I don't know what I expected today with taking on a new role in my life. I rose early—something I don’t always appreciate on a Saturday—to take my husband to the airport. Having expressed my disappointment numerous times about him leaving (job related or not) on such an important day, I kept quiet about the event as we passed other morning commuters.
At the curb, he kissed me and wanted to be the first to wish congratulations. Still, it wasn’t what I had expected.
Stopping at a nearby Publix on my way to Word Weavers, I picked up a flower arrangement that was to be given during the meeting. The bright yellow and pink colors made me smile. As I left the store I encountered an elderly woman.
She held her arm out. “For me?” She laughed.
I glanced at the flowers then looked at her. “For someone just as special.” I smiled. She probably didn’t expect me to say that.
As she passed me she remarked, “You made my day.”
After arriving I stepped into a familiar role—one that allowed me to place writers in critique groups—at the monthly Word Weavers meeting. I'd forgotten how much time it took to do the job and how much concentration was required. Usually when in this position I miss what is said up front.
Today was no exception.
I needed to be cued when to step up to give or receive gifts. Then how quickly I returned my focus to the task at hand.
When my new position was announced—the moment I'd waited for with much excitement—I stepped forward, nodded, then returned to the table to finish dividing the different writers' groups.
Once the first part of the meeting ended and writers were in designated rooms, I sighed. Where had the time gone?
After the critique sessions one gentleman approached. He gave me a slight bow. “Madam President. Congratulations.”
I thanked him.
At that point he introduced himself.
I smiled. We had met before. Several times. But I guess he’d forgotten.
As I packed up books and my other belongings another person approached.
“I really enjoyed this and learned a lot. I’m glad I came,” she said.
“First time?”
“Yes. And you’re the new president. Guess it’s a first for both of us.”
I nodded. “Several years ago my first time here was when someone new stepped into the presidency. Look what can happen when you stick around.”
She laughed. “You’re funny. Don’t think it can happen to me.” Tammy pressed her purse to her side and walked away. She chuckled again.
Didn’t think it could happen to me either. God had other plans. Ones I didn’t expect.
I left tired, but a good tired. Once again, I’d engaged in what I loved—assisting other writers. Did I believe my new position would change that? Yes. I expect it will help me to do it better.
I guess that’s what I’ve been expecting all along.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Letters from God
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.
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.
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)
Sunday, October 31, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
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.
“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.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
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
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
Monday, February 1, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, June 15, 2009
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
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
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