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.

Nope. Not Today.

My mom and I have this thing going as we trudge through the first year without my dad. We'll talk about things we need to do, things that would have us moving forward, and just when we think that it finally might be the day to do this or do that... we simply say,

Nope, not today.

With her, it's been big things. Monumental milestones that she alone must face. Things like taking care of paperwork, grocery shopping for one, emptying out his sock drawer.

She's made it through the first two on that short example of a list. She's the strongest woman I know. The third, however, is proving to be a challenge. When she mentioned she had thought about it today and then promptly changed her mind after opening the drawer, I said what we have all said through it all,

That day will come.

I wonder when my day will come. The thing I am stuck on has to be the one thing that makes absolutely no sense. In the trunk of my car are three severely rumpled and very wrinkled suits (as if rumpled and wrinkled are not the same thing). I've had these suits in the trunk of my car since late September with one very clear destination in mind- the dry cleaners.

So why are they still in my car? I have no explanation really. It's become something of a family joke (which, by the way, brings no offer of anyone else dropping them off). For whatever reason, it is the mom responsibility which would be all fine and dandy if this mom would only respond. Every time I drive past the dry cleaners (which is quite often) and the thought crosses my mind to swing in and drop them off (which seems logical), I think to myself,

Nope, not today.

Why am I wedged in this do-nothing zone about suits, of all things? I remember getting ready to head home last year for what I knew was to be the final lap of my dad's journey and making sure all the males in the family knew where their suits were located. I gave strict instructions for socks, belts, and ties. I left nothing to chance and never factored in that I would be the one slacking after the fact.

I was so proud of myself today. After a week's worth of school antics that left me in tears three out of five days, my goal this weekend was to make a noticeable dent on something I could control... the growing madness within the home. By this morning, laundry was finished and put away, rooms were dusted and vacuumed, and my dad's picture was firmly in place within a shadow box my mom had given me a few months before. I shed a few tears as I pinned a note he had written me under his picture and shed a few more as I tucked his memorial service card inside his Bible. It was all good, though. It felt good... until the family piled into my car for dinner and the later retrieval of leftover pizza from my trunk reminded us all of what was still in there.


Yes, I know.
No, not yet.

No, I don't know what I'm waiting on.

Not one of ours, but certainly what one would look like on a hanger right now.

Hey, this is about no one but me. No complaints about the family members. I would be saying something, too, if the shoe (or in this case, suit) was on the other guy. I already said it makes no sense. The only thing I can venture to guess is that I've got a little too much on my plate right now and those suits are not a priority. That seems the acceptable explanation anyway.

But at some point, it will be the day. It'll have to be the day. I mean, a grown woman just can't keep driving around with male clothes in her car...

At least not without a good cover story.

Speechless

I'm the kind of person who does not mess with bowls when it comes to ice cream. The carton and a spoon is all that's needed to make the experience unique. I pride myself on being able to simply take a few bites (as in about fifteen) before sighing happily and pushing the sweetness away. It takes talent, I know.

Life in these parts has been on fast forward for the last couple of weeks. School is in full swing and my feet have a hard time finding comfort in my fluffiest of slippers. I haven't cooked a meal since last Friday and that was solely because of a birthday. I'm not sure what kinds of atrocities lurk behind my refrigerator door and I'm pretty sure the dishcloth by my sink has grown its own zip code.

I'm having a hard time caring. Oh, I did make a half-hearted effort tonight to take care of the dishes and vacuum the cat fur and tackle the litter box. I set the trash outside and hung up my work clothes (today's outfit anyway) and watered the struggling plant on the back porch. I called my mom and listened to the husband and meandered around the internet. I finished a case brief and submitted it late, watched a video on conquistadors just for the sheer fun of it, and fixed a cup of coffee to accompany the ice cream and the spoon... and yet, in all the madness, I cannot escape the very thing my mom and I talked about tonight.

It's almost been a year.

Taken during a visit soon after I moved away. We were going to church
 to listen to the preacher who would end up speaking at my dad's service. 

And this is where I run out of words.

In Black and White

Years ago when the oldest was four, the middle was two, and the youngest was still in the womb, I began writing in three separate journals. In the first, I opened up with tales of a t-ball game and the parental pride that goes along with it. In the second, I detailed a peek into the life of a toddler and the challenges of bedtime. In the third, I simply opened with "Dear Baby" because although the upcoming birthday was just two months away, we didn't know if the fluffy blankets would be purchased in pink or blue.

Last night, the oldest came home for a visit and I found myself digging into a cedar chest of treasures. I had never shown the kids these journals, but seeing as how the entire family was in the same room for the moment, I seized the day, so to speak, and handed them each their own special book. What followed was laughs and questions and memories.

The oldest read his quietly. The middle read his aloud.
The youngest just marveled at how much her big brothers loved her.

There were tales of new words and phrases being spoken, the ever-present paddle that was never far from reach, and even a few drawings and outlines of hands and feet. Each read the story of the day they asked Jesus into their heart. Each read the story of grandparents who have since left this world. Each read stories of special friends and special pets and special days.

Each read the story of them.

Although I did not make an entry every night- after all, not long into the story of the youngest was I able to actually call her by name and welcome her into the world... life with three kids under the age of five did not allow for a lot of downtime; but I still found some time, however, to carve out for them their own little slice of something special. All in all, the three books covered a time span of seven years.

Years that I now wonder where in the world time went.

They read those journals from beginning to end. As I collected them back to tuck away into our treasure chest, they thanked me and remarked how much they enjoyed reading them. As I tried to sleep last night, I wondered why I ever stopped writing to them. Life, I'm sure. In fact, now that I think about it, it wasn't too long after the last entries that our world took a turn in the form of The Great Move. Life became less about preserving our memories and more about preserving our sanity. The books were closed and the pen was capped.

But you know what? I'm gonna pick up where I left off. There will come a day when those books will be my words those kids hear in their head. I'm going to do my best to keep them laughing.

The oldest is twenty-one. The middle is nineteen.
The youngest is days away from seventeen.

There's plenty of stories left to tell.




Your mom and dad love you, kids.