. Not about saving or fixing, but about showing up, heart open. Letting yourself be shaped by the very people you thought you came to help. In that exchange, something sacred happens.
And for that, I am grateful beyond words.
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