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.

Long-Awaited Birth

I wasn’t prepared for the range of emotions that bombarded me when I held my first publication. The long-awaited birth of my story had arrived and I felt like a new mom holding her child for the first time.

Am I ready for this?

Over the last few months, I’d read with excitement the e-mails I received about the book and wanted so desperately to hold Christmas Miracles in my hands.
As the final week of the release date approached, my husband and I decided to visit a local bookstore to inquire about the new arrival. I was surprised and unprepared by the manager’s response.

“We have one now.”

We followed Steve as he maneuvered through the rows of books.

What if it’s not here? Doubt tugged at me. What if he’s made a mistake?
As he searched the shelf, I took a deep breath. The sweet smell of baked goods mixed with the robust aroma of coffee wafted from the café to give me the distraction I needed.

Steve stooped to search the bottom row. “Here.” He placed the small book with a cover that looked as if it had walked out of a winter wonderland scene in my hands.

I stumbled over my thanks and watched him walk away before I turned my attention back to what I held.

Christmas Miracles by Cecil Murphey and Marley Gibson. No, my name’s not on the cover, but my story’s inside—chapter six.

“My wife’s published in here,” David said to the cashier with all the enthusiasm of a proud dad.

“Really?” She held up the book and shared the information with her co-worker. As the three of them chattered, I was lost in my thoughts.

Eighteen months earlier, writing became a part of my life. As a new author, I feel inadequate and excited all at the same time. There’s so much to learn.

Now is a time to celebrate. I hope you will make Christmas Miracles a part of your library and share with me in my miracles. Not only the true story in the book about the birth of our twins, but the second birth as well—my first publication.

Deal or No Deal

Bargaining with God isn’t the smartest idea. For a year I’d prayed that God would give me the desire of my heart. Time to understand, pursue, and work on the craft of writing.

He answered my prayer, but I changed my mind. In order to write, I needed to give up something else I loved—teaching.

“Just one more year and I’ll stop,” I said.

The position seemed like a perfect fit. I loved the team of teachers I would work with. I knew some of the students from past classes. Everything happened so fast—too fast.

I knew to pray about this new position. My prayer was a simple one. “God, if you don’t want me to do this, close the door.”

Just because the door was open, didn't mean I needed to walk through.

My problem, I didn’t stay still long enough to hear His answer. How could I? In less than two weeks, I had been asked to take on a directorship, attended a conference, a parent meeting and acquired my first couple of students. When I was with others in the organization, my excitement grew. I allowed my excitement to silenced God’s voice.

When I decided to listen, I sent in my resignation.

“What if I pay you more?” One Mom inquired. So many ‘what ifs’ have come my way. What if I had listened to God the first time then disappointing my friends may not have entered the equation.

To pursue the dream God put in me comes with a cost. I never thought the cost would be something else I loved.

I’ll leave my bargaining to garage sales.

Thanks God, for not allowing me to settle for a “deal” instead of your best.

Purpose

The round mechanism on the dialysis machine turned like a hamster’s wheel. Each rotation massaged blood through the long tubes. So many tubes; so much blood. Ruby Brooks drifted in and out of sleep from the rhythmic hum of the motor. The transfer of the life-giving liquid from her body into the machine and back didn’t seem to disturb her.

The nurse continued to monitor the changing numbers of her vital signs.

“Are you comfortable?” The nurse asked.

“Oh, yes.” Ruby opened her eyes long enough to answer.

The two responded to each other with the ease of an elderly couple. Five hours of continuous interaction can bring about the familiarity I witnessed in the few minutes I had been in the room.

Nurse Eve placed a chair across from the bed.

“Get comfortable.” She encouraged. “Don’t mind me.”

Her instruction turned out to be difficult for me to execute. Each time she entered the room, Eve walked between the bed and where I sat. When Ruby was awake enough to converse, the necessary intrusion often brought our conversation to a halt.

“What were we talking about?” Ruby would ask when Eve departed.

After an hour, I got into the rhythm of Eve’s visits every sixty second (I’m not exaggerating) and helped Ruby track with our conversations.

“It’s not suppose to be this way.” She stared at me; her eyes clear and alert. The most they had been during my visit.

I waited.

“How do I go on when I question if God will answer my prayers?” she asked. “Do you think I’m strong enough to handle this?”

Eve walked in before I could answer. For once, I appreciated the interruption.

Ruby wasn’t asking me about her physical health, but her spiritual one. I didn't have answers for what was happening in Ruby’s life. I listened some more, we talked, and I prayed for her. Three hours has passed before I stood to leave.

“Thank you” she said.

“For what?” I stood by the bed and held her hand.

“For listening.” She smiled.

I adjusted the oxygen tube under her nose before I walked out. Then the struggle in my heart began. I wanted to ask God why. He never promised the Christian life would be easy, but for over ten years I had watched Ruby help others even when she struggled. She helped me. She changed my life.

When I was angry with God and wanted nothing more than to walk away, she reminded me God didn’t cause my pain. God understands hurt. He watched his own son die an agonizing death because He loved me. God had a purpose for his son’s pain.

I walked toward the exit.

Nurse Eve rounded the corned with the dialysis machine. We headed for the elevator together.

“She’s a special lady.” Eve said.

“Yes, she is.” I said.

Eve stopped and looked at me. “It’s her faith. She’s always talking about God. Mrs. Brooks has strong faith.”

I smiled.

“I don’t see too many patients around here with faith like hers. She’s a remarkable lady.” Eve said.

Nurse Eve pushed the machine toward the staff elevators.

It’s her faith. Ruby had shared with me her struggles and yet someone else saw her strength. When she didn’t realize it, Ruby ministered to others.

Was Eve a Christian? I don’t know.

God has a purpose for Ruby’s pain, even if I don’t like what she’s going through.


“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting him, he endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honor beside God’s throne. Think of all the hostility he endured from sinful people; then you won’t become weary and give up.” Hebrews 12:1-3