The students filed into class for their first period—some attentive, some still trying to wake up.
I struggled with the lecture to come. I knew it would be short, and it was. Ten minutes after class started I handed each student an envelope.
God, use this in their lives, I prayed.
The content consisted of a letter I’d not written, but they had. A letter written over a month ago addressed to them from God.
The day of the first assignment, the classed looked at me confused.
“You want us to write our own letter from God?” One skeptical student asked.
“More than that,” I replied, “I want you to listen to God. Ask Him what He wants to say to you.”
Papers shuffled, snickers sounded from different tables, backpacks hit the floor.
As the students wrote; I prayed.
Now, one month later, the letters are handed out and the class is asked to respond to what was in the first letter.
Please, speak to their hearts.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
One Changed Life
Busy is the new definition for normal. The month of May filled our lives with our oldest graduating from college, her roommate's wedding, our anniversary, our oldest son finishing his first year of college and our twins finishing their first year of high school. I'm tired just thinking about it again.
The year ended in a blur, but I was very much aware of the twelve seniors who graduated that same month. Ten of whom I taught. One who struggled in areas of his faith.
"I don't know if I believe there's a God," he'd said.
We talked over coffee. Actually he talked more, I listened...and prayed.
Less than an hour later, we headed back to our separate classes. I moved on to teach another subject and he to listen to another teacher.
I didn't know if I answered his questions to his satisfaction.
At graduation his mom thanked me.
"For what? I don't think I said much of what he didn't already know." I chuckled. "There are parts of Scripture he seemed to understand better than me."
"You listened to him."
I nodded as she turned to greet other well wishers about her son's graduation.
After that night, my interaction with this small group of seniors ended as well.
At least I thought so.
Two weeks ago one of the young ladies in the class contacted me.
I read the words several times. He's a Christian, now.
She ended her correspondence with, "I know you prayed for him, so I thought you'd want to know."
Our lives had moved on. God's work in his life had not.
One year, one student, one changed life.
I love what I do.
The year ended in a blur, but I was very much aware of the twelve seniors who graduated that same month. Ten of whom I taught. One who struggled in areas of his faith.
"I don't know if I believe there's a God," he'd said.
We talked over coffee. Actually he talked more, I listened...and prayed.
Less than an hour later, we headed back to our separate classes. I moved on to teach another subject and he to listen to another teacher.
I didn't know if I answered his questions to his satisfaction.
At graduation his mom thanked me.
"For what? I don't think I said much of what he didn't already know." I chuckled. "There are parts of Scripture he seemed to understand better than me."
"You listened to him."
I nodded as she turned to greet other well wishers about her son's graduation.
After that night, my interaction with this small group of seniors ended as well.
At least I thought so.
Two weeks ago one of the young ladies in the class contacted me.
I read the words several times. He's a Christian, now.
She ended her correspondence with, "I know you prayed for him, so I thought you'd want to know."
Our lives had moved on. God's work in his life had not.
One year, one student, one changed life.
I love what I do.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Different Kind of Yellow
The restaurant was as full as I expected for a Friday night. My agenda was simple—order dinner and go home.
An elderly woman sat on the only available bench in the crowded restaurant with a dozen or so individuals lingering around the takeout counter. After placing my order I pardoned my way through the waiting crowd until I reached the bench.
“May I?”
She nodded and tried to scoot closer to the wall.
I sat as close as I could to the large barrel that pinned us in.
The door on the other side of the barrel opened and closed with new customers arriving and satisfied ones leaving. The unusual briskness in the night air crept in with each opportunity and nipped at my bare ankles. I tucked my legs under the bench.
“Cold one for this time of the year,” my seat mate commented.
I smiled. “Yes.” I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, thinking our conversation had ended.
“Worked all day and decided I wasn’t about to cook,” she continued.
I looked her way. She wore light blue scrub pants and a multicolor top. I wondered if she was a nurse or perhaps a dental hygienist.
“Me too.”
She glanced at the school ID badge on my jacket. “Been up since four shampooing carpets.”
House keeper? Maid? I guessed again at her occupation.
She nodded more to herself. “Did my house, then went and did my parents. Two houses in one day is exhausting.”
Care giver to aging parents?
“I bet they appreciate having clean carpets,” I said.
The server at the counter tapped a bell next to the cash register. “Cunningham? Mr. Cunningham, your order’s ready.”
Most of us glanced around and I suspected some, like me, checked one more person off of a mental list to how much closer we were to having our names called and headed to another destination.
Mr. Cunningham reached the counter, picked up a couple of Styrofoam containers and then walked past me. The smell of the hot seafood made my stomach grumble.
My companion chuckled. “For over twenty years, I’d head over when they’re out of town and usually do something.” She shifted to better face me—our knees close to touching.
“One time Mama had no idea what I was up to. I asked her, ‘if you could paint your kitchen any color, what would it be?’ Mama said she wanted yellow. Not too light or to dark.” The woman tucked a gray curl behind her ear. It blended in with the rest of her shoulder-length hair. “I found the color. A different kind of yellow. By the time my folks returned home from vacation, I had the entire kitchen painted.”
“That was thoughtful.” I found myself enjoying our conversation.
She gently touched my arm. “You know what my mama said? She said, ‘why’d you do all of this hard work?’” She leaned toward me. “I told her, ‘cause she’s my mama and I love her.”
“Jensen?” The server called out.
The woman next to me stood and headed toward the counter. I was sad to see our conversation come to an end. She picked up her containers and walked toward the door, but stopped when she reached the barrel.
“Mama’s in heaven now. I still take care of my step-dad. She would want me to. He’s coming home to clean carpets.” She winked at me before she headed into the cold night.
A loving daughter.
An elderly woman sat on the only available bench in the crowded restaurant with a dozen or so individuals lingering around the takeout counter. After placing my order I pardoned my way through the waiting crowd until I reached the bench.
“May I?”
She nodded and tried to scoot closer to the wall.
I sat as close as I could to the large barrel that pinned us in.
The door on the other side of the barrel opened and closed with new customers arriving and satisfied ones leaving. The unusual briskness in the night air crept in with each opportunity and nipped at my bare ankles. I tucked my legs under the bench.
“Cold one for this time of the year,” my seat mate commented.
I smiled. “Yes.” I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, thinking our conversation had ended.
“Worked all day and decided I wasn’t about to cook,” she continued.
I looked her way. She wore light blue scrub pants and a multicolor top. I wondered if she was a nurse or perhaps a dental hygienist.
“Me too.”
She glanced at the school ID badge on my jacket. “Been up since four shampooing carpets.”
House keeper? Maid? I guessed again at her occupation.
She nodded more to herself. “Did my house, then went and did my parents. Two houses in one day is exhausting.”
Care giver to aging parents?
“I bet they appreciate having clean carpets,” I said.
The server at the counter tapped a bell next to the cash register. “Cunningham? Mr. Cunningham, your order’s ready.”
Most of us glanced around and I suspected some, like me, checked one more person off of a mental list to how much closer we were to having our names called and headed to another destination.
Mr. Cunningham reached the counter, picked up a couple of Styrofoam containers and then walked past me. The smell of the hot seafood made my stomach grumble.
My companion chuckled. “For over twenty years, I’d head over when they’re out of town and usually do something.” She shifted to better face me—our knees close to touching.
“One time Mama had no idea what I was up to. I asked her, ‘if you could paint your kitchen any color, what would it be?’ Mama said she wanted yellow. Not too light or to dark.” The woman tucked a gray curl behind her ear. It blended in with the rest of her shoulder-length hair. “I found the color. A different kind of yellow. By the time my folks returned home from vacation, I had the entire kitchen painted.”
“That was thoughtful.” I found myself enjoying our conversation.
She gently touched my arm. “You know what my mama said? She said, ‘why’d you do all of this hard work?’” She leaned toward me. “I told her, ‘cause she’s my mama and I love her.”
“Jensen?” The server called out.
The woman next to me stood and headed toward the counter. I was sad to see our conversation come to an end. She picked up her containers and walked toward the door, but stopped when she reached the barrel.
“Mama’s in heaven now. I still take care of my step-dad. She would want me to. He’s coming home to clean carpets.” She winked at me before she headed into the cold night.
A loving daughter.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Church in a Tow Truck
My car broke down an hour from home, on a Sunday, after a writer’s conference. And the friend who traveled with me was sick. The only think I needed to make the situation worse was rain. Thankfully God held that back.
I sat with my friend in the car and tried not to imagine our ride home with a stranger is a tow truck. The last time I remember being under similar circumstances, my dad had died and our car broke down in West Virginia on our way to his funeral. A rather large station wagon arrived from a nearby towing company.
“This is probably one of the largest station wagons I’ve ever been in.” I tried to make small take since I was sandwiched between the driver and my husband. Our four kids filled the seat behind us, yet our luggage had ample room in the rear.
“Yes’um.” He reached over my knee to adjust the static of the country music station. “Work two jobs with this here, Nellie.” He patted the dash. “When I’m not towin’ I use her as a hearse.”
That ended my small talk.
I forced the memory from my mind as I sat in a similar situation. I hung up after I called AAA. “Someone should be here within the hour,” I said.
My friend smiled, closed her eyes, and then rested her head against the car door.
Our rescuer arrived thirty minutes later. An older man stepped out of the truck. Faded tattoos covered both arms and disappeared under the short sleeves of his back Tee shirt. He walked with the stride of a cowboy yet wore converse. His skin appeared leathered with a distinct contrasted from his white hair and mustache. He made a quick inspection of the car. I tried to answer his few questions.
The driver glanced at my companion and me. With a slight nod toward the truck he said, “One in the front and one in the back.”
I ended up in the front. I inspected the cab while I waited for my car to be lifted onto the truck bead. A sticker on the dash read, “No smoking, fasten seat belt, tipping okay.” I chuckled.
Above the review mirror hung a picture of a family—two girls, two boys, and possibly a grand child. In the photo, all surrounded the image of our driver. At least six more pictures were tapped on the upper edge of the dash window. A license hung from the mirror with the name Frank Bannick.
Frank entered the truck and asked for the mechanic’s address. He punched the information I gave him into his GPS before he eased into traffic.
“Nice family,” I said when the silence became noticeable.
He nodded. “Pray for them most days.”
I raised my brow. “You do?”
“Well, since I’ve been saved anyway.” Frank turned his head toward me and smiled. No, he radiated.
“How long have you been a Christian?”
“Since the week before Christmas. I knew God wanted me, but I kept running from Him. But when my cousin died, I stopped running.”
I did a quick calculation in my head. Frank had been living as a Christian for only ten weeks.
For the next hour, Frank shared his story with me. At times his eyes moistened. He’d apologize for his emotions as he wiped tear-brimmed eyes with the back of his hand.
He talked about prayer and the power of forgiveness. How he’d found God’s peace when it didn’t make sense. He shared about friends and family members he prayed for. And other who grieved him with their choices. He shared regrets he’d made with his children and how he asked God to help him point them to a heavenly Father.
Frank continued to talk after we dropped my friend off at one location and met my husband at the mechanics.
I thanked him for the ride and his openness. “I feel like I’ve been to church,” I said.
The broad smile I’d gotten use to seeing spread across his face again. “God, told me what I do is a ministry. I gotta keep trying to reach people. I gotta keeping praying.”
We exchanged business cards.
As my husband put my bags in the car, I watched the red tow truck pull back onto the main street. I won’t forget Frank. A baby Christian who wants to change the world—one tow at a time.
I sat with my friend in the car and tried not to imagine our ride home with a stranger is a tow truck. The last time I remember being under similar circumstances, my dad had died and our car broke down in West Virginia on our way to his funeral. A rather large station wagon arrived from a nearby towing company.
“This is probably one of the largest station wagons I’ve ever been in.” I tried to make small take since I was sandwiched between the driver and my husband. Our four kids filled the seat behind us, yet our luggage had ample room in the rear.
“Yes’um.” He reached over my knee to adjust the static of the country music station. “Work two jobs with this here, Nellie.” He patted the dash. “When I’m not towin’ I use her as a hearse.”
That ended my small talk.
I forced the memory from my mind as I sat in a similar situation. I hung up after I called AAA. “Someone should be here within the hour,” I said.
My friend smiled, closed her eyes, and then rested her head against the car door.
Our rescuer arrived thirty minutes later. An older man stepped out of the truck. Faded tattoos covered both arms and disappeared under the short sleeves of his back Tee shirt. He walked with the stride of a cowboy yet wore converse. His skin appeared leathered with a distinct contrasted from his white hair and mustache. He made a quick inspection of the car. I tried to answer his few questions.
The driver glanced at my companion and me. With a slight nod toward the truck he said, “One in the front and one in the back.”
I ended up in the front. I inspected the cab while I waited for my car to be lifted onto the truck bead. A sticker on the dash read, “No smoking, fasten seat belt, tipping okay.” I chuckled.
Above the review mirror hung a picture of a family—two girls, two boys, and possibly a grand child. In the photo, all surrounded the image of our driver. At least six more pictures were tapped on the upper edge of the dash window. A license hung from the mirror with the name Frank Bannick.
Frank entered the truck and asked for the mechanic’s address. He punched the information I gave him into his GPS before he eased into traffic.
“Nice family,” I said when the silence became noticeable.
He nodded. “Pray for them most days.”
I raised my brow. “You do?”
“Well, since I’ve been saved anyway.” Frank turned his head toward me and smiled. No, he radiated.
“How long have you been a Christian?”
“Since the week before Christmas. I knew God wanted me, but I kept running from Him. But when my cousin died, I stopped running.”
I did a quick calculation in my head. Frank had been living as a Christian for only ten weeks.
For the next hour, Frank shared his story with me. At times his eyes moistened. He’d apologize for his emotions as he wiped tear-brimmed eyes with the back of his hand.
He talked about prayer and the power of forgiveness. How he’d found God’s peace when it didn’t make sense. He shared about friends and family members he prayed for. And other who grieved him with their choices. He shared regrets he’d made with his children and how he asked God to help him point them to a heavenly Father.
Frank continued to talk after we dropped my friend off at one location and met my husband at the mechanics.
I thanked him for the ride and his openness. “I feel like I’ve been to church,” I said.
The broad smile I’d gotten use to seeing spread across his face again. “God, told me what I do is a ministry. I gotta keep trying to reach people. I gotta keeping praying.”
We exchanged business cards.
As my husband put my bags in the car, I watched the red tow truck pull back onto the main street. I won’t forget Frank. A baby Christian who wants to change the world—one tow at a time.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Thanksgiving in March
I’m attending the Florida Christian Writer’s Conference where I feel like I’ve been invited to a feast.
God seem to whisper in my ear, “What will you have?”
“A healthy portion of faithfulness, please,” I reply, “So that I can be faithful in what You’ve called me to do with my writing.”
He smiles. “Enjoy.”
I feast on the words and wisdom of the staff writers who have been where I am and now enjoy the fruit of their labor. I quench my thirst with the excitement of other conferencees as I listen to the passion with which they tell their stories. I savor the workshops.
“Full yet?” God asked me this morning as I woke to day two of the conference.
I think about the meetings I want to attend for the rest of the weekend and the people I hope to speak with. “No. I’m as hungry today as I was when I arrived.”
“Good. Enjoy the feast.”
Excited about my day, I throw my bed covers off of me. “I will.”
Thanksgiving in March? Who knew.
God seem to whisper in my ear, “What will you have?”
“A healthy portion of faithfulness, please,” I reply, “So that I can be faithful in what You’ve called me to do with my writing.”
He smiles. “Enjoy.”
I feast on the words and wisdom of the staff writers who have been where I am and now enjoy the fruit of their labor. I quench my thirst with the excitement of other conferencees as I listen to the passion with which they tell their stories. I savor the workshops.
“Full yet?” God asked me this morning as I woke to day two of the conference.
I think about the meetings I want to attend for the rest of the weekend and the people I hope to speak with. “No. I’m as hungry today as I was when I arrived.”
“Good. Enjoy the feast.”
Excited about my day, I throw my bed covers off of me. “I will.”
Thanksgiving in March? Who knew.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Encouragement
Emily walked by my desk for the third time to throw something in the trash. She glanced my way as she headed back to her seat. She opened her text book, closed it, and then opened it again. Emily sighed.
I looked in her direction.
She nervously smiled my way, before she dropped her head to reengage with her history book. Which I doubt she read. As we sat in study hall, she waited on me to finish reading her story. A few days prior, Emily had approached me and asked if I would read something she'd written.
I smiled. "Of, course."
She tilted her head to one side causing large ebony curls to cover half of her face. Emily tucked them behind her ear and exposed the deep dimple in her cheek. "That would be great."
"Do you want any feed back?"
She hesitated. "Yes. please." Emily turned and walked away. She half skipped her first few steps.
To be asked to read a paper may not seem unusual except I'm not Emily's English teacher; I teach her math.
Emily loathes math. I'm not quite sure that's a strong enough word. She sits in the back row and desperately tried to understand the formulas and theorems I write on the board. Often I look at her when I ask the class. "Do you understand this concept?" If she doesn't nod, I approach the new material another way.
At times, Emily's face will get red and with furrowed brow, she looks like she's about to cry.
"If you're still confused," I glance around at the freshman, "see me after class and we'll try to meet another time."
Emily pinches her lips closed and nods. Not so much to me, but to the math book in front of her. The one she desires to burn and has told me so repeatedly.
I approach Emily at the end of class and encourage her not to give up.
"It's not you, Mrs. Perkins," she forces her book into her backpack; "I like you. But I hate math."
I watch one of my brightest students leave frustrated...again.
I knew of Emily's interest in writing because of how she spends the majority of her time in study hall. She often pulls out a pad of paper and—hunch over it like a scribe with a quill—writes for the entire class period.
One day, I'd asked what her writing interests were.
"Sweet stories," she said. "No violence. No killing. And no math."
I’d laughed.
That Thursday, I finished reading the piece Emily had written. I smiled. She does write sweet stories, but more than that, she has a talent for writing. I looked up into questioning eyes. "This is good," I said.
Emily exhaled, "Really?" She held her history book to her chest.
"Yes. This is really good. May I show you a few suggestions I made?"
Emily almost knocked over her chair trying to make her way to my desk. For the next few minutes, we look at her piece together.
"This means a lot to me, Mrs. Perkins. Thank you."
I saw something in Emily's eyes that I'd not seem all year. Hope. We'd found a common group--one on which I could encourage her to believe in herself and one on which she could receive.
May you be encouraged today by the smallest act of kindness. Better still, may you be the one to give it.
I looked in her direction.
She nervously smiled my way, before she dropped her head to reengage with her history book. Which I doubt she read. As we sat in study hall, she waited on me to finish reading her story. A few days prior, Emily had approached me and asked if I would read something she'd written.
I smiled. "Of, course."
She tilted her head to one side causing large ebony curls to cover half of her face. Emily tucked them behind her ear and exposed the deep dimple in her cheek. "That would be great."
"Do you want any feed back?"
She hesitated. "Yes. please." Emily turned and walked away. She half skipped her first few steps.
To be asked to read a paper may not seem unusual except I'm not Emily's English teacher; I teach her math.
Emily loathes math. I'm not quite sure that's a strong enough word. She sits in the back row and desperately tried to understand the formulas and theorems I write on the board. Often I look at her when I ask the class. "Do you understand this concept?" If she doesn't nod, I approach the new material another way.
At times, Emily's face will get red and with furrowed brow, she looks like she's about to cry.
"If you're still confused," I glance around at the freshman, "see me after class and we'll try to meet another time."
Emily pinches her lips closed and nods. Not so much to me, but to the math book in front of her. The one she desires to burn and has told me so repeatedly.
I approach Emily at the end of class and encourage her not to give up.
"It's not you, Mrs. Perkins," she forces her book into her backpack; "I like you. But I hate math."
I watch one of my brightest students leave frustrated...again.
I knew of Emily's interest in writing because of how she spends the majority of her time in study hall. She often pulls out a pad of paper and—hunch over it like a scribe with a quill—writes for the entire class period.
One day, I'd asked what her writing interests were.
"Sweet stories," she said. "No violence. No killing. And no math."
I’d laughed.
That Thursday, I finished reading the piece Emily had written. I smiled. She does write sweet stories, but more than that, she has a talent for writing. I looked up into questioning eyes. "This is good," I said.
Emily exhaled, "Really?" She held her history book to her chest.
"Yes. This is really good. May I show you a few suggestions I made?"
Emily almost knocked over her chair trying to make her way to my desk. For the next few minutes, we look at her piece together.
"This means a lot to me, Mrs. Perkins. Thank you."
I saw something in Emily's eyes that I'd not seem all year. Hope. We'd found a common group--one on which I could encourage her to believe in herself and one on which she could receive.
May you be encouraged today by the smallest act of kindness. Better still, may you be the one to give it.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Running Scared: Part 4, The Real Beginning
Answers to tough questions never come easy. The students in classroom eighteen knew how to ask them of me and each other.
"Where is God when I hurt?" "Why did He allow so much bad stuff to happen in my life?" "How can I know He loves me?"
Genuine questions from a group of students who want to know the answers. We've spent over a week addressing these inquiries and others. Most of the students have approached me with doubts and uncertainty about their Christian faith and yet a willingness to allow me to discuss their issues.
I don't have all the answers. My faith has been stretched in some way by each one of them.
At the end of last week's class, the students continued our conversation in the hallway. I ushered them into an empty classroom. More that half followed because they didn't have a next period class.
Our discussion continued for another half hour. They were opening up to me and to each other. How I praised God!
When the conversation slowed, I shooed the students out—except one. I'd promised her we would talk.
Kaylee hugged the other girl. "Grab tissue. Mrs. Perkins has a way of making you cry." She smiled at me.
"Really?" I raised a brow. "Am I that mean?"
"No." Kaylee tilted her head. "Just that caring." She walked out.
I pulled a chair up across from where Rachael sat. I looked at her and smiled. "You said in one of your papers that the past was the past. No need to dig it up. Either you don't want to deal with your pass so you buried it, or you've dealt with what's back there. I don't think the latter is the case."
Tears streamed down her cheeks without her saying a word.
I stood. "Let me grab the tissue."
She nodded.
I don't mean to sound cliché, but this class has changed my life. Since college I've had a desire to work with high school students, yet God has seen fit to allow that desire to grow for almost 25 years before allowing it to become a reality.
I almost missed the opportunity.
When the principal of the school asked me to teach this class, I came close to saying no. I knew what I wanted to teach and this wasn't at the top of my list.
"I really believe God will use you with this group of students," she'd said.
But was I willing to be used?
I’ve often told the students God changes my lesson plan on my way to school.
They laugh.
But He really does.
I'm so glad I listen. I'm glad He loves this group of seniors enough to not leave them where they are.
Running scare. Not sure of what the future holds for them when they’re no longer high school students. They will soon learn many are still running scare. Even after high school, from young adults to seniors. It’s the scared, that I pray they don’t focus on, but the running—and to Whom.
God's not through with the students in room eighteen.
And He's not done with me.
"Where is God when I hurt?" "Why did He allow so much bad stuff to happen in my life?" "How can I know He loves me?"
Genuine questions from a group of students who want to know the answers. We've spent over a week addressing these inquiries and others. Most of the students have approached me with doubts and uncertainty about their Christian faith and yet a willingness to allow me to discuss their issues.
I don't have all the answers. My faith has been stretched in some way by each one of them.
At the end of last week's class, the students continued our conversation in the hallway. I ushered them into an empty classroom. More that half followed because they didn't have a next period class.
Our discussion continued for another half hour. They were opening up to me and to each other. How I praised God!
When the conversation slowed, I shooed the students out—except one. I'd promised her we would talk.
Kaylee hugged the other girl. "Grab tissue. Mrs. Perkins has a way of making you cry." She smiled at me.
"Really?" I raised a brow. "Am I that mean?"
"No." Kaylee tilted her head. "Just that caring." She walked out.
I pulled a chair up across from where Rachael sat. I looked at her and smiled. "You said in one of your papers that the past was the past. No need to dig it up. Either you don't want to deal with your pass so you buried it, or you've dealt with what's back there. I don't think the latter is the case."
Tears streamed down her cheeks without her saying a word.
I stood. "Let me grab the tissue."
She nodded.
I don't mean to sound cliché, but this class has changed my life. Since college I've had a desire to work with high school students, yet God has seen fit to allow that desire to grow for almost 25 years before allowing it to become a reality.
I almost missed the opportunity.
When the principal of the school asked me to teach this class, I came close to saying no. I knew what I wanted to teach and this wasn't at the top of my list.
"I really believe God will use you with this group of students," she'd said.
But was I willing to be used?
I’ve often told the students God changes my lesson plan on my way to school.
They laugh.
But He really does.
I'm so glad I listen. I'm glad He loves this group of seniors enough to not leave them where they are.
Running scare. Not sure of what the future holds for them when they’re no longer high school students. They will soon learn many are still running scare. Even after high school, from young adults to seniors. It’s the scared, that I pray they don’t focus on, but the running—and to Whom.
God's not through with the students in room eighteen.
And He's not done with me.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Running Scared: Part 3
The students entered the classroom with less chatter than usual. I'd said several prayers in anticipation of what God would continue do in the lives of this small group of seniors. I smiled at their demeanor. Those who'd given their testimonies the day before appeared relaxed--or was that relieved. Those who waited their turn to speak in front of their classmates sent nervous glances my way as if to ask not to be called upon first.
Kaylee volunteered. A collective sigh of relief filled the room. I said a silent prayer for the student who days before told me she would rather take a F instead of stand in front of her peers.
"My life is far from perfect." She glanced at me and looked back at the paper in her hands. With her elbows locked to her sides, Kaylee tried to keep the paper from shaking. "Christianity is far from what I thought it would be. I was sure God hated me."
For the next five minutes, Kaylee talked of a friend's mother killing her friend and siblings and depression so deep she resorted to self-injury. This was the story she didn't want to share. One of pain and suicidal thoughts. The quake in her voice lasted until her last paragraph.
"I thought God hated me," without looking up she half smiled, "but what I learned is He loves me. Even thought life sucks, I'd rather it did with Him than without him. The Bible tells me, He's not finished with me yet. I'm glad." Kaylee took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then let it out. She looked at me and smiled.
I mouthed the words, good job.
She shrugged, walked to her seat, and sat.
God, continue to bring the walls down, I prayed.
Michael jumped up. "I'm next."
"Okay," I said.
Michael reminded me of Waldo from the book series, Where's Waldo? He often walked with his hands in his pockets, slight stoop to his posture, and black wavy hair that hung between his eyebrows and his eyes. His frame was small for his six foot height.
I struggled with engaging him in class. He often turned answers to questions into the same three words: I don't know. And made no further attempt to elaborate or apologize for his answer. I spent more time looking at the top of his bowed head than at his face. Often, he doodled while I taught. I didn't know if he was paying attention or not.
Michael stood in front of the classroom. He paced and ran his hands through his hair before he faced me. "I wrestled with this assignment, Mrs. Perkins. Last night I planned on typing what I thought you wanted to hear, but I couldn't." He tossed his hands up. "I don't have anything. Written that is. I, um," he pushed against his bangs, "I don't know if I believe there's a God."
The hush that filled the room, gripped my heart. Before me stood a student who grew up with Christian parents, involved with a church and a youth group for as long as he could remember, and he questioned God's existence.
The walls were coming down....
(to be continued)
Kaylee volunteered. A collective sigh of relief filled the room. I said a silent prayer for the student who days before told me she would rather take a F instead of stand in front of her peers.
"My life is far from perfect." She glanced at me and looked back at the paper in her hands. With her elbows locked to her sides, Kaylee tried to keep the paper from shaking. "Christianity is far from what I thought it would be. I was sure God hated me."
For the next five minutes, Kaylee talked of a friend's mother killing her friend and siblings and depression so deep she resorted to self-injury. This was the story she didn't want to share. One of pain and suicidal thoughts. The quake in her voice lasted until her last paragraph.
"I thought God hated me," without looking up she half smiled, "but what I learned is He loves me. Even thought life sucks, I'd rather it did with Him than without him. The Bible tells me, He's not finished with me yet. I'm glad." Kaylee took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then let it out. She looked at me and smiled.
I mouthed the words, good job.
She shrugged, walked to her seat, and sat.
God, continue to bring the walls down, I prayed.
Michael jumped up. "I'm next."
"Okay," I said.
Michael reminded me of Waldo from the book series, Where's Waldo? He often walked with his hands in his pockets, slight stoop to his posture, and black wavy hair that hung between his eyebrows and his eyes. His frame was small for his six foot height.
I struggled with engaging him in class. He often turned answers to questions into the same three words: I don't know. And made no further attempt to elaborate or apologize for his answer. I spent more time looking at the top of his bowed head than at his face. Often, he doodled while I taught. I didn't know if he was paying attention or not.
Michael stood in front of the classroom. He paced and ran his hands through his hair before he faced me. "I wrestled with this assignment, Mrs. Perkins. Last night I planned on typing what I thought you wanted to hear, but I couldn't." He tossed his hands up. "I don't have anything. Written that is. I, um," he pushed against his bangs, "I don't know if I believe there's a God."
The hush that filled the room, gripped my heart. Before me stood a student who grew up with Christian parents, involved with a church and a youth group for as long as he could remember, and he questioned God's existence.
The walls were coming down....
(to be continued)
Monday, January 31, 2011
Running Scared: Part 2
"I don't believe in God like everyone else." Brian folded his hands in his lap and waited for me to respond.
I had wondered about the quite young man who sat attentive day-after-day in my class. Often making a comment in class that the other students seemed to miss, but didn't go unnoticed by me. I prayed for him often and hoped he would one day open up. That day had arrived.
"I don't expect you to have the same experience. Why should that be a concern?"
"I'm not sure I can do this."
The next words were out of my mouth before I could think about them. "God is going to use you in the lives of the other students in the class."
He shook his head and smiled. "Half of them don't know I exist. Besides, why would God use someone who’s not sure who He is?"
"Do the assignment," I encouraged, "See what God does."
He shrugged. "Okay."
The assignment consisted of the students sharing about their relationship with Christ. Many of them had been raised in a Christian school, with Christian friends, and were regular church members. But, as I learned growing up, Christian activities do not make one a Christian. Brian understood this and he knew where he stood.
The next day, Brian arrived early to school. I was surprised, but welcomed him into the classroom.
He sat at the table across from me, opened his notebook, and handed me a paper. "Is this what you wanted me to do?"
Usually I tell students not to hand me assignments before classes, between classes, or after school in the hallway. I don’t want to misplace them. But because I knew this was a difficult task for him to accomplish, I reached for the paper.
I blinked back tears as I read. The student who sat across from me looked like the all-American-kid, but the words I read on that page reflected a wounded individual. And one still searching for what it meant to have a relationship with God.
I waited until I could find my voice before I spoke. "Thank you. For being open and honest."
He smiled.
"Would you read this to the class?"
He seemed surprise. "You want me to?"
"Yes."
Over the next twenty minutes, the other students entered the classroom. Kaylee, who’d told me she couldn't do her assignment, avoided eye contact and took her usual seat.
I explained how the students would be graded on their presentation. After a few students shared, I asked Brian to read his assignment.
He stood and walked to the front of the class. At first, his hands shook and his voice quivered. Soon his voice was steady, his words powerful.
I glanced around the room. Every student focused on the young man who was willing to let them into a world most of them knew nothing about. A world of abuse and violence.
With his last words, he focused on me.
I gave him an assuring nod.
He walked to me, turned in his paper, and then sat.
I waited.
Kaylee spoke first. “I never knew.”
It was as if I heard the walls falling down around the teenagers in the classroom. Walls that I had prayed to crumble since the beginning of the school year. God was doing something BIG.
Kaylee approached me after class. “Can I do my presentation tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I said. “What made you change your mind?”
She half smiled. “Not what. Who.” Kaylee turned and left the classroom.
I couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come.
(more to come)
I had wondered about the quite young man who sat attentive day-after-day in my class. Often making a comment in class that the other students seemed to miss, but didn't go unnoticed by me. I prayed for him often and hoped he would one day open up. That day had arrived.
"I don't expect you to have the same experience. Why should that be a concern?"
"I'm not sure I can do this."
The next words were out of my mouth before I could think about them. "God is going to use you in the lives of the other students in the class."
He shook his head and smiled. "Half of them don't know I exist. Besides, why would God use someone who’s not sure who He is?"
"Do the assignment," I encouraged, "See what God does."
He shrugged. "Okay."
The assignment consisted of the students sharing about their relationship with Christ. Many of them had been raised in a Christian school, with Christian friends, and were regular church members. But, as I learned growing up, Christian activities do not make one a Christian. Brian understood this and he knew where he stood.
The next day, Brian arrived early to school. I was surprised, but welcomed him into the classroom.
He sat at the table across from me, opened his notebook, and handed me a paper. "Is this what you wanted me to do?"
Usually I tell students not to hand me assignments before classes, between classes, or after school in the hallway. I don’t want to misplace them. But because I knew this was a difficult task for him to accomplish, I reached for the paper.
I blinked back tears as I read. The student who sat across from me looked like the all-American-kid, but the words I read on that page reflected a wounded individual. And one still searching for what it meant to have a relationship with God.
I waited until I could find my voice before I spoke. "Thank you. For being open and honest."
He smiled.
"Would you read this to the class?"
He seemed surprise. "You want me to?"
"Yes."
Over the next twenty minutes, the other students entered the classroom. Kaylee, who’d told me she couldn't do her assignment, avoided eye contact and took her usual seat.
I explained how the students would be graded on their presentation. After a few students shared, I asked Brian to read his assignment.
He stood and walked to the front of the class. At first, his hands shook and his voice quivered. Soon his voice was steady, his words powerful.
I glanced around the room. Every student focused on the young man who was willing to let them into a world most of them knew nothing about. A world of abuse and violence.
With his last words, he focused on me.
I gave him an assuring nod.
He walked to me, turned in his paper, and then sat.
I waited.
Kaylee spoke first. “I never knew.”
It was as if I heard the walls falling down around the teenagers in the classroom. Walls that I had prayed to crumble since the beginning of the school year. God was doing something BIG.
Kaylee approached me after class. “Can I do my presentation tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I said. “What made you change your mind?”
She half smiled. “Not what. Who.” Kaylee turned and left the classroom.
I couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come.
(more to come)
Running Scared: Part 1
Words failed me as I sat across the table from one of my seventeen-year-old students. Kaylee sniffles filled the silence in the room. Tears fell down her cheeks.
She whispered, "You don't understand. I can't do this." Kaylee looked down.
I prayed. And handed her a tissue. "I really believe you can."
She shook her head and looked back at me. Fear rested behind her eyes.
Maybe I didn't understand. For the second time in a week, a student informed me that they couldn't do the assignment. I had asked them to write their person stories about their relationship with God.
She twisted a stained Kleenex in her hand. "I don't have anything to share."
"I disagree," I said, "Everyone has a story to tell. I'm not asking you to make something up. I'm asking you to be real. You can decide how much or how little you want to tell your classmates."
Kaylee sat straight in her chair and held her chin high. With quavering words she said, "I'll take an F on the assignment."
I sighed. God, what do I say?
"You're not the type of student who would do that." I stood, walked around the table, and put my hand on her shoulder. "I believe there's a story in you. I'll let you decide how to share it."
Kaylee’s final words came to me before I entered the hall.
"I can't."
But she will.
Because one student took the time to be real.
(to be continued)
She whispered, "You don't understand. I can't do this." Kaylee looked down.
I prayed. And handed her a tissue. "I really believe you can."
She shook her head and looked back at me. Fear rested behind her eyes.
Maybe I didn't understand. For the second time in a week, a student informed me that they couldn't do the assignment. I had asked them to write their person stories about their relationship with God.
She twisted a stained Kleenex in her hand. "I don't have anything to share."
"I disagree," I said, "Everyone has a story to tell. I'm not asking you to make something up. I'm asking you to be real. You can decide how much or how little you want to tell your classmates."
Kaylee sat straight in her chair and held her chin high. With quavering words she said, "I'll take an F on the assignment."
I sighed. God, what do I say?
"You're not the type of student who would do that." I stood, walked around the table, and put my hand on her shoulder. "I believe there's a story in you. I'll let you decide how to share it."
Kaylee’s final words came to me before I entered the hall.
"I can't."
But she will.
Because one student took the time to be real.
(to be continued)
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