The Magical Power of a Blood Red Moon (Some Sarcasm Intended)

Two blog posts on two consecutive calendar days?

This can only mean one of two things:
The moon is full, or my to-grade folder is officially empty.

Lest we give that big ole moon any more air time, we'll go with the empty folder theory. The good Lord knows that will only last until first period tomorrow anyway.

Teaching is a funny thing.

You love it.
You dread it.
You live for it.
You run from it.

The youngest was sharing her woes tonight about trying to get people to listen to her when she is trying to tell them how something should be done. As she finished her tale of the uncooperative bunch she was working with, she mentioned, as an after-thought, that maybe she should reconsider her goal of becoming a teacher.

No kidding, little sister.

I spent at least five hours (FIVE HOURS) on Sunday doing nothing but lesson plans. Yes, I have plans from previous years, but I'm always looking for something new. Something more interesting to share. Kids are a tough crowd, of that you can be certain. During the week, I typically stay after school at least ninety minutes after the final bell rings writing the next day's work on the board, sifting through classroom assignments, and (yes, sometimes it's true) staring blankly out of my second story window wondering what life is like in the office across the street. I straighten desks, pray over desks, and stub my toes on desks on almost a daily basis. I walk the empty hallways and see scraps of notebook paper litter the floors, lonely lunch boxes that have been left behind, and the occasional favorite jacket that I know someone will be missing the in the morning.

I exhale deeply every time I lock my classroom door and walk away.

I am one of many.

There is no rhyme or reason to what we do. It's simply a job for some; a passion for others. We all have our callings in life. Not one is to be set above another. Our gifts are unique. Our purpose divine. Some days the good outweighs the bad, and some days the bad threatens to send us running for the hills.

Such is this thing called education.

So hang in there, little sister. When the bunch is uncooperative, it can be challenging, but there are those days... more often than not, when that bunch is right where you want them to be.

Listening. Questioning. Exploring.

And, every so often,

When you least expect it,

The moon grows big.
The moon glows red.

And the to-grade folder is empty.



It really is a beautiful life.

I See Dead People

How's that for an attention-getter?

But seriously, I do... kinda.

Last night in my dreams, I was making the journey back home to attend my grandmother's funeral. I know it was a dream simply because a fifteen-hour drive took me about six, and even though the purpose of the trip was to attend her funeral, my grandma was still very much alive.

You gotta love dreams.

I saw my aunts sitting around the table and hugged every one of their necks. I talked with my grandma about recipes while we sat on her front porch swing. I visited with my dad as we all made our way to the graveside service and stood among the familiar stones for family and friends. We were obviously there for someone, but I have no idea who... maybe it was just a good excuse to go home.

I woke up thinking about our little white house that we left and wondered how our lives might be different if we had never moved. Would our oldest still live three hours away from us or just down the road? What would things be like for our middle and youngest? Would the husband still be in law enforcement? Would I still be teaching in the same classroom in the same school where I painted desks and swept endless drywall dust and wrote scriptures that went into the foundation?

What ifs can be a dangerous thing.

Granted, I also dreamed last night that I was in the production of Annie. Daddy Warbucks had just bought out the theater for some movie and we were happily passing around the popcorn and Starbucks (seriously). For that reason alone, I can't get too hung up about the details of my midnight wanderings and wonder why.

I look at dreams as a gift. I get to see people who have went on and visit places I have long since left. I get to take a break from reality and for about seven or eight hours, time really has no meaning and distance has no length. There is nothing to stop me from being where I really want to be. Let's face it... time might march on, but the heart knows what was left behind. Thank goodness the Lord knows what lies ahead.

I will leave the whys up to Him.

Sweet dreams.




*In case you're curious, the photo above was taken by yours truly in Savannah, Georgia.
  Beautiful, isn't it?

From the Mouth of Hope

Rarely do I write about classroom experiences for one simple reason...

I would surely offend someone.

This particular moment in time, however, demands attention and for that reason, I'm going to break one of my self-imposed rules and write about a class I was honored to lead on Friday. Every year, if the eleventh of September happens to fall on a weekday, I venture away from my lesson plans and focus on the events of that fateful Tuesday now fourteen years ago. I begin each class period by allowing about five minutes for students to write about what they already know (or think they know) regarding 9/11. While they are writing, I write September 11, 2001, in the middle of a clean white board. I then ask for students to begin describing that day using only one or two words. Invariably, this train starts off slow and then picks up so much speed that I have a hard time keeping up with it. As words are called out, I write them on the board in various places with the goal being to connect everything to the date of September 11th.

It works out much cooler than my lame attempt to describe it.

At any rate, the expected words come pretty quick.

Twin Towers.
Planes.
Fire.
Hijackers.

Then I start asking for specifics.

Bin Laden.
New York.
Pentagon.
Pennsylvania.

In between all these, I will hear other words that I may not have expected.

Depressing.
Overwhelming.
Confusing.
Despair.

During one afternoon class, though, I heard a word that stopped me still in my tracks. I was facing the board, marker poised to write, when I just had to lower my head and thank the good Lord in Heaven for allowing me to be right where I was at that moment.

The word?

HOMEGOING.

Homegoing. Even now it's a word that my spell check keeps underlining in a red squiggly line. It doesn't sound right. It doesn't seem like it should be right.

But it is so right.

You see, this student understood that as tragic as the events of that day were for those of us left standing on this side, September 11, 2001, was a day of celebration for those who stepped to the other side in faith on that fateful Tuesday morning. It was, in fact, a homegoing. Out of all my years, I've never witnessed such a positive outlook and attitude.

May we always be reminded that we know not what each new day might bring. It may be just another ordinary day out of what often seems to be a neverending week, or it may be the very day that we rejoice in an eternal life while the rest of the world looks on in terror that can often come from this life.

I hope this crazy made some kind of sense.

The note I was handed the morning of September 11, 2001.

Capturing September

September has tiptoed its way into my life.

It came quietly, whispering its way through the willows and sticking tight to the shadows. I've got to respect it for not loudly announcing its approach or mocking me as it peeked around the corners. I've got to admire it for not holding back so as to unnaturally stop time.

But even so,

I wish it had held off a little longer.

I've never been one for regrets. With very few exceptions, the choices I have made have been my own. I live with it all... good decisions and bad mistakes... and accept them all for making me who I am today. September, though, is a time that fills me with regret.

Regret that I didn't call more, leave sooner, sit longer.

Today as I set the table with autumn dishes and decorated the house with autumn knickknacks, I thought of my dad as he was a year ago. His final autumn was rapidly closing in and none of us really had a clue. How could he go so fast? I remember a brief conversation we had in what would turn out to be the last day he could really talk to us.

His grandchildren were telling him goodbye.
The reality of what was to be was settling in.
And he looked at me and asked if I had anything to say.

How do you respond in that moment?
How do you sum up a lifetime in words?

At first I simply shook my head no while my heart screamed not to let the moment pass. So I thanked him for all he had ever done for me, told him how proud I was to be his daughter, and assured him for the countless time that I loved him.

Nine days later he was gone.

If I were to write a book dedicated to the last twelve months of my life, I do not think I could begin to capture the emotion of each "first without my dad." In a way, I am glad to put this year behind me and in another way, I want to grab a hold of September and not let it pass.

It was the month of September when I moved away and left my dad.
And it was the month of September that he flew away and left me.

May we never take for granted the seasons of our lives.