I don't have very many words of wisdom. I'm just a middle-aged high school teacher who has had a couple of bad experiences in life, but far and away more good times. My family is in relatively good health, I have friends who are fun and like-minded, I don't have any major quarrels with anyone that I know of. Oh, things aren't perfect. But they're perfectly fine.
Then, sometimes, fine isn't quite enough.
It's not enough to be fine when the world seems to bear down on you with everything it has, like a cloud deck settling on the top of your head for several months at a time.
It's not enough to be fine when it seems just one little click to the right or left could fix whatever is off.
It's not enough to be fine when a day or a week leaves you feeling hopeless, helpless, exhausted, unlucky, or unlovable.
But then...
Fine becomes, with no warning, fantastic. The cloud deck clears and your face feels the sun. That one little click to the right or left happens so easily that you wonder why you dithered around so long without trying to make the change. And the day itself might leave you temporarily without hope, or help, but you know tomorrow is another day. You are tired, but you know how to rest when you need rest. You learn that luck and love are a matter of perspective.
Whatever it is, however you feel, no matter how much you are confident it can't.....suddenly it does. No matter how much you think you know, life can still surprise you.
Let it surprise you.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Saturday, January 18, 2014
My Roland Babies
I once took a job simply because it was in Austin, not because it was one that I especially wanted or had a great talent for. As it turned out, I was not cut out for the University of Texas; I felt like a duck on a frozen pond, allegedly in the right place, but unable to function without the proper setting. After one academic year, I high-tailed it back to Oklahoma, fully intent on being employed at a secondary school by the following fall. It took until the end of the fall semester to land a job---but it was exactly where I needed to be.
Vickie Earnhart and Gary Lattimore, the junior high and senior high principals of Roland Schools, made something of a joint decision to hire me as an 8th/9th grade English and speech teacher for Lena Henson, who was retiring mid-year. It was quite a shock to work with 13- to 15-year-olds after working with college students for the previous seven years. Pretty much immediately I started answering the question, "How do you like your new job?" with the dry response, "I have looked into the pit of hell, and I have seen the devil. He's 14 years old and has very bad personal hygiene." That was, well, partly true. What I didn't tell them was that I was immediately hooked on their funny expressions, twisted sentences, and unaffected openness to the world. Yes, they were still relatively unaffected then---it was 20 years ago this month that I started there. There had been no Murrah bombing, no September 11, no war on terror. All they had known, for the most part, was the fairly plush world that the 80's and 90's appeared to be. It was a good time to be a kid, and to be their teacher.
I didn't think much about their effect on ME until I saw an old college friend devastated by the death of a neighbor boy who used to come ask my friend John to come outside and play football with him. John and I had lunch together near his home in Tulsa, and driving him back to his apartment, we came upon a bike accident, where this little boy was gravely injured. It was several days later that he died. I watched John unravel over this incident, a little puzzled, since he didn't have a close personal relationship with the boy or his family. But then I happened to think: what if that had been one of my students? I felt the impact of that question like a kick in my gut. I couldn't imagine the pain. I tried telling a few people about that at the time, but I'm not sure anyone can get the meaning of it without imagining the loss of their own "kids." What I took from it at the time was that these kids had grown a part of my heart that I hadn't know could exist. I loved them. I love them still.
I think that's when I really began to appreciate my kids. I was younger and a lot more fresh and energetic that I am these days; I know I wouldn't react the same way now at some of the things that happened then. For example, there was the day that two ornery 7th-hour boys loosened the bolts in my desk chair, so that when I sat down, two of the legs shot off the chair, which then dumped me on the floor, leaving me barely peeking over the edge of my desk like some crazy Kilroy drawing. I looked at the kids, they looked at me in shock, and I just started laughing my head off. My dignity was gone---what else could I do? They laughed, too, but only after I did. Now, I would probably start off with, "If you laugh, I'll know you did this!"
Without a doubt, my strongest memories of my Roland years come from all the time I spend with my speech kids. Even though I hated giving up my weekends for competitions, I loved the bonds that we formed. On those early morning and late night bus rides, we laughed and celebrated and cried, and I gave more than a few lectures about things you would not believe: why girls shouldn't sing songs that older boys from other teams teach them (because the song was obscene, but not obviously so to innocent girls); why no one from MY team should EVER, EVER jump out of bushes at customers in a drive-through lane in Poteau, the headquarters for the Gun-Toting Crazy Association of Eastern Oklahoma; why it's essential to show up for the bus at 4 a.m., not 5 a.m., when the contest is 150 miles away and starts at 7 a.m.; why I don't want to hear the nonsensical exclamation "Slah!" shouted 45 million times a day.
There are certain bands I hear today and can flash back to those trips, to that time of my life, as vividly as if it were yesterday. Nirvana, The Cranberries, No Doubt, Sarah McLachlan, and Sheryl Crow take me right back to hauling the debate and academic team kids around in a pre-historic van the color of oatmeal, no frills at all, but at least with a radio we could sing along with. I was driving that same van the last year I was at Roland, when they moved the state competition from OSU to OU. I wasn't familiar with Norman, and it seemed like every time we got in that van, I checked a curb, made a wrong turn, or ran a stop sign. (At one memorable stop when we first got to town, I slammed on the brakes just in time to prevent running through an intersection. Kids and bags went everywhere, and Matthew Dalke, my "adopted" son, was hurtled into the back of the driver's seat. When he popped back up, he said, "Well, the first thing I'm going to do at the hotel is change my underwear!" We crossed the interstate to the hotel, and I looked over at Ryan Jones in the passenger seat and said, "Did I say any bad words back there, Ryan?" He put his hand on my arm and said, "No, Ms. Welker. I was so proud of you.") By the end of the weekend, they had their fill. When the group started yelling at me to turn into a Target store, I yelled back that I couldn't; there was a curb there, and I wasn't going to jump it. I heard a little Kirk Baumann voice in the back say, "I don't know why not. You've broken every other civic ordinance this weekend." I'm still not sure Kirk meant for me to hear it, but I wouldn't trade that story for any price.
I can't write any of these things without a huge grin, a chuckle....or even a tear welling up. It was, in a very real sense, like we all grew up together. I think they know that as well as I do.
Leaving Roland was one of the most heart-breaking decisions I ever had to make, even though it was absolutely right. In four and a half years, I didn't make a lot of connections with the community, but I formed friendships with my students that I hope will last forever. I have a handful of "adopted" kids from those days that I see or communicate with on a regular basis. Those kids gave me far more than I could give them; I built my confidence on my experiences with them, so they gave me this career that has made me so happy. No matter that they are now in their 30's. No matter what their age, they will always be my Roland babies.
Vickie Earnhart and Gary Lattimore, the junior high and senior high principals of Roland Schools, made something of a joint decision to hire me as an 8th/9th grade English and speech teacher for Lena Henson, who was retiring mid-year. It was quite a shock to work with 13- to 15-year-olds after working with college students for the previous seven years. Pretty much immediately I started answering the question, "How do you like your new job?" with the dry response, "I have looked into the pit of hell, and I have seen the devil. He's 14 years old and has very bad personal hygiene." That was, well, partly true. What I didn't tell them was that I was immediately hooked on their funny expressions, twisted sentences, and unaffected openness to the world. Yes, they were still relatively unaffected then---it was 20 years ago this month that I started there. There had been no Murrah bombing, no September 11, no war on terror. All they had known, for the most part, was the fairly plush world that the 80's and 90's appeared to be. It was a good time to be a kid, and to be their teacher.
I didn't think much about their effect on ME until I saw an old college friend devastated by the death of a neighbor boy who used to come ask my friend John to come outside and play football with him. John and I had lunch together near his home in Tulsa, and driving him back to his apartment, we came upon a bike accident, where this little boy was gravely injured. It was several days later that he died. I watched John unravel over this incident, a little puzzled, since he didn't have a close personal relationship with the boy or his family. But then I happened to think: what if that had been one of my students? I felt the impact of that question like a kick in my gut. I couldn't imagine the pain. I tried telling a few people about that at the time, but I'm not sure anyone can get the meaning of it without imagining the loss of their own "kids." What I took from it at the time was that these kids had grown a part of my heart that I hadn't know could exist. I loved them. I love them still.
I think that's when I really began to appreciate my kids. I was younger and a lot more fresh and energetic that I am these days; I know I wouldn't react the same way now at some of the things that happened then. For example, there was the day that two ornery 7th-hour boys loosened the bolts in my desk chair, so that when I sat down, two of the legs shot off the chair, which then dumped me on the floor, leaving me barely peeking over the edge of my desk like some crazy Kilroy drawing. I looked at the kids, they looked at me in shock, and I just started laughing my head off. My dignity was gone---what else could I do? They laughed, too, but only after I did. Now, I would probably start off with, "If you laugh, I'll know you did this!"
Without a doubt, my strongest memories of my Roland years come from all the time I spend with my speech kids. Even though I hated giving up my weekends for competitions, I loved the bonds that we formed. On those early morning and late night bus rides, we laughed and celebrated and cried, and I gave more than a few lectures about things you would not believe: why girls shouldn't sing songs that older boys from other teams teach them (because the song was obscene, but not obviously so to innocent girls); why no one from MY team should EVER, EVER jump out of bushes at customers in a drive-through lane in Poteau, the headquarters for the Gun-Toting Crazy Association of Eastern Oklahoma; why it's essential to show up for the bus at 4 a.m., not 5 a.m., when the contest is 150 miles away and starts at 7 a.m.; why I don't want to hear the nonsensical exclamation "Slah!" shouted 45 million times a day.
There are certain bands I hear today and can flash back to those trips, to that time of my life, as vividly as if it were yesterday. Nirvana, The Cranberries, No Doubt, Sarah McLachlan, and Sheryl Crow take me right back to hauling the debate and academic team kids around in a pre-historic van the color of oatmeal, no frills at all, but at least with a radio we could sing along with. I was driving that same van the last year I was at Roland, when they moved the state competition from OSU to OU. I wasn't familiar with Norman, and it seemed like every time we got in that van, I checked a curb, made a wrong turn, or ran a stop sign. (At one memorable stop when we first got to town, I slammed on the brakes just in time to prevent running through an intersection. Kids and bags went everywhere, and Matthew Dalke, my "adopted" son, was hurtled into the back of the driver's seat. When he popped back up, he said, "Well, the first thing I'm going to do at the hotel is change my underwear!" We crossed the interstate to the hotel, and I looked over at Ryan Jones in the passenger seat and said, "Did I say any bad words back there, Ryan?" He put his hand on my arm and said, "No, Ms. Welker. I was so proud of you.") By the end of the weekend, they had their fill. When the group started yelling at me to turn into a Target store, I yelled back that I couldn't; there was a curb there, and I wasn't going to jump it. I heard a little Kirk Baumann voice in the back say, "I don't know why not. You've broken every other civic ordinance this weekend." I'm still not sure Kirk meant for me to hear it, but I wouldn't trade that story for any price.
I can't write any of these things without a huge grin, a chuckle....or even a tear welling up. It was, in a very real sense, like we all grew up together. I think they know that as well as I do.
Leaving Roland was one of the most heart-breaking decisions I ever had to make, even though it was absolutely right. In four and a half years, I didn't make a lot of connections with the community, but I formed friendships with my students that I hope will last forever. I have a handful of "adopted" kids from those days that I see or communicate with on a regular basis. Those kids gave me far more than I could give them; I built my confidence on my experiences with them, so they gave me this career that has made me so happy. No matter that they are now in their 30's. No matter what their age, they will always be my Roland babies.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Trash or Treasure?
No matter how much we may want to keep the detritus of our lives, eventually we have to sort through the muck and choose what to keep and what to trash. Living in apartments until my late 30's was good for my packrat self; no matter how much I'd want to keep every single thing that came my way, I was forced to learn to purge. Apartment dwellers know that with every move, one gets less willing to drag things around that are of little use. Still, my sentimental heart refuses to let go of certain items. Having gone through the "trash or treasure?" debate many times over the years, I think I'm in a good position to make some suggestions.
Keep the trophies and awards that you won when you were young. They will remind you of a time when you were satisfied with small achievements, as were your parents. Oddly enough, ribbons for baking and sewing and crafts and photography can sometimes ease the ache for lost youth and innocence. The trophies for speaking and medals for singing will surprise you with the memory of when your biggest fear was performing in front of others, instead of the cold terror of losing a job, a home, or ability to function independently. You can't help but feel that at least part of your life was charmed.
Save cards and letters that you got when you were a small child, especially from family and friends long gone. That quick, piercing pain you feel when you see their familiar handwriting will pass, and a million warm memories will flood your mind. Anything they made for you should be treasured and protected, but not hidden away; appreciate these items every chance you get by seeing them in a case or on a shelf. Put away a copy of your graduation announcement and all your school pictures, for someone may want to know about that part of your life in the future, and there's no guarantee that you'll remember or even be there to remember for them. Of course, it goes without saying that school yearbooks should be preserved, even if it's just for yourself. Sometime in the future you will want to know the name of the bully from second grade who terrorized you, or the little bitch from junior high who made you feel so inadequate. Maybe you'll need to prove your hair color or the office you held in glee club to settle an argument; don't be hasty in ridding yourself of anything that could prove your point.
As the artifacts get newer, so do the wounds. Read old letters before you throw them out. I promise you'll be humored and horrified at the immaturity of your friends, implying your own immaturity. Even worse, some letters will answer questions you must have asked or address issues that were important to you, and the shallowness of your youth will be an unpleasant shock. Don't under any circumstances keep these letters. If you haven't been in touch with the person for more than a few years, chances are you never will be anyway. And is it really likely that any of them will be famous? You probably won't be burning money if you have a cozy little bonfire to torch your embarrassment. The one exception to the burn pile is letters from a first love or very significant other. These are like studying history; by doing so, hopefully you can avoid re-creating the mistakes from the past. Select one significant thing to burn if the relationship ended badly and set yourself free with that. Get rid of stuffed animals, but keep the show tickets, floral cards, CDs, and jewelry for a time when you need a boost to remember that yes, you have been worthy of gifts, and you will be again.
Keep your first piggy bank and your first Bible, your favorite toddler outfit and your childhood jewelry box, your tourist gifts and your remaining Scout items. Trash the truly awful kiddie crafts and kindergarten artwork---unless it goes on the Christmas tree. Put back your favorite books, sentimental notes from good friends, and the locks of hair your mother saved from your first haircut. Prize the irregularly printed but sweet notes of your baby sister and the tape of clarinet songs she recorded for you when she was in fifth grade. Save just enough to remember who you are, leaving room for who you will become.
Keep the trophies and awards that you won when you were young. They will remind you of a time when you were satisfied with small achievements, as were your parents. Oddly enough, ribbons for baking and sewing and crafts and photography can sometimes ease the ache for lost youth and innocence. The trophies for speaking and medals for singing will surprise you with the memory of when your biggest fear was performing in front of others, instead of the cold terror of losing a job, a home, or ability to function independently. You can't help but feel that at least part of your life was charmed.
Save cards and letters that you got when you were a small child, especially from family and friends long gone. That quick, piercing pain you feel when you see their familiar handwriting will pass, and a million warm memories will flood your mind. Anything they made for you should be treasured and protected, but not hidden away; appreciate these items every chance you get by seeing them in a case or on a shelf. Put away a copy of your graduation announcement and all your school pictures, for someone may want to know about that part of your life in the future, and there's no guarantee that you'll remember or even be there to remember for them. Of course, it goes without saying that school yearbooks should be preserved, even if it's just for yourself. Sometime in the future you will want to know the name of the bully from second grade who terrorized you, or the little bitch from junior high who made you feel so inadequate. Maybe you'll need to prove your hair color or the office you held in glee club to settle an argument; don't be hasty in ridding yourself of anything that could prove your point.
As the artifacts get newer, so do the wounds. Read old letters before you throw them out. I promise you'll be humored and horrified at the immaturity of your friends, implying your own immaturity. Even worse, some letters will answer questions you must have asked or address issues that were important to you, and the shallowness of your youth will be an unpleasant shock. Don't under any circumstances keep these letters. If you haven't been in touch with the person for more than a few years, chances are you never will be anyway. And is it really likely that any of them will be famous? You probably won't be burning money if you have a cozy little bonfire to torch your embarrassment. The one exception to the burn pile is letters from a first love or very significant other. These are like studying history; by doing so, hopefully you can avoid re-creating the mistakes from the past. Select one significant thing to burn if the relationship ended badly and set yourself free with that. Get rid of stuffed animals, but keep the show tickets, floral cards, CDs, and jewelry for a time when you need a boost to remember that yes, you have been worthy of gifts, and you will be again.
Keep your first piggy bank and your first Bible, your favorite toddler outfit and your childhood jewelry box, your tourist gifts and your remaining Scout items. Trash the truly awful kiddie crafts and kindergarten artwork---unless it goes on the Christmas tree. Put back your favorite books, sentimental notes from good friends, and the locks of hair your mother saved from your first haircut. Prize the irregularly printed but sweet notes of your baby sister and the tape of clarinet songs she recorded for you when she was in fifth grade. Save just enough to remember who you are, leaving room for who you will become.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
All Good Things
At this time of year, we all reflect on both the past and our hopes for the future. Looking over my blog posts, I realize that I have probably hit the zenith of my arc for this project. I haven't garnered a huge following, but I have a few faithful readers, and I thank each of you for reading, whether or not you comment or "like" or message me about what you read. From time to time, I check the stats on how many people read each post, and it's usually between 40 and 90. All of you are the reason I've been able to keep up the project for the last 18 months.
But all good things must come to an end. This blog has disciplined me in numerous ways, but I don't see that I can carry it on indefinitely. I'm setting an end date for July, which will make two full years of weekly blogs. I think I can keep coming up with topics until then.
Usually, inspiration strikes sometime late in the week, but there are a lot of weeks that I don't decide what I'll write about until Saturday afternoon or evening. That's one of the reasons that I don't think this should be an endless project: if I had all that much to say, I'd never run out of topics. Now, I have several things still in my mind to write about, though I won't list them here. But I'd like to know if there are particular topics I should be or could be writing about.
If you've read this far, you're one of my faithful, probably someone who knows me first-hand. I'm asking for your help with the last six months of writing. I hope you'll comment or message me and suggest a topic, idea, event, person, or thing you'd like to read my thoughts on. Not that I have any great insights on anything in this world, but you are all interesting peeps yourselves, and I'd like to see what I can do with ideas from someone else, rather than just my own little random thoughts.
You can leave comments or messages here or on Facebook. I hope you'll consider offering something, anything that you'd like to challenge me to spin into something close to a minimum five-paragraph essay. Who knows what might come of it?
Good 2014 to you all, friends.
But all good things must come to an end. This blog has disciplined me in numerous ways, but I don't see that I can carry it on indefinitely. I'm setting an end date for July, which will make two full years of weekly blogs. I think I can keep coming up with topics until then.
Usually, inspiration strikes sometime late in the week, but there are a lot of weeks that I don't decide what I'll write about until Saturday afternoon or evening. That's one of the reasons that I don't think this should be an endless project: if I had all that much to say, I'd never run out of topics. Now, I have several things still in my mind to write about, though I won't list them here. But I'd like to know if there are particular topics I should be or could be writing about.
If you've read this far, you're one of my faithful, probably someone who knows me first-hand. I'm asking for your help with the last six months of writing. I hope you'll comment or message me and suggest a topic, idea, event, person, or thing you'd like to read my thoughts on. Not that I have any great insights on anything in this world, but you are all interesting peeps yourselves, and I'd like to see what I can do with ideas from someone else, rather than just my own little random thoughts.
You can leave comments or messages here or on Facebook. I hope you'll consider offering something, anything that you'd like to challenge me to spin into something close to a minimum five-paragraph essay. Who knows what might come of it?
Good 2014 to you all, friends.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
'Tis (Still) the Season
For many of us, the wrapping has been wadded up and thrown out, the food has been feasted on, and the family time has worn a little thin. Some toys have already broken and gift recipients have braved daunting lines to exchange whatever was the wrong size, color, shape, make, model, brand, title, or sound. The battle cries of "Happy Holidays!"---"No, it's Merry Christmas! I'm keeping Christ in Christmas!" have settled back into murmurs of quiet and fairly content napping.
That last part gets me a little.
I don't understand why so many of my fellow Christians get bent about what kind of greeting another person gives them; no one can take Christ from us---it only makes US seem like WE are bound and determined to take away someone else's religious or non-religious observance. That's not what this country is about. Indeed...it's not what the Christian faith is founded on.
We need to remember more than the birth of Christ, which we are celebrating at a random time of year in the first place, since no one knows when He was born. We need to remember the LIFE of the man who is our role model not just at the Christmas season, but at every season.
We must remember that we are commanded to love our neighbor as ourselves---in every season. It's easy to be nice with carols in our heads and sparkling lights everywhere. It's not so easy to love that neighbor in the summertime, when I can sleep in every day, but my neighbor wants to run his compressor to power-wash his boat every living day. But 'tis the season to love him then, too.
We are reminded that how we treat the least among us is evidence of how we might be treating the Savior, for we never know when we may be entertaining angels among us---in every season. We give food to charities in the fall, but how often do we remember that those with less need help at other times? When one brother rises out of need, another is there to take his place. Should we ignore the second because we gave in October? 'Tis the season to serve others, even when it isn't on the agenda for the rest of the world.
We know that we are told that when we are without sin ourselves, we can cast the stone at another, and we keep that on a pretty even keel in December---but it's true in every season. When tempers run high, we slip so easily, right over that boundary into casting our words at others, mostly behind their backs. No matter what she wore or what he said or where they went, it's still incumbent upon us: 'tis always the season to remember our own sins more than anyone else's.
We are told to turn the other cheek, to forgive 70 x 7---in every season. Oh, yes, Christmas is a wonderful time to forgive and forget, to make amends, to start over fresh. So is Easter. So is every single day of the year, when we come to the inevitable realization that our hate and anger only hurt us, or hurt us more than anyone else. 'Tis the season to set ourselves free of that prison and heal our own hearts and those of anyone else we insist on punishing. 'Tis that season at any moment.
While we're at it, let's just make a few other things "in season" all year round. Let's forget the splinter in our brother's eye and concentrate on the plank we need to remove from our own eyes. Let's follow Christ's lead and find the good in everyone, be they people of high birth, low morals, questionable veracity, or sketchy backgrounds. Let's be good stewards of what we have and remember that things do not measure our worth. For Jesus, it was always the season for these ideas. If we truly want to "keep Christ," it can't be "in Christmas" only. Every day 'tis the season.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, brothers and sisters of all kinds.
Disclaimer: I will be the first to admit that I am as bad as anyone (and worse than many) about remembering to live this way; I wrote it as a reminder to myself, not as a sermon for the world. Hence, the "we" first-person plural point of view.
That last part gets me a little.
I don't understand why so many of my fellow Christians get bent about what kind of greeting another person gives them; no one can take Christ from us---it only makes US seem like WE are bound and determined to take away someone else's religious or non-religious observance. That's not what this country is about. Indeed...it's not what the Christian faith is founded on.
We need to remember more than the birth of Christ, which we are celebrating at a random time of year in the first place, since no one knows when He was born. We need to remember the LIFE of the man who is our role model not just at the Christmas season, but at every season.
We must remember that we are commanded to love our neighbor as ourselves---in every season. It's easy to be nice with carols in our heads and sparkling lights everywhere. It's not so easy to love that neighbor in the summertime, when I can sleep in every day, but my neighbor wants to run his compressor to power-wash his boat every living day. But 'tis the season to love him then, too.
We are reminded that how we treat the least among us is evidence of how we might be treating the Savior, for we never know when we may be entertaining angels among us---in every season. We give food to charities in the fall, but how often do we remember that those with less need help at other times? When one brother rises out of need, another is there to take his place. Should we ignore the second because we gave in October? 'Tis the season to serve others, even when it isn't on the agenda for the rest of the world.
We know that we are told that when we are without sin ourselves, we can cast the stone at another, and we keep that on a pretty even keel in December---but it's true in every season. When tempers run high, we slip so easily, right over that boundary into casting our words at others, mostly behind their backs. No matter what she wore or what he said or where they went, it's still incumbent upon us: 'tis always the season to remember our own sins more than anyone else's.
We are told to turn the other cheek, to forgive 70 x 7---in every season. Oh, yes, Christmas is a wonderful time to forgive and forget, to make amends, to start over fresh. So is Easter. So is every single day of the year, when we come to the inevitable realization that our hate and anger only hurt us, or hurt us more than anyone else. 'Tis the season to set ourselves free of that prison and heal our own hearts and those of anyone else we insist on punishing. 'Tis that season at any moment.
While we're at it, let's just make a few other things "in season" all year round. Let's forget the splinter in our brother's eye and concentrate on the plank we need to remove from our own eyes. Let's follow Christ's lead and find the good in everyone, be they people of high birth, low morals, questionable veracity, or sketchy backgrounds. Let's be good stewards of what we have and remember that things do not measure our worth. For Jesus, it was always the season for these ideas. If we truly want to "keep Christ," it can't be "in Christmas" only. Every day 'tis the season.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, brothers and sisters of all kinds.
Disclaimer: I will be the first to admit that I am as bad as anyone (and worse than many) about remembering to live this way; I wrote it as a reminder to myself, not as a sermon for the world. Hence, the "we" first-person plural point of view.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Until It Hurts
Several mornings ago, while I was driving in to school, one of the radio stations was doing a call-in show with a lawyer. I think they call the guy Attorney Adam. Some guy, a younger one, I presume, called in about a money situation. His home had been broken into, and several electronic things were stolen: his television, game system, and things like that. He had gone to an unnamed big box store to get a new TV, but then he found one he liked better and decided to return the first one. When he got home from that transaction, he took the crisp, new $100 bills out of his pocket....and found that he had been given $200 too much. His question amounted to, "Aren't I justified in keeping this money?" The corporation wouldn't be hurt by it, and he had just been robbed, so wasn't God, karma, or whatever just looking out for him?
I was.....well, I was outraged. Literally, I was driving along, alone, exclaiming to myself, "NO! It's not your money, and it certainly isn't a gift!" If anything, it seemed to me that it was a test, even if only for himself: would he do the right thing and return it, even if it was difficult to do? Someone's job could even be resting on a mistake like that. It's been a long, long time ago, but I can still remember that when I worked at McDonald's in college, our registers had to even out at the end of the shift or we'd get written up. Surely the stakes must be a bit higher for hundreds of dollars, even in this exorbitant day and age.
I was relieved that the attorney advised him to return the money. One of the deejays even noted that if he did, he would feel better about it than if he kept the money. I'm not sure they convinced the guy, though.
Maybe the season is what made this avaricious caller stand out in my mind so much. I don't have to tell most of you this, because almost everyone who reads this is a teacher or has one in the near family, or has been one of my students. But anyone in education can vouch that the Christmas season is one of the most rewarding and heartbreaking times of the year to spend with kids of any age. High schoolers show their very best side during this time; even those with little extra for themselves want to help those who are younger. My PACE Club kids have coordinated stockings for Head Start for the last two years, with most of the high school clubs contributing gifts to fill the stockings, and last year we went to the Laura Dester shelter in Tulsa to decorate the family visiting rooms for the holiday. (They loved that so very much and wanted to repeat it, but it's a difficult thing to find time for at the end of the semester, especially when we lose a week to snow.) LGHS Student Council has done Angel Tree giving for kids at the elementary level for at least ten years now---around 30 kids every year. Teachers and students both contribute to that.
If I weren't afraid of breaking some confidences or bringing attention to people who don't want it, I could tell you a number of stories about administrators, teachers, and/or staff who took it upon themselves to quietly provide for kids or whole families at Christmastime. It's the spirit of what brings people to the field of education that leaves their hearts open at this time of year: the certain knowledge that the only thing keeping the world afloat sometimes is how much we are willing to sacrifice of ourselves for others. It's no coincidence that "humanity" refers to both the people and how the people treat each other.
Of course, that sacrifice means that, sometimes, everyone extends themselves too far. What is too much; what is just enough; how do we know when to quit? Everyone I know seems to live by an unspoken principle: You give till it hurts. You do not what you have to do, but what you can't live without NOT doing. A few years ago, right before our Christmas break, one of our staff members had her home broken into, and all her Christmas presents for her children and grandchildren were stolen, as well as her own items, such as her TV. There was no way she could afford to replace them. But she did...because between the students and her co-workers, all the money she needed was donated within a few hours to restore her family's Christmas. Not one of us could live with the idea of that sweet lady, one of the kindest I've ever worked with, not having what she needed for that precious time with family.
Here's my final point on the matter, the one I so wish I could make to that standards-challenged radio caller. I felt a bit overwhelmed with my obligations this year. I didn't do Secret Santa with my co-workers at school because I was a little worried about paying the piper when that credit card statement rolls through in January. We don't do a lot of gifts in my family anymore, only for the parents and the kids, but I pushed it a bit in other areas. I was in no danger of being in financial trouble, just a little stretched. Then Wednesday morning, we were called in for a faculty meeting. One of our school board members came and spoke to how much they appreciated our hard work this year, and that they understood the sacrifices we've all made during the financial cuts the state has made over the last several years---no supply money and such. But they had managed to work out a bonus for everyone: not a lot, just $200, but it was something. To me, it was enough.
I don't think anyone there was in danger of breaking down in tears over $200----but how I wished I could tell that young man: This is how God looks out for you, sir. Give until it hurts, and it will be given back to you in greater measure than you would ever expect.
I was.....well, I was outraged. Literally, I was driving along, alone, exclaiming to myself, "NO! It's not your money, and it certainly isn't a gift!" If anything, it seemed to me that it was a test, even if only for himself: would he do the right thing and return it, even if it was difficult to do? Someone's job could even be resting on a mistake like that. It's been a long, long time ago, but I can still remember that when I worked at McDonald's in college, our registers had to even out at the end of the shift or we'd get written up. Surely the stakes must be a bit higher for hundreds of dollars, even in this exorbitant day and age.
I was relieved that the attorney advised him to return the money. One of the deejays even noted that if he did, he would feel better about it than if he kept the money. I'm not sure they convinced the guy, though.
Maybe the season is what made this avaricious caller stand out in my mind so much. I don't have to tell most of you this, because almost everyone who reads this is a teacher or has one in the near family, or has been one of my students. But anyone in education can vouch that the Christmas season is one of the most rewarding and heartbreaking times of the year to spend with kids of any age. High schoolers show their very best side during this time; even those with little extra for themselves want to help those who are younger. My PACE Club kids have coordinated stockings for Head Start for the last two years, with most of the high school clubs contributing gifts to fill the stockings, and last year we went to the Laura Dester shelter in Tulsa to decorate the family visiting rooms for the holiday. (They loved that so very much and wanted to repeat it, but it's a difficult thing to find time for at the end of the semester, especially when we lose a week to snow.) LGHS Student Council has done Angel Tree giving for kids at the elementary level for at least ten years now---around 30 kids every year. Teachers and students both contribute to that.
If I weren't afraid of breaking some confidences or bringing attention to people who don't want it, I could tell you a number of stories about administrators, teachers, and/or staff who took it upon themselves to quietly provide for kids or whole families at Christmastime. It's the spirit of what brings people to the field of education that leaves their hearts open at this time of year: the certain knowledge that the only thing keeping the world afloat sometimes is how much we are willing to sacrifice of ourselves for others. It's no coincidence that "humanity" refers to both the people and how the people treat each other.
Of course, that sacrifice means that, sometimes, everyone extends themselves too far. What is too much; what is just enough; how do we know when to quit? Everyone I know seems to live by an unspoken principle: You give till it hurts. You do not what you have to do, but what you can't live without NOT doing. A few years ago, right before our Christmas break, one of our staff members had her home broken into, and all her Christmas presents for her children and grandchildren were stolen, as well as her own items, such as her TV. There was no way she could afford to replace them. But she did...because between the students and her co-workers, all the money she needed was donated within a few hours to restore her family's Christmas. Not one of us could live with the idea of that sweet lady, one of the kindest I've ever worked with, not having what she needed for that precious time with family.
Here's my final point on the matter, the one I so wish I could make to that standards-challenged radio caller. I felt a bit overwhelmed with my obligations this year. I didn't do Secret Santa with my co-workers at school because I was a little worried about paying the piper when that credit card statement rolls through in January. We don't do a lot of gifts in my family anymore, only for the parents and the kids, but I pushed it a bit in other areas. I was in no danger of being in financial trouble, just a little stretched. Then Wednesday morning, we were called in for a faculty meeting. One of our school board members came and spoke to how much they appreciated our hard work this year, and that they understood the sacrifices we've all made during the financial cuts the state has made over the last several years---no supply money and such. But they had managed to work out a bonus for everyone: not a lot, just $200, but it was something. To me, it was enough.
I don't think anyone there was in danger of breaking down in tears over $200----but how I wished I could tell that young man: This is how God looks out for you, sir. Give until it hurts, and it will be given back to you in greater measure than you would ever expect.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
I'd Rather Be....
I love my job; I truly do. Few people are as lucky as I feel I have been, to know what I was put on this earth to do, and to be able to do it. But there is one aspect of teaching that I have never and will never love, or even like: grading. And grading research is the absolute worst, the umpteenth circle of hell, exponentially worse than Dante ever dreamed. I've been fully immersed in grading researched essays for about ten days now, and there are about 24 jillion things I'd rather be doing.
I'd rather Christmas shop all day on the 71st and Hell corridor, Memorial to Garnett, than to ever try to get 100 students to complete a research paper outline.
I'd rather have fire ants invade my armpits than to drag said students to the library to (horrors!) read and take notes from reference books.
I'd rather listen to 18 solid hours of screamo "music" instead of having to listen to the chorus of "There's no information on my topic" from 75-85% of my kids.
I'd rather sleep on a bed of nails than to be forced to repeat instructions for a hanging indent on citations for each student, individually, at least 5 times.
Instead of insisting on 12-point Times New Roman font, I'd rather go back to reading papers done on notebook paper, in serial-killer handwriting.
I'd rather have to come up with 608 ways to prepare white rice than to have to read one more page of bland, boring prose on the Constitution or natural rights.
Rather than checking citations on a Works Cited page, I could happily experience another bout of pneumonia.
Finally, I'd rather have my eyes gouged out with a melon baller than to grammatically correct 1500 words of uninspired gibberish from a hormonally-crazed teenager who is convinced that spell-check is all the proofreading he'll ever need.
But oh, when that one crisply-worded, fresh, intriguing research paper comes to the top of the stack, it makes it all worth it......almost. We'll see if I still feel the same when I finish the stack tomorrow.
(Disclaimer: I can't take credit for that melon-baller thing; I saw it on my DVR episode of American Horror Story today, my one little respite from the daily cycle of read/sigh/laugh/weep/repeat.)
I'd rather Christmas shop all day on the 71st and Hell corridor, Memorial to Garnett, than to ever try to get 100 students to complete a research paper outline.
I'd rather have fire ants invade my armpits than to drag said students to the library to (horrors!) read and take notes from reference books.
I'd rather listen to 18 solid hours of screamo "music" instead of having to listen to the chorus of "There's no information on my topic" from 75-85% of my kids.
I'd rather sleep on a bed of nails than to be forced to repeat instructions for a hanging indent on citations for each student, individually, at least 5 times.
Instead of insisting on 12-point Times New Roman font, I'd rather go back to reading papers done on notebook paper, in serial-killer handwriting.
I'd rather have to come up with 608 ways to prepare white rice than to have to read one more page of bland, boring prose on the Constitution or natural rights.
Rather than checking citations on a Works Cited page, I could happily experience another bout of pneumonia.
Finally, I'd rather have my eyes gouged out with a melon baller than to grammatically correct 1500 words of uninspired gibberish from a hormonally-crazed teenager who is convinced that spell-check is all the proofreading he'll ever need.
But oh, when that one crisply-worded, fresh, intriguing research paper comes to the top of the stack, it makes it all worth it......almost. We'll see if I still feel the same when I finish the stack tomorrow.
(Disclaimer: I can't take credit for that melon-baller thing; I saw it on my DVR episode of American Horror Story today, my one little respite from the daily cycle of read/sigh/laugh/weep/repeat.)
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