I thank God that the ocean could not suck Jedd below the surface. Provision was made and rescue secured. But it simply isn’t right that just because Jedd lives in America and can access desperately-needed resources, he can read. And Sammy still can’t.
The waters first lapped at my son’s feet when he was five years-old. I pulled our “twins” (by adoption – they are six weeks apart) from pre-school mid-year when we traveled to Kenya to adopt my daughter, never imagining they would miss the entire second semester. As days melted into weeks, I imposed structure on our nomad existence with “home-school.” One of the boys picked up shapes as easily as bending over to pick up sticks. The other stumbled on simple twigs; I was puzzled. We talked about a triangle on a flash card, then I flipped it over and face up again. He couldn’t remember the name of the shape, although we tried over and over. I didn’t understand this strange current that tugged at Jedd’s mind, but I knew something wasn’t right.
Months later, home in the US, his kindergarten teacher, a literacy teacher, and my husband and I put our heads…
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