Therefore, the bench wasn't surprised when the three little dirty ones wrestled to share it with me. My student, occupying the opposite bench, wasn't either. The oldest boy with grubby hands and stiffened hair told story after story, emptying his heart then his pockets to show and tell us all he had in a rush that belied the thought that he may never get such a captive audience again. My student translated where my Tibetan failed. The second girl sat placidly in my lap, obviously too exhausted to make a peep and nearly nodding off as I rubbed the back of her stained yellow sweater. The smalled girl giggled and pushed between our legs under the table and the bench sighed with expectancy.
The bench wasn't surprised but I was when the oldest boy admitted he was hungry and my student jumped up and went with him outside to buy some bread for the three of them. My student who had no money to speak of and barely enough to feed himself with. When he returned with the bread it was alarming and heart breaking to watch the two little girls so hungry that I had to peel the paper wrapping off of the bread so that they wouldn't eat that as well. Within three minutes all of the bread was gone.
When the children skip dragged themselves out of the door a little while later I heard the bench moan in their absence and I looked at my student and told him about a name.
A name of One who always let the children come to him. A name of One who not only gave bread but was bread. A name that evokes power and love and sacrifice. My student, both shocked and shy that I would compare his actions to such a name, glanced at me bashfully and whispered 'I know' in such a way that made me confident of how much more he desired to know.
A bench left unsurprised and dirty. A student left to commune with a name. A name left to resound throughout the land. A teacher left to praise. Praise praise praise.
