Time to Finish the Cottage Cheese

Many mornings I consume two breakfasts--one imaginary one and another an hour after I get out of bed. As the remnants of dreams hold on to my waking moments like spiderwebs being pushed aside, hunger invades my peaceful morning. And from the low growls in my abdomen, my body demands food.

With no desire to leave the comforts of bed, I prepare a feast in my mind. Blueberry pancakes that are so full of berries no syrup is needed. Not wanting to commit such an injustice, I slather the cakes with the thick sweet liquid. Followed by hickory smoked bacon with the perfect consistency of chewy and crunch. I may add eggs of some form to my imaginary meal depending on how hungry I am. Finally, a cup of hazelnut coffee that remains hot throughout. Yum.

My stomach grumbles not impressed with my first meal. Time to get up.

After making my way downstairs I search the contents of the refrigerator, trying to ignore the red and white container at eye level. Cottage cheese. Not one of my favorite foods, but over the years I've discovered if I start my day with cottage cheese or some form of protein, I feel better.

I push it aside. Leftover pizza does not sound appealing. My sons would thank me later for leaving it for them. Cereal? Nope. I look back at the cottage cheese.

I sigh. "Why can't you taste like blueberry pancakes?"

Will I finish this small tub or will it end up in a lasagna like the last one? I remove the container and grab a spoon. Double-dipping doesn't concern me, no one else eat it. After a quick prayer and an apology to my stomach, I down a few bites.

Before long it feels like my body is thanking me for my choice. My mind told me I wanted one thing, yet my stomach told me I needed something else. If I had given in to my imaginary breakfast and made it my meal of choice, I would be ready to go back to bed. Giving my body something I knew it would respond well to prepared me for the day.

How many times have I asked God, "Are you sure this is the spiritual food you want me to consume today?" He doesn't always give me what I want, but He does give me what I need.

I put the cottage cheese back in the refrigerator. Again at eye level. Will I choose it tomorrow? I don't know, yet God has given me everything I need to do so. With His help I will finish the Cottage Cheese. No lasagna for this one.

Life

She stared at me with the hope and innocence of youth, yet I needed to be the one to give her a bitter taste of reality.

“What if God doesn’t give you what you want?” I asked.

Her expression deflated. “But He has to,” she said with more doubt than she realized.

Years of being a Christian had schooled me differently. “No. He doesn’t.”

Every year I teach a life skills class to high schoolers, I discover the same basic facts:

1/4 of the students think they know everything
1/4 KNOW they know everything
1/2 of the class is a mixture of those who are unsure they want to know anything; those who are certain they don’t and a few who actually believe they can learn something that they don’t already know.

In an age where technology is teaching our kids faster than the rest of us can keep up, the last thing they’re interested in is learning how to write a check. For that matter, several will look at me and ask, “Isn’t that the same as using a debit card?”

Then why teach life skills? Because life is more than what these students can learn in a textbook (or on Facebook). Life is meant to be experience and if done so unintentionally, there’s so much to miss.

I encourage my students to shoot for the stars when they think about their futures. But if they land on the moon, it’s a good thing. When we work on goals, I always have a few students whose goal is to marry a Godly person, have Godly kids and live a happily-ever-after Godly life. Just like the young girl with whom I spoke with above.

“Mrs. Perkins, are you saying this is an unrealistic goal?”

I smiled and looked into her beautiful blue eyes. “Yes, it is because a goal is something you work toward to make happen. But it is a realistic desire. One you will need to trust God for.”

She nodded. “I can do that.” She closed her notebook, gathered her things and headed for her next class.

I found her quick response to trusting God refreshing. I said a simple prayer asking God to one day give her the desires of her heart. And when she struggles, that she can still respond with, “I trust you, Lord.”

God, may I respond as quickly as my student when you ask me to trust you.

Did He Really Ask Me That?

"How long have you been teaching?"

I looked at the 9th-grade student who'd interrupted my Geometry lesson with an unrelated question. His expression gave me no indication as to his inquiry. I study the equation on the board and wondered if I'd made a mistake.

All the doubts I've struggled with in teaching bombarded my thoughts. What makes you think you can teach math? You don't have a math degree. What if you're teaching the concepts wrong? What if they don't understand the way you teach?

I took a deep breath and let it out before I addressed the student on the front row. "Are you asking how long I've been teaching math?"

He slouched in his chair. "Yeah."

He thinks I'm a bad teacher. This was a student I'd already written up...twice. His mom was a fellow teacher.

I prepared for the worse. "This is my second year."

He raised his eyebrow. "Really?"

Here it comes.

He smiled. "You really know your stuff. You're a good teacher."

A good teacher?

"Thank you." I turned back to the board and finished the equation.

I expected a confrontation, God gave me confirmation. And a reason to smile for the rest of the day.

Each school year brings challenges with curriculum and students. Along with doubts. When my doubts point to my own inabilities I know I'm not trusting my Heavenly Father with what He's given me an opportunity to do.

I'm not perfect, but I am passionate about teaching. And I'm passionate about the lives God allows me to touch. Someone told me years ago, when God calls, He is able to complete in me what I am not. How thankful I am that He is able, even when it comes to Geometry.

I love what I do!

Write Now

There are times when I desire normalcy in my life, only to discover the one normal thing is the setting on my dryer. After another hectic week of school and activities, my children find their bedtime has been pushed back once again to complete assignments. I tell them, "Don't worry, next week will be a normal week." My twins nod and smile at me from behind red eyes and tired expressions.

I've told them that for almost a month. Last night I suggested we figure out how to change our normal.

Activities will always be apart of our lives as well as the unexpected. Earlier in the summer our dryer decided not to work along with the several other appliances. We adapted. “Air-dried clothes smell fresher,” I continue to tell myself. In hot muggy Florida, I'm not convinced.

After a weekend away at a writer’s workshop, I realized I still reached for that intangible normal in my life when it comes to writing. My excuses? Everything.

No more excuses and jumping back into something I love and am passionate about. It’s time…
right now...
to write.

If only I could start with changing the definition of normal in the dictionary.

The Purchased One

“I paid for that one.” The young man’s voice sliced through the mummers of the high school cafeteria.

I glanced in the direction of the four teenagers who stood around a table. Backpacks, with papers sticking out of half-closed notebooks, and jackets were slung on the backs of chairs or dropped at their feet. A couple of brown lunch bags sat on the table along with a dozen or more carnations.

“Who gave you that one?” Hannah asked.

Kayleigh giggled. “I don’t know.” She flipped open the piece of paper attached to the stem of a pink flower. Both girls leaned their heads together and read the note. They looked at each other and laughed.

“Well?” Scott crossed his arms and waited. The girls giggled again. Kayleigh placed the flower back on the table and picked up another one.

I lost interest in grading papers and studied the group of high school kids. With my first year teaching at the school, I’d not experienced their Valentine’s Day tradition before. Prior to the student’s arrival, the office looked like a florist. Throughout the day, students delivered flowers, that'd been purchased the previous week, to teachers and classmates. Excitement rose at the school as young girls (and guys) received carnations from their friends.

“I really did pay for that one,” Ryan said again and pointed to a carnation. His friends laughed.

“What’s the big deal? So you paid for one. Not like Kayleigh needs another flower.” Scott poked Ryan in the shoulder.

“No. I bought it for me,” he said.

The three students glanced at each other before they burst into laughter.

“Dude, what’s up with that?” Scott said loud enough to draw the attention of others at nearby tables.

The girls interlocked their arms and stared at Ryan.

He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“Because I’m worth it.” The center of the basketball team walked toward the lunch line.

Ryan's classmates looked at each other, but this time no one laughed.

“Hey, wait up,” Scott said. He leaped over a backpack and caught up with his friend.

The girls followed.

I sat there and wondered if that’s what Jesus said about me.

“I bought that one,” Jesus told his adversary.

“Why?” Satan snickered as he remembered all of my inabilities and failures.

“Because she’s worth it.”

Happy Valentine’s Day

Swimming to Shore

When I attended my first writer’s conference, I realized I’d been tossed, not in the deepest part of a pool, but in the vastness of an ocean and told to find land.

Drowning—a strong possibility.

What’s a pitch? Does it involve a ball?

Tagline? Isn’t that a game?

What does an elevator have to do with writing?

I swam toward a shore that spoke a language I didn’t understand. When I reached my first “dingy” at the conference, I listened to all the dos and don’ts when meeting editors, publicists and others in the industry. Writing them down helped me as I completed (in one afternoon) all the don’ts and struggled to remind myself of the dos. After three meetings with editors and the drowning process well underway, I didn’t know my genre (fiction is not the answer) and tried to process that my writing fell into three categories—good, lacking, and awful.

In the evening session, one speaker shared the words I needed to hear.

“If you want to write, you must remember two things.”

I sat on the edge of my seat, pen poised, and waited.

“Writer’s must develop rhino skin. And you will still bleed.”

I rested my pen on my notebook and clung to the words tossed my way like a life jacket—words that changed my perspective.

I will bleed. Disappointments are unavoidable and certain realities in life cause me to hurt. But bleeding’s apart of life. Healing can only take place after I bleed. Difficult times aren’t meant to destroy me, but make me stronger. In the end, strength, like the skin of a rhino, develops.

Less than two years later, I attended another conference and relished the time I spent learning more about the craft.

“You’re glowing.” The director said to me after a critique session.

I nodded. I’m learning how to swim. The shore’s much closer.