Yesterday was my birthday.
In my journal, I wrote, "Hope Year 27 is marked by a greater ability to extend grace to others and more readily accept it for myself."
It's funny: phrases that I've heard and "known" my whole life-- concepts like, Love and Grace and Forgiveness-- those Christian buzzwords, you know? For years, they've been in my head. Something about this season though is getting those abstract concepts finally, finally down to a deeper place inside. It isn't sudden, and it isn't glamorous or dramatic. It's more like a waking up percolation-- an infusion of substances and experiences and thoughts dripping down slowly into the deepest understanding-place. Within me, something potent is brewing.
I think it has something to do with all of this.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Pastor Richard often talks about the importance of holding blessings with open hands. That's a very difficult thing for me to do. Isn't that a difficult thing for ALL of us to do? It seems as though when the good things come, I'm able to keep my shaky hands open just long enough to see them tremble in would-be preparatory flight. Then, in a hiccup of panicky fear, I clap my hands shut and clutch tight, fearfully tightening my hands into fists. Inside my grasp, those tissue wings, those dusty rivulets of fragile life-- perish.
I so badly want to hold on.
But today, something different happened.
I had a hope and it landed on my finger-tips. For a long moment, I waited, eyes focused on this diaphanous vibration. Stay.
Won't you stay.
But I plucked no daisy petals and made no demands. I tornadoed no dandelions, and sought no falling stars. I didn't even curl my fingers. I kept my palms upraised, open, spacious. I hungered for this lovely thing, and held my breath-- but most of all my heart prayed freedom.
And-- it flew away.
And even though I ought to be disappointed about the fact-- and even though I suppose I am disappointed about the fact-- it all feels more free than anything has felt in a long time.
The open hands place is a freedom-place, it's a GOOD place, it isn't a trapped place, it's a GRACE place.
Something about this has something to do with everything else. And I know that doesn't make much sense, but most of it doesn't make much "sense," and very little of it looks like what I would choose for it to ACTUALLY look like--
Yet despite that, something about open hands, and even the peace that comes with watching something beautiful fly away... is the most hopeful, restful thing I've known in a long time.
And that makes me feel good about this wide open space I'm in.
Showing posts with label prayer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prayer. Show all posts
Mar 2, 2011
Jan 29, 2011
Not Forgotten
Sometimes, I think of God as an ocean. Some people don't see the ocean at all; they turn their backs on its vast horizon and face the parking lot, denying there's anything there. Some come down to the sand and acknowledge the ocean's thundering existence, but admit they'd rather not get their feet wet. Others step into the water and let it wash over their toes and ankles: they experience the ocean in a completely different way than they ever could by just looking at it. Still others wade in-- they let the ocean nudge them with its waves and currents, soaking themselves up to their waists. Others swim out deep, diving into the ocean, getting wholly immersed. Those people understand the tides, the taste, the power of the ocean that few others can truly comprehend; they let themselves get beyond the power of their own control, they have departed from shore-- and as a result, they are carried along and directed in a way they could never have been if they'd held on to their own "sure" footing.
However, even those last people will never be able to understand the width, the depth, the height of the ocean. They will never know all the creatures, all the underwater worlds, all the secret volcanoes. They cannot see the storm on one end and the sunrise in the other. They cannot predict the ocean's movements, or winds, or direction. It's just too big.
Still, one thing is certain: the goal must always be to go deeper.
I have a story.
The story begins a week from last Thursday. For the last several months, I had been working on a plan-- a plan which I thought was great, really really great. But then Thursday night, the plan fell apart. It unexpectedly, comprehensively dissolved. I was crushed. It was such a disappointment.
But do you know? It wasn't a screeching-tires-crunching-metal sort of falling apart. The way it fell apart was so right, and so beautiful in its dissembling, it was more like a heavy gray cloud falling apart into thousands of crystalline flakes. It was a floating sort of fall.
Still, I cried on Thursday night for a long time, and Friday met me with a heavy heart.
Saturday found me in my apartment all day, grumpily tearing through stacks of finals. Finally, at 8pm, I escaped. It was after dark, but I didn't care. I needed fresh air, and gulped it in while walking to the lake.
What do I do when I need a reset button?
I climb a tree.
I had a specific one in mind-- I'd spotted the tree on a walk earlier that week with Carly. This tree stretches out over the water, its branches simultaneously reaching down, and to the side, and up towards the sky, like a great bark-covered sunburst. In the dark, I climbed up its trunk, wedged myself between the branches and began to pray.
It was a pissed-off prayer. I was really ticked at God. I was angry at Him for messing with my plan, even though I knew the plan probably wasn't the best in the first place, and I was angry at how He's been running my story.
"I am SICK of being here God!" I said. Or whispered. Or mouthed silently, while swinging my fists between branches. "I am TIRED of this. I'm sick of this season-- why does everyone else get to be in a different season God? I'm TIRED of what you're doing!!"
At one point I pictured Jesus hovering there and I demanded answers. Normally when I picture Jesus during prayers, he looks very much like a normal guy. This Jesus, though, was more of the cliched, cartoon version-- white robed and everything. How OBNOXIOUS: a floating, cartoonish, white-robed Jesus. Probably indicative of my current feelings about Him-- and perhaps my momentary suspicion that He was not as powerful or as attentive as I've believed Him to be.
"Can I even maintain this hope?" I demanded. "Can I even believe you ever gave me the promise I thought you did?! Is it ever going to happen?? I want more than what you're giving me right now!"
"It's COMING!" Floating Jesus said.
"WHEN?!!" I roared at Him.
"You have to WAIT," He said adamantly.
That sort of made me want to flip Him off.
It was an honest prayer-- an angry, tearful, raw prayer. And it was intense-- only interrupted once when a man came down to the water and began to pee into the lake.
Yes. A man peed directly beneath me while I was shouting at the Floating Jesus.
I did my best to look like a tree branch.
When the man was done peeing, and I was done praying, I slid back down. I felt a little guilty walking back home that night. I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to want to flip Jesus off-- I hoped God wouldn't smite me.
Far from it. I look back on this moment now after the week I've had, and realize God's response was something more along the lines of: "Fine. You want to get real with me? I'm about to get real with you. Listen up daughter." From this point on, God cranked up the volume.
I was exhausted by the time I got back-- once in bed, it didn't take long for me to feel my body slipping out of consciousness. But just before I did, a thought suddenly lit into my mind:
"Am I enough for you Greta?"
I paused. I had no idea how to answer that question. The thought hovered there, like a flickering neon sign. Finally, I pushed it out of my head and let oblivion take over.
The next morning however, I wrote the question down in my journal while church worship was starting:
"He asks, 'Am I enough for you Greta?' ... And I don't know how to answer." I paused and thought about my prayer from the night before. Beneath what I'd just written, I wrote:
"I want more. :("
Richard's sermon addressed God's burning bush moment with Moses. In that moment, Moses doesn't like God's plan any more than I did in my tree the night before. At one point, Moses asks God, "What name do I give to the Israelites when they ask who sent me?"
God thunders back, "I AM." Richard elaborated-- "'I AM your sufficiency. I AM the power of your freedom. I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling.'"
I wrote that last line down in my journal, and then drew an arrow from what I'd written before-- "Am I enough for you Greta?"-- to the words Richard had just spoken: "I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling."
"Well then," I thought to myself.
Then Richard got to the end of his sermon. He began discussing Moses' disillusionment. Even though Moses finally stepped into God's story, and went and talked to Pharaoh, things got pretty crappy for Moses. Pharaoh basically laughed at Moses' request to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, doubled the Israelites' work load, and had his overseers beat the Israelites if they couldn't meet their daily quota. The Israelites were furious with Moses, and basically wanted to pulp-ify him. Moses then cries out to God and basically asks Him, "What are you DOING, God?!"
I imagined Moses shaking his fist at the sky. "Like me," I thought.
"The lament is one of the purest forms of worship there is," Richard said. "God wants our honesty. He wants a relationship with us. If we assume that the Christian life is only ever praise, we're missing the point. Just look at the Psalms; look at David's crying out and his despair. We should feel comfortable coming to God with laments. The dancing comes after the tears."
This was a great comfort-- and yet, I returned to heart-ache. As the worship started up again, I wrote in my journal: "Why ME, God?"
The answer arrived like a lightning bolt in the ocean storm of my mind:
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Starting Monday, my school commenced our annual "Spiritual Life" week, where the kids have chapel every day. Monday's speaker was a guy named Zach. He talked about plans falling apart. He talked about seeking purpose. He talked about Daniel being taken away from his home and forced to work in the court of the Babylonian king. He discussed his suspicion that Daniel must have doubted God on the long journey to Babylon; must have asked, "What are you doing Lord?" He talked about the necessity of prayer within our hungry, angry questions.
After chapel, I told my seniors about my experience with prayer over the last year. I really try hard to be open and transparent with my students, so that they then feel comfortable being vulnerable with one another in our class discussions. "Last year was one of the hardest years of my life," I told them laughingly. "It was my first year of teaching, so I was crazy stressed out, trying to get everything together and planned, and trying to 'prove' myself, and I felt insecure and scared half the time... My parents were getting divorced, my personal life was a ROLLER-COASTER, it-- was-- terrible!" I laughed again. "BUT! In the midst of that... I had to pray. There was just absolutely no other way I was going to make it through the day. There were literally some mornings when I cried under the covers and told God that I could not do it, I could NOT do it, and I would TELL him I couldn't do it, and then He would somehow tell me that He would carry me through. Only then... would I be able to get out of bed and face it all. As a result, one of the hardest years of my life... taught me to love prayer."
I told them about my angry prayer in the tree the other night, and encouraged them to be real with God. Then I told them about the man that peed right beneath me, and mimed looking like a tree branch. That was probably their favorite part.
After endorsing prayer so fervently though, a funny thing happened. Tuesday and Wednesday, I didn't particularly feel like having my morning prayer. Normally, after doing my hair and makeup, I crawl back into bed in my pajamas with a cup of coffee and just talk to God for a while. Wednesday morning I thought, "Eh, I don't feel like I have much to talk to God about today. And I'm running late. Phooey."
Still, I climbed back into bed with my coffee, anticipating a mind-wandering prayer, a going-through-the-motions prayer. Sometimes that's what morning-coffee-prayer-time looks like.
Not this morning
As SOON as I "got into position," I suddenly had two Bible verses filling my whole head. I can't remember the last time I've read these passages, but there they were. The first was from Isaiah 40:29-31:
He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;
But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
They will run and not grow weary,
They will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:29-31
The second was from Hebrews 12:1-3
... Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus... Consider Him... so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
Furthermore, when reading my Bible the night before, I had found these two verses stacked right on top of each other in my One Year Bible-- two verses that appear miles away from one another in the actual Bible but happened to be within the same centimeter when organized in the One-Year format:
Psalm 27:13-14
I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. WAIT for the Lord; be strong and take heart and WAIT for the Lord.
And:
Proverbs 20:22b
WAIT for the Lord, and He will deliver you.
Once again, it all went into the journal. Beneath the four passages, I wrote: "I suppose the message is clear then: Look to the Lord and be strong, take heart. Do not grow weary, but hope in the Lord. Persevere and WAIT on the Lord. He is faithful in keeping His promises."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Shall I get louder, Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The speaker at chapel on Wednesday was a guy named Jeff. Jeff is probably 6'5" and is all arms, legs, and giant facial expressions. He moved those arms and legs into all kinds of ridiculous shapes as he acted out various stories in his talk, pantomiming trying to push his truck out of his garage that morning which subsequently led to his kicking a hole in the garage wall; singing a song about his deep ardor for his comfort food, cheese; interviewing one of our seniors about the school's losing football team; then acting out meeting a girl, falling for her, and ultimately getting rejected. Throughout the talk, Jeff was hilarious, animated, and ridiculously silly.
And then all of a sudden he got profound.
In addressing different failures-- different failed "plans"-- Jeff brought us back to this:
(I'm quoting from his notes, which I demanded he give me after I heard this talk):
"Our grounding promise should be this: Romans 8:28-- We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Purpose is the magic word. There is purpose in the trial you are undergoing, your hardship, the direction of your path. ... James 1:2-4 tells us, Consider it pure joy my brothers whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing. This dissonance gives way to a more satisfying consonance; this dense rain to a bolder rainbow; this wretched sin to a more glorious redemption. ...No matter where we are in life, we will have our plans frustrated; we will not have our way. Instead of reaching for the cheese of comfort, take comfort in the fact that God has a purpose in our trial for maturity and completeness."
In the midst of my grief over frustrated plans, in the midst of my fatigue, in the midst of my desire for something ELSE-- these words were medicine.
Jeff ended his talk by reading a blurb from an email he had once received from his best friend Kirk, as Kirk was preparing to go off to Africa. Jeff gave me a copy of this too-- look at the end of it:
"I must learn to listen, to wait, and to be. So in the holy silence that comes when I abandon my own pursuit to 'be enough' I hope to hear the voice of God saying, "Kirk, I love you. Let that be enough.' So I will place my hope in the God of hope, whose promises do not go unfulfilled and whose Word and love for his people will always endure, that I will let him love me and let that be enough."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That night, I led my Bible study of five freshmen girls who go to UW. The chapter we happened to be on was John, Ch. 6. It's all about how Jesus is the bread of life-- that everything else will leave us hungry but that He is ENOUGH. I had asked each of the girls to consider what their next "step" in their faith walks might be. The last girl to share said that she wanted to get to a place where she understood that Jesus was truly ENOUGH.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Thursday, driving to school, I heard a song lyric that said something about getting so far into the ocean that you lose sight of shore; only then, is it time to turn back.
I don't know yet if my heart fully understands that God is enough; I think part of my heart still longs for more... still longs for shore. But I understand now that I am meant for deeper waters, and that I will only be capable of successfully living on land once I have lost sight of it altogether in the vast depth of the ocean.
On Friday, the chapel at school was simply a day of worship. I tried at first to worship up front among my students, but found myself feeling self-conscious. I wondered: am I closing my eyes for them, or for the Lord? Finally, we started singing a song that begins, "He is jealous for me." At that point, I left my spot among the students and walked to the back of the auditorium where I could worship without being seen.
I closed my eyes and sang. I pictured being deep in the ocean, far, far away from shore, in the crow's nest of a ship. The sun was rising over the water. Something lifted me out of the crow's nest and I danced in the sky.
Disappointment lingers. My story is still not the story I would wish for today. But in spite of that, I am overwhelmed with understanding God's LOVE for me. I have not been forgotten. I am part of an incredible adventure, and I am in the midst of something powerful. There is PURPOSE in this moment.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
Yes, Lord-- I will go.
However, even those last people will never be able to understand the width, the depth, the height of the ocean. They will never know all the creatures, all the underwater worlds, all the secret volcanoes. They cannot see the storm on one end and the sunrise in the other. They cannot predict the ocean's movements, or winds, or direction. It's just too big.
Still, one thing is certain: the goal must always be to go deeper.
I have a story.
The story begins a week from last Thursday. For the last several months, I had been working on a plan-- a plan which I thought was great, really really great. But then Thursday night, the plan fell apart. It unexpectedly, comprehensively dissolved. I was crushed. It was such a disappointment.
But do you know? It wasn't a screeching-tires-crunching-metal sort of falling apart. The way it fell apart was so right, and so beautiful in its dissembling, it was more like a heavy gray cloud falling apart into thousands of crystalline flakes. It was a floating sort of fall.
Still, I cried on Thursday night for a long time, and Friday met me with a heavy heart.
Saturday found me in my apartment all day, grumpily tearing through stacks of finals. Finally, at 8pm, I escaped. It was after dark, but I didn't care. I needed fresh air, and gulped it in while walking to the lake.
What do I do when I need a reset button?
I climb a tree.
I had a specific one in mind-- I'd spotted the tree on a walk earlier that week with Carly. This tree stretches out over the water, its branches simultaneously reaching down, and to the side, and up towards the sky, like a great bark-covered sunburst. In the dark, I climbed up its trunk, wedged myself between the branches and began to pray.
It was a pissed-off prayer. I was really ticked at God. I was angry at Him for messing with my plan, even though I knew the plan probably wasn't the best in the first place, and I was angry at how He's been running my story.
"I am SICK of being here God!" I said. Or whispered. Or mouthed silently, while swinging my fists between branches. "I am TIRED of this. I'm sick of this season-- why does everyone else get to be in a different season God? I'm TIRED of what you're doing!!"
At one point I pictured Jesus hovering there and I demanded answers. Normally when I picture Jesus during prayers, he looks very much like a normal guy. This Jesus, though, was more of the cliched, cartoon version-- white robed and everything. How OBNOXIOUS: a floating, cartoonish, white-robed Jesus. Probably indicative of my current feelings about Him-- and perhaps my momentary suspicion that He was not as powerful or as attentive as I've believed Him to be.
"Can I even maintain this hope?" I demanded. "Can I even believe you ever gave me the promise I thought you did?! Is it ever going to happen?? I want more than what you're giving me right now!"
"It's COMING!" Floating Jesus said.
"WHEN?!!" I roared at Him.
"You have to WAIT," He said adamantly.
That sort of made me want to flip Him off.
It was an honest prayer-- an angry, tearful, raw prayer. And it was intense-- only interrupted once when a man came down to the water and began to pee into the lake.
Yes. A man peed directly beneath me while I was shouting at the Floating Jesus.
I did my best to look like a tree branch.
When the man was done peeing, and I was done praying, I slid back down. I felt a little guilty walking back home that night. I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to want to flip Jesus off-- I hoped God wouldn't smite me.
Far from it. I look back on this moment now after the week I've had, and realize God's response was something more along the lines of: "Fine. You want to get real with me? I'm about to get real with you. Listen up daughter." From this point on, God cranked up the volume.
I was exhausted by the time I got back-- once in bed, it didn't take long for me to feel my body slipping out of consciousness. But just before I did, a thought suddenly lit into my mind:
"Am I enough for you Greta?"
I paused. I had no idea how to answer that question. The thought hovered there, like a flickering neon sign. Finally, I pushed it out of my head and let oblivion take over.
The next morning however, I wrote the question down in my journal while church worship was starting:
"He asks, 'Am I enough for you Greta?' ... And I don't know how to answer." I paused and thought about my prayer from the night before. Beneath what I'd just written, I wrote:
"I want more. :("
Richard's sermon addressed God's burning bush moment with Moses. In that moment, Moses doesn't like God's plan any more than I did in my tree the night before. At one point, Moses asks God, "What name do I give to the Israelites when they ask who sent me?"
God thunders back, "I AM." Richard elaborated-- "'I AM your sufficiency. I AM the power of your freedom. I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling.'"
I wrote that last line down in my journal, and then drew an arrow from what I'd written before-- "Am I enough for you Greta?"-- to the words Richard had just spoken: "I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling."
"Well then," I thought to myself.
Then Richard got to the end of his sermon. He began discussing Moses' disillusionment. Even though Moses finally stepped into God's story, and went and talked to Pharaoh, things got pretty crappy for Moses. Pharaoh basically laughed at Moses' request to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, doubled the Israelites' work load, and had his overseers beat the Israelites if they couldn't meet their daily quota. The Israelites were furious with Moses, and basically wanted to pulp-ify him. Moses then cries out to God and basically asks Him, "What are you DOING, God?!"
I imagined Moses shaking his fist at the sky. "Like me," I thought.
"The lament is one of the purest forms of worship there is," Richard said. "God wants our honesty. He wants a relationship with us. If we assume that the Christian life is only ever praise, we're missing the point. Just look at the Psalms; look at David's crying out and his despair. We should feel comfortable coming to God with laments. The dancing comes after the tears."
This was a great comfort-- and yet, I returned to heart-ache. As the worship started up again, I wrote in my journal: "Why ME, God?"
The answer arrived like a lightning bolt in the ocean storm of my mind:
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Starting Monday, my school commenced our annual "Spiritual Life" week, where the kids have chapel every day. Monday's speaker was a guy named Zach. He talked about plans falling apart. He talked about seeking purpose. He talked about Daniel being taken away from his home and forced to work in the court of the Babylonian king. He discussed his suspicion that Daniel must have doubted God on the long journey to Babylon; must have asked, "What are you doing Lord?" He talked about the necessity of prayer within our hungry, angry questions.
After chapel, I told my seniors about my experience with prayer over the last year. I really try hard to be open and transparent with my students, so that they then feel comfortable being vulnerable with one another in our class discussions. "Last year was one of the hardest years of my life," I told them laughingly. "It was my first year of teaching, so I was crazy stressed out, trying to get everything together and planned, and trying to 'prove' myself, and I felt insecure and scared half the time... My parents were getting divorced, my personal life was a ROLLER-COASTER, it-- was-- terrible!" I laughed again. "BUT! In the midst of that... I had to pray. There was just absolutely no other way I was going to make it through the day. There were literally some mornings when I cried under the covers and told God that I could not do it, I could NOT do it, and I would TELL him I couldn't do it, and then He would somehow tell me that He would carry me through. Only then... would I be able to get out of bed and face it all. As a result, one of the hardest years of my life... taught me to love prayer."
I told them about my angry prayer in the tree the other night, and encouraged them to be real with God. Then I told them about the man that peed right beneath me, and mimed looking like a tree branch. That was probably their favorite part.
After endorsing prayer so fervently though, a funny thing happened. Tuesday and Wednesday, I didn't particularly feel like having my morning prayer. Normally, after doing my hair and makeup, I crawl back into bed in my pajamas with a cup of coffee and just talk to God for a while. Wednesday morning I thought, "Eh, I don't feel like I have much to talk to God about today. And I'm running late. Phooey."
Still, I climbed back into bed with my coffee, anticipating a mind-wandering prayer, a going-through-the-motions prayer. Sometimes that's what morning-coffee-prayer-time looks like.
Not this morning
As SOON as I "got into position," I suddenly had two Bible verses filling my whole head. I can't remember the last time I've read these passages, but there they were. The first was from Isaiah 40:29-31:
He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;
But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
They will run and not grow weary,
They will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:29-31
The second was from Hebrews 12:1-3
... Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus... Consider Him... so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
Furthermore, when reading my Bible the night before, I had found these two verses stacked right on top of each other in my One Year Bible-- two verses that appear miles away from one another in the actual Bible but happened to be within the same centimeter when organized in the One-Year format:
Psalm 27:13-14
I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. WAIT for the Lord; be strong and take heart and WAIT for the Lord.
And:
Proverbs 20:22b
WAIT for the Lord, and He will deliver you.
Once again, it all went into the journal. Beneath the four passages, I wrote: "I suppose the message is clear then: Look to the Lord and be strong, take heart. Do not grow weary, but hope in the Lord. Persevere and WAIT on the Lord. He is faithful in keeping His promises."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Shall I get louder, Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The speaker at chapel on Wednesday was a guy named Jeff. Jeff is probably 6'5" and is all arms, legs, and giant facial expressions. He moved those arms and legs into all kinds of ridiculous shapes as he acted out various stories in his talk, pantomiming trying to push his truck out of his garage that morning which subsequently led to his kicking a hole in the garage wall; singing a song about his deep ardor for his comfort food, cheese; interviewing one of our seniors about the school's losing football team; then acting out meeting a girl, falling for her, and ultimately getting rejected. Throughout the talk, Jeff was hilarious, animated, and ridiculously silly.
And then all of a sudden he got profound.
In addressing different failures-- different failed "plans"-- Jeff brought us back to this:
(I'm quoting from his notes, which I demanded he give me after I heard this talk):
"Our grounding promise should be this: Romans 8:28-- We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Purpose is the magic word. There is purpose in the trial you are undergoing, your hardship, the direction of your path. ... James 1:2-4 tells us, Consider it pure joy my brothers whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing. This dissonance gives way to a more satisfying consonance; this dense rain to a bolder rainbow; this wretched sin to a more glorious redemption. ...No matter where we are in life, we will have our plans frustrated; we will not have our way. Instead of reaching for the cheese of comfort, take comfort in the fact that God has a purpose in our trial for maturity and completeness."
In the midst of my grief over frustrated plans, in the midst of my fatigue, in the midst of my desire for something ELSE-- these words were medicine.
Jeff ended his talk by reading a blurb from an email he had once received from his best friend Kirk, as Kirk was preparing to go off to Africa. Jeff gave me a copy of this too-- look at the end of it:
"I must learn to listen, to wait, and to be. So in the holy silence that comes when I abandon my own pursuit to 'be enough' I hope to hear the voice of God saying, "Kirk, I love you. Let that be enough.' So I will place my hope in the God of hope, whose promises do not go unfulfilled and whose Word and love for his people will always endure, that I will let him love me and let that be enough."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That night, I led my Bible study of five freshmen girls who go to UW. The chapter we happened to be on was John, Ch. 6. It's all about how Jesus is the bread of life-- that everything else will leave us hungry but that He is ENOUGH. I had asked each of the girls to consider what their next "step" in their faith walks might be. The last girl to share said that she wanted to get to a place where she understood that Jesus was truly ENOUGH.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Thursday, driving to school, I heard a song lyric that said something about getting so far into the ocean that you lose sight of shore; only then, is it time to turn back.
I don't know yet if my heart fully understands that God is enough; I think part of my heart still longs for more... still longs for shore. But I understand now that I am meant for deeper waters, and that I will only be capable of successfully living on land once I have lost sight of it altogether in the vast depth of the ocean.
On Friday, the chapel at school was simply a day of worship. I tried at first to worship up front among my students, but found myself feeling self-conscious. I wondered: am I closing my eyes for them, or for the Lord? Finally, we started singing a song that begins, "He is jealous for me." At that point, I left my spot among the students and walked to the back of the auditorium where I could worship without being seen.
I closed my eyes and sang. I pictured being deep in the ocean, far, far away from shore, in the crow's nest of a ship. The sun was rising over the water. Something lifted me out of the crow's nest and I danced in the sky.
Disappointment lingers. My story is still not the story I would wish for today. But in spite of that, I am overwhelmed with understanding God's LOVE for me. I have not been forgotten. I am part of an incredible adventure, and I am in the midst of something powerful. There is PURPOSE in this moment.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
Yes, Lord-- I will go.
Nov 2, 2010
Hot-tub Breathing
Our landlord unveiled a hot-tub. It has always been there; only now it works. In the space underneath the raised, second-story deck sits our hot-tub centerpiece, flanked by shelves of tools and cob-webbed patio furniture.
Carly and I broke it in last night. Dark; shivering; bare feet on patio cement; lift off the heavy lid; whispered, "Shhh!"; "Can you see?"; "Here it is"; eyes adjusted to darkness; climb; sink into warmth.
The jets hummed.
We talked about past elations, and heart-heaviness, and wondered out loud at how things might be. Carly listened, and prayed for me, and we stayed until we knew we couldn't stay any longer.
Monday was a stressful day. That time in the hot-tub with my dear friend was just what I needed.
Today was even more stressful. Grades for the quarter are due this next Monday, and I feel absolutely buried-- I feel overwhelmed. At one point today, when staring at my to-do list, I felt like I might start crying. I have no idea how it's all going to get done.
The day's one promised respite was a yoga class I planned to take with Deidra. My frantically beating heart would finally begin to calm, I thought, once I stretched out and worked my body.
We got to the studio and found out the class was already full. Thwarted.
So:
after getting home,
I went out to the hot-tub instead.
I sank into warmth; rested my head against the edge of the tub. Underneath the water, a light shone into the stirring and made a tiny rainbow swim beside me. I looked up at the sky, which was partially visible beyond the corrugated metal patio ceiling.
Cold air.
Quiet.
One tree trembled with brown, dried leaves, and I thought, quivering. I looked at the trees opposing it which had nothing left and I thought, threadbare. A tiny spider twirled from one of the rafters, increasingly silhouetted against the sky in the fading light and I wondered at the way things were.
Cold wind buffeted my face and hair. Dry leaves skittered across the patio. The evaporating water left nibbling, cold, chlorine kisses against my face.
I prayed.
The closest thing I know of surrender, I think, is the feeling that comes when sinking into deep water, when every muscle is finally-- finally-- allowed to relax. In the hot tub then, I let my muscles and my mind drift away from me. The cold air, the warm water, the skittering leaves, and the quiet voice somewhere deep in my heart spun together in a hum of rest.
You are safe. Be at peace.
Carly and I broke it in last night. Dark; shivering; bare feet on patio cement; lift off the heavy lid; whispered, "Shhh!"; "Can you see?"; "Here it is"; eyes adjusted to darkness; climb; sink into warmth.
The jets hummed.
We talked about past elations, and heart-heaviness, and wondered out loud at how things might be. Carly listened, and prayed for me, and we stayed until we knew we couldn't stay any longer.
Monday was a stressful day. That time in the hot-tub with my dear friend was just what I needed.
Today was even more stressful. Grades for the quarter are due this next Monday, and I feel absolutely buried-- I feel overwhelmed. At one point today, when staring at my to-do list, I felt like I might start crying. I have no idea how it's all going to get done.
The day's one promised respite was a yoga class I planned to take with Deidra. My frantically beating heart would finally begin to calm, I thought, once I stretched out and worked my body.
We got to the studio and found out the class was already full. Thwarted.
So:
after getting home,
I went out to the hot-tub instead.
I sank into warmth; rested my head against the edge of the tub. Underneath the water, a light shone into the stirring and made a tiny rainbow swim beside me. I looked up at the sky, which was partially visible beyond the corrugated metal patio ceiling.
Cold air.
Quiet.
One tree trembled with brown, dried leaves, and I thought, quivering. I looked at the trees opposing it which had nothing left and I thought, threadbare. A tiny spider twirled from one of the rafters, increasingly silhouetted against the sky in the fading light and I wondered at the way things were.
Cold wind buffeted my face and hair. Dry leaves skittered across the patio. The evaporating water left nibbling, cold, chlorine kisses against my face.
I prayed.
The closest thing I know of surrender, I think, is the feeling that comes when sinking into deep water, when every muscle is finally-- finally-- allowed to relax. In the hot tub then, I let my muscles and my mind drift away from me. The cold air, the warm water, the skittering leaves, and the quiet voice somewhere deep in my heart spun together in a hum of rest.
You are safe. Be at peace.
Oct 25, 2010
Still, Small Voice
Last night I stayed with my cousin at my aunt and uncle's house, who were both out of town. 16-year-old Maggie and I caught up on my aunt and uncle's bed; then she went off to start her homework at 10pm, and I snuggled under the covers for sleeping.
Normally, in my basement apartment, I don't get to hear the sound of rain on the roof. Last night however, that rhythmic hum was what put me to sleep. This morning, likewise, the pounding of the rain was what pulled me out of dreams (incidentally, a very nice one about a hunky South-American man named Eduardo), and into waking.
It is so hard to get up when it is still dark, and the covers are heavy and warm, and you can hear the sound of driving rain against the windows.
Later that morning I got back under the covers, propped up against pillows, with a mug of hot coffee to pray.
As I ran through thanks and requests, I thought of the time. Was I going to be late? How do I get to school from here? What do I still need to do? What about [this person]? What about [this person]? What about my future, God? How long, God?
And suddenly, there it was--
Some people call this a storm.
I say, I'm preparing good things.
I paused. But Lord, I thought... Is so MUCH rain necessary? It's supposed to rain all week.
Sometimes that's what it takes.
(And then, after feeling anxious--)
Just listen to the sound of the rain.
So I listened to that darkling music; that rhythmic drumming; the rush of the gusting wind; the taps of branches against the window.
I thought to myself: enjoy THIS moment for what it offers.
Rest in me.
Normally, in my basement apartment, I don't get to hear the sound of rain on the roof. Last night however, that rhythmic hum was what put me to sleep. This morning, likewise, the pounding of the rain was what pulled me out of dreams (incidentally, a very nice one about a hunky South-American man named Eduardo), and into waking.
It is so hard to get up when it is still dark, and the covers are heavy and warm, and you can hear the sound of driving rain against the windows.
Later that morning I got back under the covers, propped up against pillows, with a mug of hot coffee to pray.
As I ran through thanks and requests, I thought of the time. Was I going to be late? How do I get to school from here? What do I still need to do? What about [this person]? What about [this person]? What about my future, God? How long, God?
And suddenly, there it was--
Some people call this a storm.
I say, I'm preparing good things.
I paused. But Lord, I thought... Is so MUCH rain necessary? It's supposed to rain all week.
Sometimes that's what it takes.
(And then, after feeling anxious--)
Just listen to the sound of the rain.
So I listened to that darkling music; that rhythmic drumming; the rush of the gusting wind; the taps of branches against the window.
I thought to myself: enjoy THIS moment for what it offers.
Rest in me.
Aug 30, 2009
The Eve
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow: I will face down one hundred students, divided into five different classes, as their teacher. Tomorrow, I will give students syllabi that I have spent hours writing, which describe texts and units spanning the entire year. Tomorrow, I will ask them to introduce themselves, and I will introduce myself to them. Tomorrow, these students will see my classroom-- they will see the art on the walls that I selected to stimulate their thinking; they will see the world map that I've hung with pins stuck in the places that I've been, with more pins at the ready for them to stick in the cities they've traveled to. Tomorrow, they will see the vocabulary words that have been hung in a border around the room, and they will see the sign I made that says, "You must learn the rules before you can break them," flanked on one side by the Mona Lisa, and on the other, by a cubist Picasso portrait. Tomorrow, I will show them the hockey stick that I've turned into a hall pass, and I will tell them sternly that they must be so tender with the hall pass. Tomorrow, they will sit in the desks that I've meticulously arranged in a circle formation, and they will listen as I review the syllabi via a Powerpoint with silly pictures to accompany the various points.
Tomorrow, they will be my students, and I will be their teacher.
Tomorrow, I will pretend that I've completed the summer reading assignments of "Crime and Punishment," and "Mere Christianity," instead of telling them the truth: that I was frantically scanning Sparksnotes the night before, trying to catch myself up on all major points. Tomorrow, I will smile, and give my Senior AP students the reading cards that were fashioned by a former teacher, requiring them to identify the novel's symbols, motifs, tones, syntax structure, diction style, genre, and so on-- many terms which I still feel shaky on myself. Tomorrow, if they ask me to explain what I mean by identifying the novel's "syntax," I will glibly say, "We'll go over all these terms later. For now, I'd like to see what terms you're comfortable with and what you're still unsure about. Think of this as a pretest. Do your best; we'll go over all of these later this week."
Tomorrow, I will get on my knees and pray with determination that God hold to His promise that in my weakness, He will be strong, and also well informed about literary analysis.
Tomorrow, I will wear a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink blouse, tan boots, and a thick brown belt around my waist.
Tomorrow, I will give my fellow English teachers boxes of tea, because English teachers love tea, and because I want to show them that I am thankful and excited to teach alongside them this year.
Tomorrow, I might get sick to my stomach, which is what my body does when it gets very nervous. But tomorrow, if that happens, I will square my shoulders and breathe into my diaphragm and lift my chin and say, "Good morning folks. Welcome to Senior year," and I will pretend that I never had a previous encounter with the toilet bowl.
(But tomorrow, please God, don't let me get sick WHILE the students are there. Amen.)
Tomorrow, I will meet my kids. I will begin to know their names. I will begin to hear their stories. Tomorrow, I will remember why it is that I LOVE this.
Tomorrow, I will thank God for the miraculous blessing of a job, of supportive co-teachers, of a wonderful principal, and for being in a school that allows me to post my fervent prayer in the form of a Bible verse outside my door. Tomorrow, I will pray for my students, and I will pray that He enables me to teach them as they deserve to be taught.
"Tomorrow" gets over at 3:00 PM. And boy-- tomorrow? That hour just can't come soon enough.
Tomorrow: I will face down one hundred students, divided into five different classes, as their teacher. Tomorrow, I will give students syllabi that I have spent hours writing, which describe texts and units spanning the entire year. Tomorrow, I will ask them to introduce themselves, and I will introduce myself to them. Tomorrow, these students will see my classroom-- they will see the art on the walls that I selected to stimulate their thinking; they will see the world map that I've hung with pins stuck in the places that I've been, with more pins at the ready for them to stick in the cities they've traveled to. Tomorrow, they will see the vocabulary words that have been hung in a border around the room, and they will see the sign I made that says, "You must learn the rules before you can break them," flanked on one side by the Mona Lisa, and on the other, by a cubist Picasso portrait. Tomorrow, I will show them the hockey stick that I've turned into a hall pass, and I will tell them sternly that they must be so tender with the hall pass. Tomorrow, they will sit in the desks that I've meticulously arranged in a circle formation, and they will listen as I review the syllabi via a Powerpoint with silly pictures to accompany the various points.
Tomorrow, they will be my students, and I will be their teacher.
Tomorrow, I will pretend that I've completed the summer reading assignments of "Crime and Punishment," and "Mere Christianity," instead of telling them the truth: that I was frantically scanning Sparksnotes the night before, trying to catch myself up on all major points. Tomorrow, I will smile, and give my Senior AP students the reading cards that were fashioned by a former teacher, requiring them to identify the novel's symbols, motifs, tones, syntax structure, diction style, genre, and so on-- many terms which I still feel shaky on myself. Tomorrow, if they ask me to explain what I mean by identifying the novel's "syntax," I will glibly say, "We'll go over all these terms later. For now, I'd like to see what terms you're comfortable with and what you're still unsure about. Think of this as a pretest. Do your best; we'll go over all of these later this week."
Tomorrow, I will get on my knees and pray with determination that God hold to His promise that in my weakness, He will be strong, and also well informed about literary analysis.
Tomorrow, I will wear a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink blouse, tan boots, and a thick brown belt around my waist.
Tomorrow, I will give my fellow English teachers boxes of tea, because English teachers love tea, and because I want to show them that I am thankful and excited to teach alongside them this year.
Tomorrow, I might get sick to my stomach, which is what my body does when it gets very nervous. But tomorrow, if that happens, I will square my shoulders and breathe into my diaphragm and lift my chin and say, "Good morning folks. Welcome to Senior year," and I will pretend that I never had a previous encounter with the toilet bowl.
(But tomorrow, please God, don't let me get sick WHILE the students are there. Amen.)
Tomorrow, I will meet my kids. I will begin to know their names. I will begin to hear their stories. Tomorrow, I will remember why it is that I LOVE this.
Tomorrow, I will thank God for the miraculous blessing of a job, of supportive co-teachers, of a wonderful principal, and for being in a school that allows me to post my fervent prayer in the form of a Bible verse outside my door. Tomorrow, I will pray for my students, and I will pray that He enables me to teach them as they deserve to be taught.
"Tomorrow" gets over at 3:00 PM. And boy-- tomorrow? That hour just can't come soon enough.
Aug 14, 2009
If I Had a Magic Wand
Today, I would use it to enable people to see themselves as others see them. Or better yet, as God sees them. How would we be different if we knew how treasured we are? If we saw ourselves, not as messy, bumbling, wrong individuals, but as loved, adored, and delighted in?
Last year, on my drive to school every morning, I would pray, "Help me to see these kids the way that YOU see them, and help me to love them the way that YOU love them."
The worlds looks completely different when you ask that. People are so much more huggable.
Not that I hugged the kids. (Inappropriate.)
But people become dear. Someone that was offensive and abrasive is suddenly, so clearly, hurt. I always feel like I get a special little window, and I'm able to understand something more than before. Not completely-- but MORE.
It grieves me when people don't understand, can't comprehend, their own wonderfulness.
Zap.
Wish I could.
Last year, on my drive to school every morning, I would pray, "Help me to see these kids the way that YOU see them, and help me to love them the way that YOU love them."
The worlds looks completely different when you ask that. People are so much more huggable.
Not that I hugged the kids. (Inappropriate.)
But people become dear. Someone that was offensive and abrasive is suddenly, so clearly, hurt. I always feel like I get a special little window, and I'm able to understand something more than before. Not completely-- but MORE.
It grieves me when people don't understand, can't comprehend, their own wonderfulness.
Zap.
Wish I could.
Jun 18, 2009
Letting Go
Written in my journal last night.
We have two days of school left. After that, our school gets shut down for good, and the kids will be farmed out to schools all over the city. I haven't been thinking about it-- haven't been letting myself dwell on the thought of never seeing these very special kids again. But on my way to school today, I started thinking about Mark and Joshua Larin-- two boys whose mother is terminally ill and has only been given until December to live. I've never heard any mention of the father; as far as I know, their mom is all they've got. Mark is one of our 10th graders, and is SO bright and perceptive, even though he never turns anything in. Anytime I DO get a bit of his writing, I'm always floored-- especially by the philosophy he brings up, he's such a DEEP thinker. And Joshua, his little brother, is an eighth grader that I got to know in swing class earlier this year. He's young but was already a great dance lead. He's grown at least four inches since then. I worry about him especially-- he has such a hungry, desperate look in his eyes and is prone to fighting people, or acting up in class-- he's just angry. He's such a sweetheart though too, and can be very clever and funny-- he reminds me of my little brother in that way, especially because of his dishwater-blond hair. I look at him, and I see him aching. I just can't imagine these boys trying to deal with their mother dying.
Earlier this year, for a swing performance, Joshua borrowed this black fedora of mine. I never wear it-- it's too big for my head-- but it's a really nice hat, and it looked great on him. He wore it even after the performance, as long as I let him. I think I want to just give it to him-- it's not good to hug the kids, even though I sometimes wish I could-- so this is my best substitute to let him know I CARE.
Anyway, thinking about Mark and Joshua on my way to school got me crying, and then I thought with such despair, "I'm not going to know how ANY of them are. I won't know how Ashley's doing with her crazy mom, I won't know if Eduardo or Miguel or George ever graduate, I wont' get to see how Natalie's poetry keeps improving or know if she decides to go to college after all... I won't be able to check up on them!"
I asked Viola (mentor) and Jane (the theatre teacher)-- if they thought it would be all right to allow the kids to be my "Myspace" friends after school ended.
"NO," Jane said adamantly. "Never. You don't what could happen there, someone could post something inappropriate on your wall and then that goes out to the world-- that could really get you into trouble, through no fault of your own. You CAN'T be the kids' friend. It's part of the gig."
I started to weakly say that the Myspace was just a music Myspace, that it wasn't personal at all-- and Viola interrupted me.
"You just have to let them go, Greta. You have to let them go."
I guess, in a way, it's a comfort to believe in a bigger God to surrender them to. But... this is terrible to write, because it's pretty blasphemous-- so many of the kids seem looked over by Him. SO many of them have TERRIBLE lives. Like Mark read from his poem that he read for the poetry slam, "WTF, God? Where ARE you?"
... But then God says, "I got them to you, didn't I? I asked YOU to show them love, and hope, and kindness all year, didn't I? I've got more people ahead for these kids."
I have to let them go. I MUST surrender them, and let them go.
Viola said, "The ones that are really determined to find you will find you. They will. And that's really the way it should be."
I just haven't gotten practiced at this part yet. I've had lots of practice with lesson plans, and classroom management, and establishing good teacher/student rapport, but this is my first End of The Year goodbye... And because the school's closing, I won't be able to come back and visit these kids. And these are SPECIAL kids to me! These are the students that taught me how to teach!
It's so hard. Hard to GIVE them up. Hard to say goodbye.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Today, Joshua came by our classroom after school, and I gave him the fedora. He was with three girl friends, so I couldn't say anything about his mom, or about HOPING for him, but I said, "I just remember you looking so nice in this, and I thought you should have it!"
He thanked me, and put the hat right on, and then paused. "I'm really not looking forward to not being at this school next year. I don't want to think about it."
I thought of the massive instability in Joshua and Mark's life, and considered that their SCHOOL-- this small community of students and teachers who all knew them, who all knew about them-- was perhaps one of the only stable things in their lives. Yet now this was ending too.
"I know," I said. "It makes me really sad too."
I wish I could have given him a hug.
On Mark's final-- which he TURNED IN, one of the only pieces of writing I've seen from him all year, and I watched him toil over it for three hours, coming back to our class during his elective period to finish it up-- I wrote:
"Mark, this is the only 100% I've given. This is well written, well argued, and shows tremendous skill. Once again, I am reminded of how capable you are.
"Know that you will always have someone believing in you. I know this hasn't been an easy year, and I'm so sorry for that. I'll continue to pray for you and your fam. Know though that there are many people who are PROUD of you.
"Best of luck Mark; it's been a privilege. --Greta."
We have one more day of school.
It's hard to let them go.
We have two days of school left. After that, our school gets shut down for good, and the kids will be farmed out to schools all over the city. I haven't been thinking about it-- haven't been letting myself dwell on the thought of never seeing these very special kids again. But on my way to school today, I started thinking about Mark and Joshua Larin-- two boys whose mother is terminally ill and has only been given until December to live. I've never heard any mention of the father; as far as I know, their mom is all they've got. Mark is one of our 10th graders, and is SO bright and perceptive, even though he never turns anything in. Anytime I DO get a bit of his writing, I'm always floored-- especially by the philosophy he brings up, he's such a DEEP thinker. And Joshua, his little brother, is an eighth grader that I got to know in swing class earlier this year. He's young but was already a great dance lead. He's grown at least four inches since then. I worry about him especially-- he has such a hungry, desperate look in his eyes and is prone to fighting people, or acting up in class-- he's just angry. He's such a sweetheart though too, and can be very clever and funny-- he reminds me of my little brother in that way, especially because of his dishwater-blond hair. I look at him, and I see him aching. I just can't imagine these boys trying to deal with their mother dying.
Earlier this year, for a swing performance, Joshua borrowed this black fedora of mine. I never wear it-- it's too big for my head-- but it's a really nice hat, and it looked great on him. He wore it even after the performance, as long as I let him. I think I want to just give it to him-- it's not good to hug the kids, even though I sometimes wish I could-- so this is my best substitute to let him know I CARE.
Anyway, thinking about Mark and Joshua on my way to school got me crying, and then I thought with such despair, "I'm not going to know how ANY of them are. I won't know how Ashley's doing with her crazy mom, I won't know if Eduardo or Miguel or George ever graduate, I wont' get to see how Natalie's poetry keeps improving or know if she decides to go to college after all... I won't be able to check up on them!"
I asked Viola (mentor) and Jane (the theatre teacher)-- if they thought it would be all right to allow the kids to be my "Myspace" friends after school ended.
"NO," Jane said adamantly. "Never. You don't what could happen there, someone could post something inappropriate on your wall and then that goes out to the world-- that could really get you into trouble, through no fault of your own. You CAN'T be the kids' friend. It's part of the gig."
I started to weakly say that the Myspace was just a music Myspace, that it wasn't personal at all-- and Viola interrupted me.
"You just have to let them go, Greta. You have to let them go."
I guess, in a way, it's a comfort to believe in a bigger God to surrender them to. But... this is terrible to write, because it's pretty blasphemous-- so many of the kids seem looked over by Him. SO many of them have TERRIBLE lives. Like Mark read from his poem that he read for the poetry slam, "WTF, God? Where ARE you?"
... But then God says, "I got them to you, didn't I? I asked YOU to show them love, and hope, and kindness all year, didn't I? I've got more people ahead for these kids."
I have to let them go. I MUST surrender them, and let them go.
Viola said, "The ones that are really determined to find you will find you. They will. And that's really the way it should be."
I just haven't gotten practiced at this part yet. I've had lots of practice with lesson plans, and classroom management, and establishing good teacher/student rapport, but this is my first End of The Year goodbye... And because the school's closing, I won't be able to come back and visit these kids. And these are SPECIAL kids to me! These are the students that taught me how to teach!
It's so hard. Hard to GIVE them up. Hard to say goodbye.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Today, Joshua came by our classroom after school, and I gave him the fedora. He was with three girl friends, so I couldn't say anything about his mom, or about HOPING for him, but I said, "I just remember you looking so nice in this, and I thought you should have it!"
He thanked me, and put the hat right on, and then paused. "I'm really not looking forward to not being at this school next year. I don't want to think about it."
I thought of the massive instability in Joshua and Mark's life, and considered that their SCHOOL-- this small community of students and teachers who all knew them, who all knew about them-- was perhaps one of the only stable things in their lives. Yet now this was ending too.
"I know," I said. "It makes me really sad too."
I wish I could have given him a hug.
On Mark's final-- which he TURNED IN, one of the only pieces of writing I've seen from him all year, and I watched him toil over it for three hours, coming back to our class during his elective period to finish it up-- I wrote:
"Mark, this is the only 100% I've given. This is well written, well argued, and shows tremendous skill. Once again, I am reminded of how capable you are.
"Know that you will always have someone believing in you. I know this hasn't been an easy year, and I'm so sorry for that. I'll continue to pray for you and your fam. Know though that there are many people who are PROUD of you.
"Best of luck Mark; it's been a privilege. --Greta."
We have one more day of school.
It's hard to let them go.
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