lesson.

word of the day: lesson \le-s^ən\ a piece of instruction; something learned by study or experience

It always surprises me how quickly summer vacation arrives.  Monday night I was up until Midnight grading research papers; this morning I slept in until 9:00.  It always catches me a little off guard. 

In order to ease that transition, the first thing I feel compelled to do, on this beautiful morning is write.  A task that is therapeutic to me in more ways than one because with writing comes reflecting.  And reflecting always seems to help me move forward.

As teachers, we are no strangers to lessons.  We plan them daily.  We create anticipatory sets in an attempt to get students excited about the learning ahead.  We carefully balance group work and independent practice so that students are able to have multiple approaches to mastery.  We let students see inside our minds as we model certain processes to thinking.  We are acutely aware of when a lesson is tanking and spend the four minutes in between classes scrambling to make it better.  We do everything we can to make sure learning happens on a daily basis, and many teachers will tell you that the most rewarding part of the job is the “aha moment.”  That instance where you hear a kid say, “Ohh. I get it.”

I’ve always (somewhat facetiously) thought of teaching as my superpower.  Now that I really think about it, I think it’s the learning.  It’s the acquisition of new knowledge that keeps us moving forward—that motivates us to be better at what we do. 

It’s not just student learning though.  As I sit here and reflect on all that was this past school year, I wonder who really learned more lessons. I might give those students a run for their money.

Since August, I have learned that 9^th graders are really very funny.  They surprised me with their creativity this year.  I saw the whirlpool monster Charybdis depicted as a toilet.  I heard a barbershop quartet (or something like it) sing a summary of Odysseus’ run in with the Cyclops.  I saw said Cyclops devouring men (Ken dolls) through the make-shift construction paper mouth that really served a perfect purpose.  I laughed a lot this year and was thankful for the reminder that, when given the opportunity, most students will rise and accept the challenge to create great things.

I have also learned that personal growth comes when you least expect it.  It comes when you’re thrust into something you’re not ready for or when you’re met with a task you don’t feel qualified for.  It happens slowly, and when you’re on the other end, you wonder, “Haven’t I always been this way?”

I have learned that encouragement goes a long way.  That some days, it makes all the difference.  I have a card from my mom that hangs above my desk with this Chuck Swindoll quote:

Encouragement is awesome.  It has the capacity...to breathe fresh fire into the fading embers of smoldering dreams, to actually change the course of another human being's day, week or life. 

I lived on the receiving end of this many times this year—the smiles in the hallway, the email first thing in the morning, or the sticky note reminders that I matter—and I don’t know what I would have done without those people who were clearly placed in my life for a reason.

I have learned that people innately carry their struggle with them.  The student who acts out is most likely dealing with something difficult outside the walls of my classroom.  In those cases, it’s not just my responsibility to teach.  It’s also my responsibility to understand and care. 

I’m thankful for all that transpired between August and May.  I’m thankful for the students who walked in my classroom on a daily basis and for the people whose lives intersected mine just as often.  Because of the mistakes and the laughter and the tears and the celebrations, I am better.  I have learned, and I have grown.  And really, what more can you ask for? 

sister.

word of the day: sister \sis-tər\ a female who has one or both parents in common with another

It’s funny how memories slip away.

Things that seem so significant at the time and then, years later, are only snapshots and still frames in your mind.  Sometimes I’m not even sure if I actually have a memory of something or if I’ve just put enough photographs together to make myself really believe I remember that moment in time. 

I don’t remember much from my childhood.  I wonder if it’s because I existed inside my head for much of it.  As a kid, I spent a great deal of my time alone with my imagination.  I contrived elaborate storylines and play acted all the roles with nary a spoken word.  If my bedroom door was closed, chances are I was pretending to be a servant girl who just so happened to be the long lost sister of the princess.  I was an only child.

For eight years, that is.  Then something significant happened: I became a big sister.  I wish I could say I remembered the day clearly.  That I remember walking up the steps to the attorney’s office.  That I remember sitting in the lobby picking at my fingers awaiting her arrival.  That I remember being caught speechless when my mom placed her in my arms for the first time.

I don’t really remember any of those things—there’s an oversized chair in my memory and a slight feeling of nervousness, but other than that, all I’ve got are the photo albums and verbal retellings.

I was thinking about it today and feeling badly that my memory is so fuzzy.  I was a third grader after all.  Isn’t that when you start remembering important things?

Here’s my theory: Hannah has just always been.  I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t my sister, and I totally prefer it that way. 

I don’t remember a time before her big, brown eyes entered the picture, and when I stop to think about it, I suddenly remember all the things that have become the still frames of my memory.

There are the times I treated her like a doll and dressed her up in all sorts of ensembles.  There are the times I forced her to sit in the basement with my chalkboard and jar of pipe cleaners trying to get her to write her name.  There are the times we tried our own version of Morse Code on the walls as we laid in bed at night.

I’ve been realizing lately that my baby sister isn’t a baby any more.  But some things never change.  She continues to be full of energy and her big, brown eyes can still melt your heart.  She continues to love people with a kindness I admire, and her loyalty is one of her best traits.  She can still beat me in a foot race because, let’s face it, I don’t know that there was ever any alternative.

It’s funny how memories slip away.  No matter how significant a moment of time is, as the years pass, little pieces of it chip away.  They come and go, but the picture is never as clear.

The solace is that the past is never as important as the right now.  And the truth of the right now is that I’ve never been so proud to be a big sister. 

 

response.

word of the day: response \ri-spän(t)s\ something constituting a reply or a reaction

A few weeks ago I wrote this.  It was my first crack at fiction in a long time and it was inspired by this picture (and one of my ninth graders who has generously shared some of her brilliant fiction with me).  When I looked at the picture, I found myself immediately turned off by the woman’s face.  She irritated me for some reason.  When I looked into her eyes, I found myself feeling as though she must have done something to deserve the blood that covered her face.

Then I looked deeper into the picture and wondered if the woman’s eyes instead were pleading to be understood.  I wondered if the blood was indicative of some kind of pain.  I realized that if she walked down the street she may be ostracized or cast off.  That’s when the story came to me.

I’ve been thinking lately about all the people I come in contact with on a daily basis.  My life intersects with hundreds of people every single day just as the two women in the story cross paths.  Literally.  Every day, my classroom houses 150 different students.  I work closely with teachers, I meet with a small group, and I stand in line with strangers at Starbucks. 

The other day I was driving home from school in the fast lane on the Interstate.  I quickly came upon a van that was going far too slow for my liking.  My first instinct was to let the driver know I was annoyed.  I wanted him to know that he was going too slow for the fast lane, so I stayed right behind him trying to “force” him to move.  Then I had a thought.  Maybe this guy had a rotten day. Maybe he’s so lost in thought about some lousy life circumstance that he just forgot what lane he is driving in.  Suddenly, my irritation was gone.  I put my blinker on, passed him on the right, and went on my way.

We all have our fair share of baggage don’t we?  When I think about those hundreds of people I see on a daily basis, I can think of a broad range of trials plaguing their daily routines.  Divorce.  Abandonment.  Loneliness.  Disease.  Death.  Financial turmoil.  Insecurity.  Doubts.  The more I interact with people, the more I realize that there is always more to the story.  There’s always a curtain that covers the stage equipment and a façade to mask the pain of how things really are.

But how often do we think about that?  How often in our interactions with people do we stop to think about how they are really doing?  How often do we treat people with disregard or unkindness because we’re inconvenienced or annoyed?  How often does an unkind word escape our lips instead of a simple, “How are you?”  Because really, wouldn’t that be a better solution to the problem?

When I say “our”, I really mean “my” because when I think about it, I am as guilty of this as anyone. I am the first woman in the story.  So often my needs and opinions and presuppositions take priority because I have neglected to realize that I’m not the only one walking the face of the Earth.  So often I get caught up in my own stress and to-do list without stopping to remember that there are plenty of hurting people in my life who could just use a prayer or a smile. 

How much different would life be if we all just loved?  In my observation, love has become somewhat of a conditional thing.  It’s like all the marriage books say: If you don’t feel loved, you won’t show love, and the cycle goes on and on.  Aren’t all relationships like marriage in that regard?  An unkind word, an unreasonable request, or a simple slow driver justifies our retreat into self-centeredness. 

What if love was at the center of the response?  Wouldn’t our interactions be drastically different?  In the case of the two women at Starbucks, a little love gives the story a different ending.  It gives the story hope.  It gives the woman in the cream sweater something to hold onto in that moment.  It lets people know that they don’t have to walk the road alone.  That they matter.  And how beautiful it is when we remind people that they matter.

fiction.

word of the day: fiction \fik-shən\ something invented by the imagination or feigned

Yesterday I did something I haven’t done since about seventh grade; I conjured up a fictional story.  I don’t know what came over me exactly.  I think it was a combination of an exceptional piece of fiction one of my students wrote recently and The Write Prompts (the website I referenced in my previous post).  Yesterday’s writing prompt can be found here (you should follow the link as it will provide a small piece of insight as to where my thought process began).

There’s some commentary I could attach to this piece of writing, but I’m going to save that for another time.  The beauty of reading anyway is that it speaks differently to different people.  I’d hate to unnecessarily color your lens.

But that’s enough of the disclaimer…

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I buttered my toast while I watched the clock.  8:51. I should have been out the door six minutes ago.  Minutes go a long way in the morning.  They can mean the difference between a red light and a green light and can affect the kind of lunch you have time to make for yourself.  Frustrated at the realization that a granola bar would have to suffice, I grabbed my purse and headed out the door.  The brisk air met me.  I had anticipated a warmer greeting, so my lack of coat caught me off guard.  I grumbled to myself in response to the chill.

I walked a half a block down the street to the bus stop and stood surrounded by a sea of strangers.  One woman sat on a bench reading a book.  I looked more closely.  Twilight.  I rolled my eyes.  A young man in the corner swayed to the beat of his iPod and a business man chattered busily on his cell phone.  I stood and stared at my recently painted fingernails wishing I had chosen a color other than the coral that now seemed a little too perky for my morning.

The bus arrived late as usual and I filed into my regular spot in the front.  I put my bag on the seat next to me to deter any potential neighbors and took out my planner.  The day ahead was relatively easy.  No appointments until after lunch and no pressing deadlines until the beginning of next week.  As I began to anticipate the crossword puzzle I could finish once I got to work, the bus came to a stop.  I made sure to stand and exit before anyone else and stood on the sidewalk for a moment as the bus drove into the distance.  If only the bus wasn’t so economical.  It wouldn’t be my first choice for transportation.  I threw my purse over my shoulder and started down the street.

The Starbucks on Sixth Street was unusually busy.  I sighed as I took my place behind a large woman.  She wore a cream sweater which seemed unnecessary in anticipation of the heat and rocked back and forth on her heels.  Her constant movement immediately irritated me, and I moved to the side to escape her range of motion.  I glanced at her profile and noticed that her face had been rubbed raw.  Feeling uncomfortable at her presence, I looked away to a painting on an opposite wall. 

Her humming brought me back to her.  It was a nervous sort of humming.  The beat was erratic and didn’t match the steady rhythm in which she rocked.  I looked around to see if anyone else was watching her, but no one else seemed to notice.  As her turn at the register arrived, it took her a couple of moments to step forward; her lack of urgency angered me.  Didn’t she know there were people behind her who had places to be?

She ordered a small milk, and I almost laughed when she said it.  Taking up my order space for a drink you can pour at home?  Come on, lady, I thought.  Some of us want grown-up drinks. 

The barista asked her for $1.47.  She took out a dollar and then opened up her change purse.  She pulled out a half-dollar and then gasped inwardly as she stared at it.  Like she’d never seen one before.  She just stared at it but didn’t do anything else.  I tapped my toe in frustration.

“Hey lady,” I said, “think you could speed the process up?  You can pay with that.  It is real money after all.” Her shoulders tensed and then sank as she handed the half-dollar to the woman who waited uneasily behind the counter. 

As she turned, our eyes met for a moment.  Hers looked deep into mine and I sensed she felt sorry for me.  I scoffed at the thought and took my place at the counter.  How could a person like that feel sorry for a person like me? 

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I scrubbed my face repeatedly.  I looked in the mirror and was startled by the state of my skin.  Still, I scrubbed more.  Maybe I could physically rub the pain away. 

I walked away from the sink and got dressed.  I put on my jeans robotically and grabbed a ratty, old cream sweater.  For whatever reason, that one had been her favorite. 

I stepped outside into the cool air.  It burned my raw skin, and I touched my hands to my cheeks.  I took a few deep breaths and then moved slowly forward.  Even walking took extra effort now.  I walked with no direction.  Everywhere I looked there was something to remind me of her.  The porch swing took me back to our summers at the cabin.  The green grass brought memories of hours spent finding shapes in the clouds.  The daffodils took me to her funeral just a few days earlier. 

“They’re your favorite, mom,” she had said.  “If you have them everywhere, maybe you won’t feel so sad.”  I couldn’t deny her request.  Unfortunately they hadn’t helped.

They didn’t help today either.  I turned in the other direction and walked away. 

I ended up in front of a Starbucks.  I walked inside and stood in line.  I rocked back and forth on my heels in order to assuage the tears.  They were a constant presence now that threatened to burst forth at any given moment.  The rocking helped.  The rhythm took my mind off the need to cry.

Soon I realized that my rocking was accompanied by humming.  It happened to me often—subconscious humming.  The humming no longer followed a tune.  Instead it reflected the sadness within me.  It was tuneless and without emotion.  The notes were stagnant and lacked order.  I stopped myself in time to realize I was next in line.  I wondered how long I had stood there unaware.  The barista gave me a nervous smile, and I realized I had no idea what I wanted to order. 

“A small milk,” I said suddenly.  Her order. 

The girl asked for $1.47.  I handed her a dollar and then opened my change purse.  I pulled out a half-dollar and breathed sharply.  She had put it in my hands just a few days earlier. 

“You’ll have to let it go some day, mom.  Just like you’ll have to let me go.  I know you can do it.”

I flipped the coin in my hands as I remembered her kind countenance.  She was only ten, and yet I found myself finding solace in her wisdom.

“Hey lady, think you could speed the process up?”  The words shook me back to reality.  My shoulders tensed.

“You can pay with that,” the voice said referring to the coin I held preciously in my hand. “It is real money after all.”

My shoulders fell as I handed my half-dollar over.  I couldn’t let all of her go yet, but maybe this was as good a time as any to start. 

As I turned around, my eyes met the angry voice.  How could she know? Our lives had intersected at this moment, but she was oblivious to the pain of a stranger.  I pitied her ignorance as I pitied my own pain—with an emptiness that surfaced through my hollow eyes.  She shouldered past me to the counter, and I walked towards the door wishing the whole world didn’t seem so unfriendly.

insatiable.

word of the day: insatiable \(ˌ)in-ˈsā-shə-bəl\ incapable of being satisfied

I taught my students the word "insatiable" last week.  I used it in a blog post over Spring Break and thought it'd be a good one to use for our weekly "Word of the Week" (this week's is Audacity).

Since then, I can't stop thinking about what a great word it is.  I also can't stop thinking about how I have an insatiable desire to write more.  Spring Break spoiled me.

While we're on the subject, there are a few lingering Spring Break topics I never followed up on.  Like the completion of my window frames:

Or the new paintings I painted for our bedroom:

Thanks, Laura, for letting me steal your original idea!

In addition, I saw the Hunger Games and feel as though I owe it to my love of the books to write a review.  The short version is that I loved it.  Naturally it can't ever be as good as the book, but in terms of trueness to original text, I thought it was right on the money.  And, I'm now convinced that if you take your love of the book into the theater, you can use it to fill the voids the movie will inevitably leave. The long version is said best by my friend, Jessica Keller, in her recent blog post, "Why The Hunger Games is the Most "Christian" Book I've Read in a Long Time". 

After watching the movie, I have an insatiable need for a new book series to throw myself into.  A series, preferably, and one that I can get so emotionally involved in that I start to forget the difference between reality and fiction.

To fulfill my insatiable longing to write, I found a website called "The Write Prompts".  The prompt for April 1st was the following:

It is a pity that, as one gradually gains experience, one loses one's youth.  - Vincent van Gogh

My first instinct is to think, "Yeah, that's really true."  It is a pity to lose one's youth.  But then, I wonder if it really is a pity.  If I were to become especially reflective, I would realize that I haven't gradually gained experience this year.  Instead, I've had it thrust upon me even when, at times, I'm not necessarily ready for it.  But with experience, comes growth and how can it ever be a pity to grow as a person?

I'm learning that each new phase of life becomes the "new normal."  Even when you don't think you're ready or you don't think you can handle it, you adapt and you figure out how to make it work.

And when I say "you", I really mean "me". 

So maybe you leave pieces of your youth behind, but you figure out what the new stage looks like based on the experience you take with you.  That, I think, is far from something to be pitied.

So is my evening (far from something to be pitied that is).  With the grill now in its rightful place, Jake and my's new favorite spot is to sit on our balcony listening to the steady buzz of Grand Ave.  It's just cool enough that a long sleeve tee is sufficent, and I've watched the moon rise steadily in the sky above me.  Who needs to revert back to childhood when you've got a night like this?

Rock. Chalk. Jayhawk.  

break.

word of the day: break \ˈbrāk\ an interruption in continuity

Still loving break.  As I write this, Jake and I are sitting in our favorite coffee shop in the metro (shout out to Rich's Brew!).  Jake's school bag is on the ground behind his chair and he just announced to me that he would not be opening it until he finishes Catching Fire (the second of The Hunger Games series).  I continue to re-live the story vicariously through him and I think if I stop him to say, "What's happening now?" one more time he might have a conniption.

My school bag also sits untouched and while I have every intention of opening it at some point today, I'm relishing the fact that there's no urgency. I'll get to it when I get to it.  Until then, here's another taste of what we've been filling our time with...

Many a project on my to do list and I've made it through two of them.  I crackle painted my antique frames and made a doily print on the yellow canvas (thanks for letting me steal your idea, Laura!).  I'll get some more pictures once they're hung in their rightful places.

Above left: Nate working on his computer, Jake reading.  It seemed ironic enough to take a picture.  One of Jake's Spring Break to dos was to raise up our grill, so the smoker can fit under and we can both fit in chairs on the balcony.  It's a tight squeeze, but we can check that one off the list too. 

We also like to frequent Caribou as it is within walking distance from our apartment.  With the nice weather we've been having, Ginny joins us for the trek and then helps us make friends while we "stoop it" on their steps.  We got to spend a couple of hours with Carmen yesterday; she helped Jake vacuum, blew bubbles off our balcony, and solidified her standing as one of the cutest kids ever.  The guitar?  Spring Break is bringing about all sorts of hobbies that had long since been forgotten.

We went to Zombie Burger last night with Dave, Laura and their son Levi--great place if you've never been.  We realized that Dave and Jake turn each other to teenagers because after watching a movie with paper lanterns, they were convinced they could create their own.  Project: failed (unfortunately).  I think Dave's face on the right says it all.

Ginny let me snap this picture of her yesterday.  Seriously.  Cutest dog ever. 

It's hard to put into words how great this break is for Jake and me.  Not in a we-deserve-a-break kind of a way but in a we-needed-this-time-together kind of a way.  It simplifies things.  It leaves us with nothing else to do but be together and for that, I am very thankful. 

Now, Romeo and Juliet beckon, so into the school bag I dive.  Just a shallow dive, though.  No need to submerge myself completely...



imposter.

word of the day: imposter \im-ˈpäs-tər\ one that assumes false identity or title for the purpose of deception

As a child, I was terrified of anything in costume.  To be frank, I was terrified of most things, but people in large cartoonish outfits with painted on grins were towards the top of the chart.  My first grade birthday party was at Chuck E. Cheese's--I'm not sure whose idea that was.  Somehow Chuck himself managed to take a picture with me, but if my memory serves me correctly I didn't go into that one without a fight. 

Herky the Hawk also plays a prominent role in my memory.  I can remember my mom holding me up to his mouth so I could see the person's face on the inside; I can't remember if that helped or harmed her case.  I seem to have overcome my fear in the picture below; however, it's also possible that my mom pulled my thumb out of my mouth, stepped back, and snapped a picture before I knew what was happening. 

Mascots are just imposters aren't they?  People who assume the false identities for the purpose of deception?  Deception in this case, I suppose, with a different connotation than is generally assumed. 

I've been thinking a lot about imposters lately as it is an entire chapter of the book, Abba's Child, by Brennan Manning.** In chapter two, Manning argues that an imposter, or a false self, lives within each one of us.  It "plays its deceptive role, ostensibly protecting us--but doing so in a way that is programmed to keep us fearful of being abandoned, losing support, not being able to cope on our own, not being able to be alone" (30). 

"Imposters are preoccupied with acceptance and approval" (30). 

"It is the nature of the false self to save us from knowing the truth about our real selves, from penetrating the deeper causes of our unhappiness, from seeing ourselves as we really are--vulnerable, afraid, terrified, and unable to let our real selves emerge" (37). 

He goes on to say that the false self "must be called out of hiding, accepted, and embraced [as] he is an integral part of my total self.  Whatever is denied cannot be healed.  To acknowledge humbly that I often inhabit an unreal world, that I have trivialized my relationship with God, and that I am driven by vain ambition is the first blow in dismantling my glittering image" (40).

Embrace the false self?  I love that he goes on to say that "as we come to grips with our own selfishness and stupidity, we make friends with the imposter and accept that we are impoverished and broken and realize that, if we were not, we would be God" (41). 

Friends with the imposter.  As someone who thinks often about identity and also has an insatiable desire to be perfect in everything I do, this concept really resonates with me.  The imposter within me (I'm still thinking through what facade my false self assumes) isn't something to be fixed or to cause a sense of self-loathing.  It's something to remind me of my need for God.  It's a reminder of brokenness and vulnerability and the fact that apart from God, I am nothing.

You take that Herky costume off and walk down the street, and you're a person just like everyone else.  Herky has the ability to conceal any number of personal downfalls.  Without the costume though, you're left to deal with exactly who you are, and I'm realizing that that's the beauty of it all.

**If you haven't read anything by Brennan Manning, you're really missing out.  He is one of the most authentic writers I have ever read. 

Manning, Brennan. "Chapter Two." Abba's Child: The Cry of the Heart for Intimate Belonging. Colorado Springs, CO: NavPress, 2002. 29-45. Print.