Time Will Tell, Little Grasshopper

Note- I started this entry somewhere towards the end of May. For reasons known only to me and my mood at the time, I delayed finishing it. I felt like I was rambling a bit, but now that I think about it, what is the purpose of this blog if not for mid-day ramblings of thoughts that meander their way through my mind? Anyway, rereading it now does not change a thing. I think the same as I did three weeks ago. Life moves on. I'm gonna go with it as is, with the exception of adding a side note at the end.

Here goes nothing. 

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For the last week, I have been bringing home bits of a classroom one trunk load at a time. What remained at this time yesterday is currently in the car and at this time tomorrow, I will have officially closed the door one final time.

And I'm not sure what to feel.

I'm a little sentimental. I've made friends. I've loved kids. I'm also a little guilty. I am leaving by choice, after all. It's been a wild ride since the fall of 2012. As I sat in my classroom today- empty and quiet, I laughed a bit when I remembered how much I wanted to be there. For that job I had prayed.

And for the record, it was a job I did not get. I applied and was denied. Subbed and eventually hired. Receptionist. Secretary. Cook. Teacher. Principal. All in the same location, mind you. I've had many a full circle moment in my life.

The Lord and I have talked about this particular route often. To try to put into words how I feel never really describes the true picture. There are some things the heart cannot explain or for that matter, describe in a way that doesn't sound... well, just not clear. HE has helped me in every situation, every role I have been assigned or chosen or settled.

I know I'm dedicated.
I know I've given it my all.

But I might always wonder if I did enough.

There was a time, a very long time ago, when a lady prayed for me at church. She said my life was like a tree, full of leaves and brimming with fruit. As she looked at me, she said you must be a teacher. At the time, I was not... far from it, in fact. Now you can think what you want, but I can promise you that the woman looked me square in the eye and said that all those leaves, all that fruit, represented children. She said my life would be full of children.

Krystle. Mary. Sam,
Huey, Llani, Shae.
Adam. Jesse. Ashton.

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It was at this point that I stopped writing that last go 'round. After all, I asked myself, how can I possibly name every student who impacted me in some way or another? Shouldn't I save that for a potential retirement speech one day?  Besides, the thought occurs to me anyway that my life is full of children. My own. Those three consume most every waking thought. I wonder about them. I worry about them. I enjoy thinking about them. They crack me up every time we are together. They are my greatest accomplishment.

Those kids in the classroom, though. They are extended family whether they want to be or not, and just like extended family, I am glad to see them come along and more glad to see them go (don't act like you don't think the same thing every holiday season). The classroom setting may change, but the teacher-student dynamic does not.

And thus the reason for all those leaves on that vision of a tree.

I don't know what my future holds. I pick up a key to my new classroom tomorrow while also talking to the powers who be about some volunteer work at a local museum. I might be on the downhill slide of this roller coaster we call education, or I might just be catching my second wind. As I tell any kid in my life, time will tell, little grasshopper.

Time will tell.

There's a whole lot of love yet to give.

My current coffee shop view. I heart summer break.

The Month Of May

May is a pretty confusing month for me.

It's the last month of the school year. So that's an easy one.
Score.

It's the month our youngest son was born.
Double score.

Mother's Day, Memorial Day, and Cinco de Mayo (for which only Americans "celebrate").
Score, score, and (kinda?) score.

It's also the month we bid farewell to a tiny one we never got to meet. It's the month of my dad's birthday that no longer carries the need for a phone call to the local radio station. And, tying in with that last one, it's the month he received a diagnosis that was so detrimental, I can tell you where I was and what I was wearing when I received the call.

There is no scoring on either one of those. Three days in May that are, indeed, rather depressing... not that we're keeping score.

(lol?)

Recap?

Let's start with the end of the school year. I have often wondered why "Teacher Appreciation Week" is part of the month of May. Trust me, in May, every teacher is good. Tired. Exhausted. Completely over every kid in the class, but good. The end is in the sight. Lesson plans are a formality in which we're not even sure anyone is paying attention. Grades are merely a last-ditch effort for saving that one kid from summer school. We are seriously just going through the motions... much like that last week before Christmas Break. Teacher Appreciation Day/Week/Month (however you wanna roll) should fall somewhere in that post-Christmas, January-apocalypse, February-praying-to-the-snow-gods* calendar pit where you re-evaluate your life choices and momentarily contemplate teaching in the penitentiary** just to ease the mind-numbing reality of being surrounded by students who already think they're in spring break while still complaining of freezing, mid-50s temperatures.***

(I apparently had to get that off my chest).

On to our youngest son. {Sigh} We have been blessed beyond measure. To brag on one would be to brag on all three. Each one brings us great joy... this one just happens to have a birthday in May.

Mother's Day. Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo. Each one nothing more than a reason to eat, drink, and be merry (although the meaning of the first two is so much more understood than the latter). Lucky for you, however, I am in no mood for a history lesson today.

May 5, 1995. The day we said good-bye to the one who surely bore the trademark red hair. We'll leave that with no more. It hurts too much to ponder and life does move on. Some day we will meet again and even so, our cup overflows. I have never asked why.

May 7, 1947. May 23, 2014. What would mark the beginning for my dad and the totally unnecessary detour that marked his ending date. Again, we'll not camp out here, but for entirely different reasons. If I ask why on anything, this will be the one.

You see, I feel like he could have saved me from so much. He had a way of asking questions without really asking questions. I remember when I told him that I had agreed to move his beloved grandchildren (and let's not forget me) nine-hundred miles away. He never questioned me. Never told me I shouldn't. Just said keep this in mind and be sure you think about this. He and my mom both set the perfect example of how not to interfere, but simply let grown ups make grown-up decisions, even if it went against their very desire. A line of thinking totally way off base (for this particular entry) and most likely better reserved for the posthumous So-That's-What-She-Really-Wanted-To-Say! book.

Even so. The thread of my being holds true.

I'm in an upside-down world;
A conundrum of sorts.

Beautiful, confusing, hopeful.
A riddle yet to be solved.

Much like the month of May.

* I do not believe in snow gods. I believe in the one true God (although I have been known to agree to a "snow/ice dance" with one particular parent).

** I have no doubt these are great positions with excellent benefits and students motivated to learn. No offense intended. Seriously. Hook me up.

*** I, too, think that mid-50s are entirely too cold and every effort should be made to locate an electrical socket for the plug-in blanket I keep on stand-by no matter where I go.

And, finally, although I was weary of asterisks, if I ever do write a book, it'll be a doozy. You can bet every teacher's end-of-the-year smile on that one.

Controlled Chaos

I have learned much during my years of teaching, but probably the most important thing I have learned is just to slow down and enjoy the journey. Yes, there is a balance in there and it's not the easiest thing to find or maintain.

Boundaries have to exist.
Procedures must be established.
Structure can never be overrated.

But kids do not stay kids forever.

No matter the age or the classroom, teachers spend a lot of time with their students. A lot of time. During that time, we learn about their struggles and fears; we share in their triumphs and milestones; we hurt for them when they hurt. Often times, most times, all the time, we take them home with us in our hearts. More than once have students occupied my dreams.

And I am not alone.

If you know a teacher, you'll find that his or her conversations almost always revolve around their students. My family has lived each school year with me since the youngest was three years old, and that youngster is now a year and a half away from having her own classroom one day. I am excited for her and worried for her, all the same time. This journey in education is not an easy one.

We all know the stereotypes for teachers. Some people think we are terribly underpaid and for the most part, I would agree enthusiastically. Granted, as the middle will often say (at least I think he's the one), nobody really gets paid what they think they're worth. Besides, the Lord has never let me go hungry. Other people think we have too many breaks and/or too much time off and to that I would say, no, nope, and notta. Because you see, those breaks and days off aren't really days off, at least not as many as you might think. And, if I may be brutally honest here, those days and breaks are entirely necessary to the mental health of every teacher you know and most likely the reason they keep signing those contracts.

I mean, that and the kids.

To put this in perspective, Christmas Break is just a few weeks away for me and while I will most definitely be doing Christmas-y things, I will also be grading high school exams, calculating semester grades, tweaking note presentations, researching historical documentaries, checking state standards,  writing lesson plans, and writing senseless papers that correlate with overpriced courses somebody deemed necessary to maintain teacher certification. I do the same thing during the summer, minus, of course, all the days that I successfully procrastinate what needs to be done until the PANIC MONSTER rests squarely on my shoulders. It is the life of a teacher.

Back to the students, though.

They entertain me. They aggravate me. They make me laugh and on more than one occasion, have made me cry. They will never know the impact they make on my life; not just me impacting them through what is hopefully a stellar lesson. One reason that I am so excited for the youngest to embark on her own teaching career is because I want her to have those same experiences. Her life will be changed in a way she can never anticipate- even though those low days can be very hard to overcome. Like most things in life, however, the good will far outweigh the bad and those are the very memories that I personally keep tucked away close to my heart.

So back to the slowing down part.

This has not been a typical week on the second and third floors of this land we call high school. As if the upcoming Christmas Break was not enough of a distraction, I decided to put lesson plans on hold and just let the kids (aka young adults) create. I opened up my classroom during planning periods and as a result, have had plenty of company throughout the day. I've watched painters paint and crafters craft. I've heard talkers talk and laughers laugh, and yes... a few bickering sessions here and there. If I looked (or listened) to all of this with the wrong perspective- and maybe wrong isn't the right word; but there was a time this chaos would have overwhelmed me. For now, I am looking at it differently.

Controlled chaos.

A glitter-loving former teacher friend of mine from long ago would be pleased, I think. I always admired her way of enjoying her students through a glitter-infused classroom even while she gave them an excellent education. Hopefully I'm learning to find my own sense of balance. Maybe it's the kind of thing that comes with experience. After all, I have been reminding the young people in my life that come Monday, things get serious as we wrap up a semester and prepare for exams. You could almost look at that as dark days ahead.

But then again, Christmas Break is coming.








By the way, if you are a procrastinator like me, fix yourself a cup of coffee and go back to the link embedded in PANIC MONSTER above. Maybe you will be able to relate and in that way, my weirdness will seem a little less weird.

Farewell to Summer Break

As summer vacation winds down and I am forced to think upon things more academic and related to my bi-monthly paycheck, I have been thinking about things accomplished and things left undone these last two months. To be honest, I have spent too much time in my pajamas re-watching favorite episodes of The Office and my favorite YouTube channel, React. When I do dress in real-people clothes and venture out into the ridiculously hot summer hell (there just is no other word for it), I hang out with friends over ridiculously long lunches where none of the problems of the world are solved, but we have a lot of fun trading stories about our grown kids.

It's just what moms do.

I look around my house from the seat I have occupied for most of this summer and am thoroughly satisfied. Cats are napping. Fans are humming. Ice from the machine in the freezer pops from time to time. I hear the sound of the motorcycle of the oldest as he makes his way in from work knowing that the other two men in the family will shortly follow. They come in hot (not a one has a/c) and typically with a work story or two to tell. I look forward to this end of the workday routine.

I've not been to the beach or lake and only momentarily dipped my feet into a pool. No great loss there for me. My skin does not handle the sun and my temperament does not handle the heat so we're all good as far as I'm concerned. I've not ridden one roller coaster or visited one museum. I haven't hiked a mountain or bicycled a path or even chased the setting sun riding shotgun next to the husband. I'm telling you, it's just too darn hot and I am just not that motivated.

So this is where I ask myself, what have I done?

Well, lunch, but we already established that.

Mom. I got to spend two wonderful weeks with my mother. We shopped and watched When Calls the Heart and visited the Grand Ole Opry with the youngest.

Papers. I've written quite a few papers. In fact, just yesterday I finished a marvelous piece (sarcasm?) on the State of Illinois Budget for the Fiscal Year 2011. Seriously. I like to party hard around here.

Reading. I've read quite a few books that range from the last (mostly unknown) battles of the Civil War to a fictional work about a horrifying plane crash that left three people stranded on an island for a year and a half. Good stuff.

Netflix. Whether you love it or hate it, I utilize my monthly fee by watching documentary after documentary and again, the aforementioned The Office and When Calls the Heart. If a show makes me smile, I am guaranteed to watch it over and over.

Napping. Well, yeah. Self explanatory.

I could go on, but I am starting to bore myself. Some might look at this and remark at how lazy I really am, but hey, I've never professed to be overly ambitious. I did attend a week-long seminar for my profession and wrote two extremely brutal (as in boring) book reports on the Supreme Court (also necessary for the profession) and have even been planning a lesson or two so I wouldn't say I've been entirely useless.

Just sorta-kinda.

That's my kind of summer vacation.

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.

Brace For Impact

Earlier today I read a facebook comment directed at me from a former student and I'm not ashamed to admit, it hit me hard. No, it wasn't bad or mean or sarcastic, just a simple note that warmed my heart and turned it to mush. After taking a moment to compose myself in the bathroom (hey, who doesn't utilize that quiet space?), I asked the Lord for forgiveness for my self-centeredness of late and thanked Him for the people He has put in my life.

My grandma. We all know that.
My mom and dad. I couldn't ask for better.
My brother. The husband. The three ducklings.

My fourth-grade teacher. She's the reason I wanted to teach.
My high school friends. The reasons I survived a small town.

The drill instructor in basic training who yelled at me in the midst of a rather difficult obstacle course. That yelling is what made me mad enough to fuel a successful finish.

Neighbors, past and present. Friends, old and new. Family, far and near.

I gotta tell you, though, as crazy as it may seem, it's those younger ones who have impacted me the most. The third and fourth graders who let me play cowboy songs to teach them states and capitals. Fifth and sixth graders who let me sing silly songs to teach them verbs and prepositions. Seventh and eighth graders who rolled their eyes (but couldn't help but smile) when I would act like a fool to teach them complex diagrams.

The kids I've had the privilege of seeing graduate.
My own kids who I've had the privilege to teach.

I'm telling you right now, I've had it good. No matter what the future may hold, the people who have impacted me have made the journey thus far pretty darn sweet. I think if we could all grasp that and hold onto it, our influence on the world around us would make more of a bang.

Imagine the impact that would be.

Hey! Aren't You The Lady Who Called Me Names?

Recently I experienced what I like to call a full-circle moment.

A mother (who shall remain nameless) of a former student (who shall also remain nameless) and I happened to cross paths. After staring at me for a long, awkward minute, she said,

Aren't you Mrs. So-And-So?

That I am, I replied. I had to admit to myself that I had no clue who this woman was (it's been a while), so rather than play along and act like I had it all together, I asked her to help me out with her name.

She said her last name and my mind raced back into time.

A time when I was the unfortunate focus of a small group of mothers who evidently had too much time on their hands. A time when their teenage daughters complained of unfair treatment...

...and I'll pause here to clarify the unfair treatment dealt with obviously unimportant academic issues (sarcasm!) like plagiarism and unfinished homework and forged parent signatures...

But I digress.

For one horrible week, my character was assaulted and my name was whispered one too many times in the corridors of a school-

And once again, my mind wants to dredge it all up again.

Get to the point, right?

This mother from years gone by stood and chatted with me about kids and schools and life. She asked about my kids and I asked about hers and after a few minutes of small talk, we prepared to part ways. That's when she paused, turned back around, and this particular circle became complete.

She hugged me. Thanked me. And totally caught me off guard.

Beginning.
Middle.
Closure.

I love it when things come together.

Please, Load My Kid Up On Sugar And Send Them Home To Me

Normally this time of year, for the past four years, I get a little depressed (don't laugh). Maybe not so much depressed as in I can't face the world, but depressed as in mildly bummed out. I've blogged about it... you could probably look back and find at least one December post dedicated to this little stinker of a bug that sneaks up on me the week or so before Christmas.

The School Christmas Party.

Okay. Tacky or not, I loved the whole party in the classroom concept. Selfish or not, I adored the whole give the teacher a gift tradition. I miss the night-before-rush to fill all my own little red and green paper bags or plastic snowflake-themed cups with things like pencils and chocolate and candy canes to give out to the class. I miss sitting at my desk while my beloved students stood in line to watch my reaction when they ceremoniously presented me their individual gift.

Good Lord, I'm gonna cry.

And you all know it's not the gift, right?

I've still got the coffee cups and the hand-drawn cards and somewhere, I've still got the shark's tooth. Any number of my former students could walk through my house and see, though they might not remember, their own gift hanging on my wall or sitting on a shelf. From third grade to eighth grade, I really enjoyed them all.

Yep. It's that time of year again.

I think in honor of The School Christmas Party, I'm gonna fill a basket with candy canes and go visit some of the classes I've been substituting for... where I know it's party day... and where there's bound to be cupcakes and cookies and kids wildly out of control.

I think that's a splendid idea.

OMG!!! You're Not Going To Believe This!!!

And so it would seem that I have to yet another fork in the road.  I'm asking all you prayer warriors out there to pray for direction and the way the Lord would lead.

I wrote the above words on Saturday as a facebook status. I kind of go in phases with facebook; sometimes I update a lot, sometimes I update hardly ever. I’m not the kind of status person that hopes to get a zillion and one comments wondering if I am okay.

Example:

If that ever happens again, I think I might die!!!

Great news today!!!

OMG!!! You’ll never guess what’s going on!!!

And so forth and on and on. If you’re not on facebook, you have no idea what I am talking about. If you are a frequent flyer, than you know all too well (and sorry in advance if one of the above is your most recent post. I promise I have not even been on there yet today except to copy and paste the opening statement, but... I do confess to shamelessly using the title of this post to grab your attention).

Anyway.

There are times when I reach out in the few ways I know how for some extra support. I’ve been struggling with some stuff… you name it… job searches, money woes, and general why am I even here type stuff. Depending on what day you catch me, I might be full of hope and cleaning supplies or full of despair and used kleenexes.

I came to that fork in the road last week. It was as clear before me just as if I was standing in the middle of a backwoods dusty road. I needed to make a decision or my indecision was going to drown me standing up. You ever been there? It’s an uncomfortable place to be. I would rather be moving in a solid direction than willingly give into the quicksand that threatens to squeeze the life out of me.

So I asked for prayer. I prayed. God moved. Well, technically, He moved me. No lightning bolts. No thunderous voice. Just a gentle, gentle push in my spirit that said, “This way.” So that way I went. I still don’t have a clue what lies along this way. Maybe it’s about a job. Maybe it’s about obedience. Maybe it’s about being prepared. I just hope it includes some kind of income.

Hey, I’m about as real as you can get.

After making my beginning steps this morning, I sat down to again search the scriptures. I wanted to find something that expressed how I am feeling; to be assured that I am not the only one with these up-and-down emotions. This chapter about said it all. I especially like how it came from David when he was hiding out in a cave.

Jesus. Son of David. Have mercy on me.

Psalm 142 Amplified Bible

A skillful song, or a didactic or reflective poem, of David;

 when he was in the cave. A Prayer.

¹ I cry to the Lord with my voice; with my voice to the Lord do I make supplication.

² I pour out my complaint before Him; I tell before Him my trouble.

³ When my spirit was overwhelmed and fainted [throwing all its weight] upon me, then You knew my path. In the way where I walk they have hidden a snare for me.

⁴ Look on the right hand [the point of attack] and see; for there is no man who knows me [to appear for me]. Refuge has failed me and I have no way to flee; no man cares for my life or my welfare.

⁵ I cried to You, O Lord; I said, You are my refuge, my portion in the land of the living.

⁶ Attend to my loud cry, for I am brought very low; deliver me from my persecutors, for they are stronger than I.

⁷ Bring my life out of prison, that I may confess, praise, and give thanks to Your name; the righteous will surround me and crown themselves because of me, for You will deal bountifully with me.

Why Moms Cry

Well, I held it together just fine yesterday until sometime approaching the midnight hour. The husband and I were talking about the day, he got up to do something, and when he came back he looked at me with an expression of sincere concern.

"Are you all right? Are you sick? Did I say something wrong?"
"Nope," was all I could come up with, "just a little choked up, I guess."

I was thinking about those last thirteen years of school (gotta count kindergarten, you know!). The first time we took him to school to meet his teacher. The first time I saw that little head looking out the school bus window. The first time I gave him a detention.

Ha! Didn't expect that last one, did you? I was his fourth grade teacher at the time and that particular year is full of great memories and some rough ones. In fact, I taught all my kids for at least one year (the middle was lucky enough to have me for three... yikes!). It isn't easy being mama and teacher, but that's another story.

Back to the oldest, though, school -the academic part, anyway- has never been his thing. He's had some ups and downs and close calls, but you never knew a kid with a better attitude (and you could ask anyone who knows him to confirm that). He got a little nervous towards the end of this year and stated what has become my all-time favorite line(s):

"I am learning what regret is like. If I would have known how this would feel now [waiting on a particular final grade], I would have tried a lot harder in the beginning."

He did it, though. He buckled down and pulled through and walked a stage yesterday. He told me he came across one teacher who had helped him a lot this year and said, "Mr. B seemed really glad to see me graduate." The oldest shook the man's hand and thanked him because that's the kind of kid he is...

But he's not a kid anymore, is he?

He's a high school graduate who bought himself an ipad with his graduation money and shortly thereafter had his first minor fender-bender on the way home. That was a first for me, too. When the phone rang and the first word I heard was a distressed sounding "Mom?" ... well, it's no wonder yesterday was a toil-on-the-emotions kinda day.

And why I was little choked up by the time my head hit the pillow.

Very, VERY proud of you, son.

I Don't Go To Church Anymore (Well, technically I do... I just swiped the title because I liked it).

Around seven years ago or so, I taught one semester of a high school speech class. I didn't ask for it and I certainly was not looking forward to it. If nothing else, though, I am a team player and if the school needed a teacher for a class and asked me to do it, well... then it was just going to happen. This isn't one of those times when you dread doing something and later end up loving it, I can guarantee you that. It was a tough class to teach and I had more rough times in there than good. I made it through-- scratch that --WE made it through (the kids didn't want to be in there anymore than I did) and I can honestly say I walked away with a few good memories. I saw young people who hated standing before a crowd memorize and practice and deliver memorable speeches, both original and historical. And I learned a few things myself in the art of speaking that can easily be applied to writing. My favorite? The attention grabber.

We see them all the time in form of headlines enticed to keep the viewer (or reader) hanging around through one more commercial or pop-up advertisement. The titles of a book or the cover of a magazine will usually determine if the contents are going to peak our interest or not. I know for my own blog, an entry I had written with the title Hot Booties had more hits in the first three minutes than anything I had ever produced (and the booties referred to slippers, by the way, not the female posterior). Anyway, I love a good title that catches my eye so when I was scrolling through facebook the other day to see what others were posting, I was more than delighted to see the following title for a fellow blogger's latest entry:

I don't go to church any more.

I think she has hit on a good subject... certainly makes for good discussion anyway. That title reminded me of a t-shirt I saw someone wearing in the mall. On the front, the words said DON'T GO TO CHURCH which of course made me practically break my neck to see what kind of person would wear such a thing. I was put in my place, though, when I read the back: BE THE CHURCH. Yes, there really is such a difference. So, with me being me, I had to chime in and put my own thoughts down on paper (or on a thumb drive, in this case). Why do we go (or not go) to church? We all have our reasons and we all have valid points. If you're still here and haven't already closed me out due to complete disinterest, here was my response:

Why I Go To Church

I go to church simply because I want to, not because I have to. For me, there really is a big difference. I use to be a part of the have-to crowd… that somehow God was keeping score on me and the blessings in my life would depend on my attendance record for the month and whether or not I read my Sunday school lesson for the week. I quickly (or not so quickly) learned, however, that I could do everything right and still not feel like I was quite up to par. Of course, that’s how some people want it. Some congregations can be more brutal and more competitive than the stereotypical lunch table in a junior high cafeteria.

            Even so, I treasure the whole Sunday experience thing. Granted, we are in a church now that I can relate to: the songs are my grandma’s songs (Victory in Jesus, Unclouded Day), the congregation  is mixed (from what they wear to where they are from), and the pastor is someone who has not been spoon-fed the Bible his entire life (not that I’m knocking the man who has known and lived his calling since the age of three, but it’s refreshing to hear someone in their 60s say from the pulpit I have been where you’ve been!). Is it about entertainment? Sometimes, yes. Does that make it more real? Most of the time, no. I am a firm believer that all that entertainment can very easily confuse the real message.

            I am reminded of a woman whom I know who dances for a living (and I don’t mean the ballet either). She very enthusiastically gushed to me one day the attributes of a new church she was attending, “I love it! It’s like being at a club!” Or I think about youth groups that entice young people to attend based on themes taken straight from Hollywood. I’ve seen more than one kid disillusioned based on the raw hamburger they were encouraged to eat (Fear Factor) or the strange rap song they were admonished for not singing along with (American Idol). Just because we put the name of Jesus in neon lights or squeeze His Name into the chorus of a song does not make it all about Jesus. Lives aren’t transformed because the three-point sermon was so brilliantly spoken or the nice people at the tape table accepted our money with a “Bless You, Sister.” Lives are changed when Jesus becomes more real than the fog machines and spotlights and color-coordinated praise teams.

            My living room holds none of those show-stopper entertainment gadgets and my closet is severely lacking in color-coordinating anything (that fits anyway); but my Bible sits to the left of me yearning to be read and my spirit knows that God is with me whether I kneel before him at a church altar in trendy black heels or lock myself in the bathroom with desperate petitions pouring from my heart and soiled slippers on my feet. I don’t need a church building to worship a God in Whom I firmly believe in and depend on and hope for. I want a church building to worship while I wait. My choice. His glory. It’s why I go to church.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Any thoughts of your own? I could go on, but this is probably long enough as it is.
Besides, my coffee cup is empty. Wouldn't be surprised if yours is as well.
Thanks, Donna, for the inspiration and sorry I swiped your title.

I just love a good attention grabber. =)

Heavy Burdens And Burnt Cheese

As the husband heads off to work a job he wishes he had finished long ago, I think about the man he is. He really does just want everyone to get along. I guess you could say he's the peacemaker (and no, kids, this does not refer to the same peacemaker you may be thinking of)... anyway, the man must feel like he's in a losing battle most of the time. Needless to say, Parents, be careful of what you burden your children with when they are young. Those same burdens only multiply when they became adults if issues are never dealt with.

Fathers, do not provoke or irritate or fret your children

 [do not be hard on them or harass them],

 lest they become discouraged and sullen

 and morose and feel inferior and frustrated.

 [Do not break their spirit.]

Colossians 3:21, Amplified

I could practically launch into a three-hour sermon on that one and I don't even preach. Come to think of it, the last time anyone let me hold a microphone was a little over two years ago. Now that was a good one. A group of about thirty teenagers, a sprinkling of adults, my oldest son hearing things come from his mother's mouth that must have shocked him. Good thing I had prepared him the night before. I think one of the worst things we can do (or should I keep this singular as in the worst thing I can do?)... one of the worst things for a kid, I think,  is to grow up thinking their parents did no wrong and spent their entire young life polishing the candlesticks on the church altar, if you get my drift. I have no problem acknowledging the error of my ways to my children when it's in God's timing and for His glory. Sin does have consequences. They need to hear that.

Oooh, I love talking with my kids (by the way, the key word in that statement is with... I try to talk with them, not at them). Sure, sometimes we have our awkward moments, but when they look me in the eye and say Thanks and I'm glad I'm not the only one.... well, that's when I know that I'm teaching them more than just how to separate their laundry or clean a pan with burnt cheese.

And with that, I just experienced a subtle reminder that I am and always will be a teacher. I think He just smiled. He's probably thinking it's about time. It's always good when your kids learn something you've known all along.

School Makes Me Cry; Chocolate Makes It Better

Pardon me while I get all sappy and sentimental here.

There are days I just really get to missing what use to be.
Some mornings find me homesick and in tears.
That's just the way it is.

Back home, there are a group of women and a few men waking up and preparing to head to one of the greatest places on earth, at least in my opinion. It's a place where my kids spent their elementary years and I poured my heart and soul into; I guess that's why it will always be a part of me. It's a place I miss very, very much.

Yes, it's just a building. I know that.
But, oh, it's the stories behind that building.
That's what makes it great.

The first year on the first day, the ringing of hammers could still be heard throughout the basement of a small church. My chalkboards consisted of three small, different-sized boards put together on the same wall. My class of six (I think) made up the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. I can still picture those concrete walls, our meager playground, and a whole lot of hope.

Years went by and the foundation for a new building was poured. We wrote scriptures on paper and strategically placed them before that first load of concrete ever went into place. Day by day we watched walls go up, swept away drywall dust, and dreamed of what our new classrooms would look like. My last year there was our first year in the new building. We were so proud, so thankful, so humbled at what the Lord had done.

And that's where my friends are today.

Walking those beautiful halls.
Gathering in a beautiful classroom.
Offering up a beautiful prayer.

Praying for kids, praying for families, praying for patience.

Teaching is an amazing thing.
Friendships are forever.
Remembering makes me cry.

But it's a good cry. My kids are who they are because of those early years. Not only did they witness the foundation of a building going in, but they also received a solid foundation in learning. They are excellent readers and writers, they geniunely care for their fellow classmates, and they know the anguish of living with a teacher.

(That last part was a joke... kind of).

And so life goes on. We never know the twists and turns that are ahead. We never know when we might unexpectedly come across a dead-end. All we can know is that there is ONE who does know the way, if only we have enough sense to let Him lead.

In the meantime, I suppose we should just enjoy the ride (even when that ride refuses to upload pictures). I'll take that as a hint and move on my merry way. Much love to all my LWCA friends (and fond memories of Mrs. Earleen).

For the rest of you, tell a teacher thank you today.
And give her lots of chocolate.

Boys That Grow Into Men

Today I am going to attempt the unthinkable.

I am going to sew. Or at least something similar to it. Technically I'm going to Hobby Lobby first in search of some kind of magical tape that my mother suggested. She spent about ten minutes last night on facebook chat giving me step-by-step instructions. I was utterly confused, but she was patient and kept right on going. You would think I'm about to piece together a quilt or something. Nope. I just need to hem some pants.

Hey, I've never pretended to be the seamstress of the family.
That's all my mom, and she is nowhere near me.
I'm all on my own here and am seriously considering the benefits of a stapler.

My boy is depending on me, though, so surely I can pull this off without him having to worry about random staples poking him around the ankles. He stands somewhere around 5'11" and these pants are something like six inches too long. He'll have on steel-toe boots and be tromping around a machine shop so surely no one will be inspecting whether or not his hem is straight.

Except for my daughter.
Who will report back to my mom.
I hope I get this right.

It's a big weekend for the oldest, our machine tool wizard. He was hand-picked to represent his machine class in a district competition that could lead to a national win. Wouldn't that be something? He's got a fresh hair cut, neatly pressed (though yet un-hemmed) uniform, and big dreams of a future career.

God's got a plan.

It's another big weekend for another young man I know. I last really knew this boy was he absolutely hating the rules of eighth grade grammar. I remember him well, though. Always polite, always quick to participate, always willing to try. Today he is a young man fresh out of high school and basic training/school. I was chatting with my mom last night (in the midst of her how-to instructions) when I was alerted to another incoming chat. Every now and then I'll get a message from a former student wanting to know how I am.

(Remember yesterday's post? It's those same kids that forever live in my heart.).

Anyway, this message wasn't to ask how I was doing, but to basically say goodbye. It about broke my heart and yet, that's the way life is. He's heading off to Afghanistan this Sunday. Combat medic. Limited communications via postal mail only. Fifteen months. What's a teacher to do?

I told him I would pray for him and to remember what I've always said to any kid I've come in contact with, God's got a plan. I said to lean on Him and just go over there and do what needs to be done. I encouraged him to experience life on the other side of the world and to let me know when he got back. His simple reply? You'll be waiting a long time. Fifteen months is a long time, but particularly to a young man who is about to embark into the unknown, I think. We said our goodbyes and signed off with those sappy little smiley faces and I fought back tears.

You spend time with these kids and then they're not kids anymore. They're adult people doing adult things. I went to bed and thought of a zillion other things I should have said. God's got a plan? Is that really the best I can come up with? And yet, there is no other way to say it.

He does have a plan.
From the day we are born.
We just have to walk it out.

Adam is doing just that and I have no doubt that God will use this gentle man in a powerful way. I'll just be glad when he pops back in on chat to tell me he's home. Until then, I'll be blogging and praying and trying to put a straight hem in a pair of pants my boy needs by Thursday. Surely the same God who knows the number of hairs on my head can help cut an even line.

Even so, I think I'll keep the stapler on stand-by.

Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
      you formed me in my mother's womb.
   I thank you, High God—you're breathtaking!       

Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
      I worship in adoration—what a creation!
   You know me inside and out,
      you know every bone in my body;
   You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
      how I was sculpted from nothing into something.    

Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;       

all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
   The days of my life all prepared
      before I'd even lived one day.

Psalm 139:13-16 (The Message)

Don't Be A Hater (And Keep Your Cialis)

I'm losing my good humor rather quickly. I can't decide if I should write a strongly worded letter or buy a t-shirt my son likes: I got haters everywhere I go. I guess it would be best for me to follow my own advice.

Pick your battles.

I try to write about this and I hit a stumbling block everytime. An attempt a few days ago ended up with me deleting everything. Even now I'm seriously tempted to drop the whole thing. Not because I don't think the topic is worthy of my time, but because I think the topic should be talked about... not just read.

Have I mentioned that I'm a natural-born speaker? It's crazy, I know. Shy as a kid, not good with one-on-one conversations, but put me in front of a group of people with a working sound system and I'm all there. I'm available for ladies meetings, youth events, group therapy, etc., etc. etc. (And I'm only half kidding here. I've done everything except the group therapy. I won't go near that based simply on the fact that someone would eventually realize that I need to be in the circle, not directing it).

At any rate, I would love to get a group of adults together, particularly adults in positions of authority that work with young people, and point out one very obvious fact:

You don't help the children by talking about the children to other children.

I have seen this scenario repeated so many times in so many areas. Grown-ups trying to play the cool card with the kids they are responsible for. Any kid that has ever had me for a teacher will agree that they always heard these words from my lips: I am not here to be your friend. You have friends. I am here to teach you. Sometimes you're going to like me; most of the time you won't. That is okay. I always found this to be important because otherwise, it's too easy to get caught up in the popularity factor and find yourself competing with a bunch of young people. They have enough competition without insecure adults competing for attention as well. 

(And besides, some of those same kids who complained about how "unfair" and "uncool" you were will come back later in life thanking you for being tough with them... that, my friend, is when all the world rejoices and you get that warm, fuzzy feeling that no popular-club membership can compete with).

I'm sorry. Do you see why I've started and stopped this entry so many times? I just get frustrated when I see a kid confused because some misguided grown-up was sharing his/her unsolicited opinion (about this particular kid) to another classmate. And when other grown-ups look down their nose at my child because his hair is long? Well, I've already said a few things about that here and worked out my own issues. I'll just appreciate it when others do the same.

Yep, it's been one of those days. I'd complain about the cold, but then I might feel bad for rejoicing over the warm weather later. For now I think I'll go stir up some pancakes for dinner and wait for the show. I can't wait for one military man to hear what another military man said about his kid. I may not have to write that strongly worded letter after all.

And one side note: to the person spamming my inbox with the witty comments and free cialis offers? My husband and I are good in that department. Really good. Leave your nice comment, but take your free samples and move on.

I think I just found my humor again. =)



Things That Make Me Smile

Waking up to thankfully discover it was only a dream.

Having kids that really want to go to school and wake up on their own.

Borrowing my son's truck for the day and having him tell me "good luck" and "be careful."

Logging on to facebook to discover a former student from long ago thanking me for teaching her the three most important ways of dealing with stress: chocolate, coffee, and the Bible.

Knowing that the day has just begun.

Treasure From Christmas Parties Past

I should be bustling around trying to get everything ready for this weekend. Instead, I feel like I've been put into slow motion and can't quite get anything done. You would think I have all the time in the world to finish laundry, wrap presents, shop for snacks, go to the library, take in the trash, and pack. But I don't have all the time in the world. I've got tonight.

Blame it on the day. The day before Christmas Break was one of my favorite days at school. That and the Last Day of School, of course. The day before Christmas Break, though, always brought parties and cupcakes and candy canes and presents for the teacher. And I've got to admit that last part was always my favorite.

The things a student gives their teacher. Doesn't really matter if it was third grade or junior high (and I've taught everything in between), those gifts can get pretty interesting. I've got coffee mugs and ornaments, pretty pins and Christmas stockings... once I even got a shark's tooth in a box. I always labeled everything so I wouldn't forget who gave it to me and have every card in a ribbon-tied stack. I think the best part was always watching their face when I peeked in a gift bag or read a card aloud. Every kid wants to feel special. I hope I always made them feel that way.

And that's that. I can hardly see for trying not to cry now so I best move on. I miss those days, but I thank God I had them.

It's time to focus on the laundry.

This Thing Called Blogging

I wish I had discovered this thing called blogging a year ago. Whether or not anyone actually reads what's on my mind, writing my thoughts and reading the mind wanderings of other people is turning out to be a type of therapy for me.

Take this morning, for instance. One lady's husband is going through some heart testing today, another mom made me feel better about the fact that I can't keep things straight (she actually forgot a kid at school... I forgot one of my own years ago), and yet another woman mentions her son in Afghanistan often. Things like that remind me that there really are other people out there.

I get stuck in my own world. Poor me. Nobody cares. God who?

Sound familiar? Well, I do struggle. And I know that I am not poor. And that my mom cares. And that Jesus is my Savior. Like I've said before, though, I spend too much time alone.

This time alone was not by choice. I'm on my second year of not teaching school. I've lost count of how many jobs I applied for. Believe me, I've got every job search option saved on my tool bar. I can practically recite my resume. I went through all last year thinking I was a loser that couldn't get a job. Or hold a job. Or contribute anything to society.

This year I'm just hanging on. And the thread is getting pretty thin, let me tell you.

The only peace I have is when I tell myself that this is only for a season. Last year was such a mess with the kids entering public school for the first time. This year was easier, but those big schools scare me. That's just the way it is. You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can't take the small town out of the girl.

And as far as me being home? Well, I have to admit that it has made things easier as far as sick kids, early pick-ups, and dentist appointments go. I'm on my way to cramming four years of college into two and a half (December 2011!). The house stays clean. The cat has grown to love me. And blogging has become a way to vent and connect myself to the outside world.

But, oh, how I miss the outside world! I miss welcoming grumpy students in the morning, watching them roll their eyes when I would start singing about prepositions and pronouns (and then ask me later privately to please teach them that song), and then sending them on their way in the afternoon with a sigh of relief. I miss hearing lockers slam in the hallway. I miss my magnetic white board. I miss my red pen.

What was. What is. And what will be.

Until then, you're stuck with me. In between perfecting history essays about total war and separating the many loads of laundry, I read blogs and I write them. And it all has a way of making me feel better.

A Story of People and a Picture Message

I was in the middle of making lunch today when my phone let out a "ding-dong" announcing an incoming text. What I got wasn't a text, but a picture... in fact, a couple of pictures. Technology is so amazing that I was receiving (almost) real-time photos of an event in (delayed) progress taking place almost nine hundred miles away. A short phone call later and I found myself outside thinking about all the people I have met so far in this thing called life.

My world use to revolve only around a little town and not much farther than that. I laugh when I tell my kids about how I never ate Chinese food until I was twenty-one and in the service (they think it's funny because for the most part, they love Chinese food). The Air Force took me to a few places I would have never otherwise been where I met some interesting people. I remember a guy from New Orleans that had an accent I never did quite figure out, another from California who was without a doubt a typical surfer dude, a girl with poofy blonde hair from Georgia who called any kind of carbonated beverage a Coke, and yet another girl from Wisconsin who really did love cheese. I found all of these people interesting and am certain they found me something of a backward puzzle... I never could come up with a good answer on why I insisted words like "wash" and "Washington" were pronounced with an R (warsh, Warshington... get it?). Anyway, that short-lived experience was one of my first to other people outside of my small town circle. I will never forget those people I met.

Then came my days as a teacher. I know, I know... teachers aren't suppose to have favorite students, but don't students have favorite teachers? At any rate, I have enough sense to keep such things to myself and treat everyone the same so any comments or helpful advice on the issue can be saved for another time. When you have those students, though, that remain close to your heart long after their year with you has gone... well, those are the ones that stick with you. You're always curious to know how they're doing in school, what kind of friends they have, what their plans are after graduation... that kind of thing; just a general interest in their well-being. I had one girl who hated math to the point it made her sick, a couple who loved horses with a passion (and still do), one girl whose smile and enthusiasm could influence an entire classroom, a girl who loved McDonald's pies so much she stashed them in her lunchbox, a boy who matched his tennis shoes to his shirts, another who experienced random nose bleeds... good grief, I could go on and on. Whether from the Midwest or the South, I've got stacks of ribbon-tied cards, pictures, and notes buried deep in my cedar chest.

You know how some books are so long that they are not only divided into chapters, but also into parts? Sometimes I wonder if that is how life is. Is it wrong for me to hope, to pray, that this particular "part" is about to come to a close so another can begin? I know things can never go back to how they used to be, but we can certainly take experiences back to where we were. To be fair, I have met some interesting people in this part of life as well: a neighbor who became like a grandfather to our kids when they needed one close by, for instance. I have fallen in love with a thing called Carolina bar-be-que that I am pretty sure I won't find anywhere else. Our kids have been introduced to the Atlantic Ocean and the Smoky Mountains. I've experienced Civil War history in a way I never would have before. Those are the kind of things that make this part of life worth it.

So back to that "ding-dong" today that started this whole thing. A girl in the midst of a marriage proposal. Yes, she was a student of mine some time ago whose joy could win over an entire classroom. Earlier this year I got news of another engagement concerning another former student that I had the honor of teaching for four years and can still remember when she got her first horse. It's just something a bit unreal to watch these kids that you use to teach arithmetic and geography to embark on the whole grown-up-thing called life. My daughter will think I'm crazy and sentimental for writing these things and I suppose some feelings are hard to transcribe into something that makes sense. If my life were a book, though, it would be full of stories about the people close to my heart and forever in my thoughts.

And yes, Mom, there would be an entire "part" devoted to you.