United

It's only Wednesday, and the Internet continues to provide a plethora of news stories about the doctor who was physically removed from a United Airline plan after the airline overbooked a flight.  What makes this story even more scandalous is that people recorded law enforcement dragging him down the aisle, complete with a bloody face and glasses askew.

Many questions and speculations continue to be posed about the incident, but what sticks out in my mind after seeing the video is this:  If everyone was so aghast at the man's treatment, how come none of the other passengers volunteered to take his place so he could get home?

(And before I get to the actual point of this post, let me tell you I can think of several reasons why: they were in shock at what they were witnessing, they didn't believe what was happening was any of their business, they were traveling with young children and couldn't afford to take United up on their incentives, this flight was the last thing standing between them and their homes.  There's probably a dozen more reasons to go along with these.)

But after seeing the video (and hearing that horrendous scream) several times, the thought dawned on me:  This is precisely what God did for us. He sent his son to live but more importantly, he sent his son to die for us.

When Jesus was nailed to the cross so many years ago, he volunteered to take my place.  He didn't want to see me (or any other, for that matter) miss our chance to go home.  Only instead of being forcibly removed from the flight, Jesus volunteered.  This action tells us that he valued you and I more than his own comfort, his own divine right, and more than his reputation.  He suffered so I didn't have to.

This weekend will be filled with activity.  Kids hunting Easter Eggs, Easter dinners, and Easter cantatas.  But please don't forget this Sunday will honor the One who was and is the Messiah.  Don't forget that He too bled for we could could make it home.  Don't forget that because of that great sacrifice, we can spend eternity with the One who loved us and created us.  We can spend eternity with Him.  United.

   

We Remember

A Good Teacher

We've reached the mid-point of the year and it's time of reflection for many of us in education.  We think about the first few months and what went well, what didn't go so well and what we hope we never see again.

For me, personally, it makes me reflect on what makes a good teacher...

A good teacher knows your name...
"I have indelibly printed you on the palm of each of my hands." Isaiah 49:16, Amplified Bible

A good teacher plans...
"For I know the plans for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you a hope and future." Jeremiah 29:11

A good teacher is gentle…

"A bruised reed He will not break, a smoldering wick he will not put out." Isaiah 42:3

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."  Psalm 147:3

A good teacher challenges…

“Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” John 8:7 

A good teacher sees the potential…

"I will make you fishers of men." Matthew 4:19

A good teacher knows when you need a break...

"Come away with me...to a quiet place and get some rest." Mark 6:31

A good teacher sacrifices…

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son so that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.  For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him."  John 3:16-17

But the best part of this Teacher is He is not just a teacher...

“Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord." Luke 2:10-11

On Gratitude

Because next week is Thanksgiving, I've been spending a lot of time thinking.  Only this year, instead of thinking solely about dishes to be served and errands to be run, I've been thinking about the Pilgrims.

I've been thinking about how their response to a year of hardship is unlike what we'd do today.

I know after a hard day I like to sit by myself, with an ice cold Coke and play Candy Crush.  Or eat chocolate.  Or (on really bad days) both.

After a year of bitter cold, losing loved ones and realizing you were in way over your head, planning a three day feast is not my first priority.  We had 13 snow days last year and I lamented the dent it put in my summer.  Gratitude was not anywhere near my mind.

Which amazes me that for the Pilgrims, the response to a year of struggle was not to blame but to bless.

And the more I think about that, the more I think I know why.

True gratitude comes out of brokenness.

When you've been hungry, you understand the worth of food.

When you've been unemployed, you understand the blessing of a job.  (I've known this first hand.)

When you've had health problems, you will never underestimate the joy of a "normal" day.  (My father suffered a stroke four years ago.  He had to re-learn many things, one of which was how to eat.  I will never forget watching him eat breakfast and him saying, "Look at me-I can chew!"  And all of us being thrilled over it.  But that's another post.)

I try really hard to make this blog humorous, sharing silly anecdotes from my classroom, but I've felt the need to write this post which has no humor at all.  I think it's because I want to remind those who are going through hard times (myself included) that while there will be hardships, there will also be a respite.

And that will make our thanksgivings even sweeter.

For My Granny

A year ago today, on a hot, humid mountain day, we laid to rest my maternal grandmother.

I've thought a lot about her and that day today. Last summer I missed the first day of Kentucky Reading Project due to her burial.  KRP required me to write a final paper at the end of class.  To honor my grandmother, I'd like to share the introduction and conclusion from that paper.

For me, Kentucky Reading Project started long before June 12, 2013.

It began in a small Harlan County, Kentucky hospital room on September 7.  It was there my parents welcomed me and had plans that included a life that would be different than their own.

They were supported in this endeavor by their surrounding family.  From an early age, I was sang to, talked to, and, most importantly, read to.  Though both my parents had only a high school education, though my grandmother across the road had only an eighth grade education, they knew the importance of words.  Thus, they made sure to enrich my life with words-nursery rhymes, books on cassettes (when I was two I had multiple books memorized and would “read” them without the cassette to the elementary aged children in my neighborhood, who sincerely thought I was a child prodigy), Bible stories, fairy tales.  They taught me songs, words that rhyme.  And they demonstrated the utter magnitude of words-they had the power to make one laugh, cry, or soothe.  And as I still love words to this day, and want others to find them just as endearing.

But I’ve learned cycles are not just in reading instruction.  Over a long period of time, my grandmother (the one who sang, played hand rhymes and read fairy tales to me) developed dementia.  It was a difficult few years, but even in the midst of her failing memory and ceasing mobility, I knew we needed to keep her brain active as best we could.  So I did what I know-listened, questioned, and had dialogues with her.  When she could barely speak, I got picture books and read to her side by side. Her gnarled, stiff fingers always traced the pictures, so bright and vibrant.  And we would talk about those stories.  The experiences I had as a child helped tell me what to do-I would talk, sing with her and go sit on the edge of her bed and speak to her when she could only blink and gurgle.  Upon leaving her house one time, I leaned over, kissed her and said, “”Bye, Granny! I love you!”  Her eyes met mine and she gurgled distinctly, “I love you, too.”  Those were the last words she spoke to me.  And those words, like the ones I heard when I was small, left a distinct impression on me.  In the ensuing two years until her death, I clung to those words.  And since her death, I treasure them all the more.

I will forever associate my granny with Kentucky Reading Project as she was one of the people instrumental in helping me learn to love reading.  We also buried her on the first day of class.  She would have pitched a fit if she knew I missed the first day due to her burial-she was so proud education is my profession.  She used to tell me that she wanted me to go and “learn ’em good”. 

And now, thanks to Kentucky Reading Project, I surely can. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We Grieve With You

                                          

Words

School started for us last week.

So each day I do a multitude of routine tasks.  One of which is a 40 mile commute to my job and 40 miles home.

Like most of the country, thanks to the high temperatures and lack of rain over the past three months, we're in a moderate drought state. 

Even though we're still in the drought, over the last few days something miraculous happened: it rained.  Good, steady rain that soaks into the ground. 

But today I noticed something.  The fields no longer looked like this:

Instead, they looked like this:

And I couldn't help but think about how like the rainfall, our words have power.  Our words can deplete others, making our homes, classrooms and families dry up.  Like the thirsty land, they have a hard time making any growth.  And we stand to the side, shake our heads and wonder when it will change.

But what a difference words can make.  Like the rain that replenishes, our words can help nourish and make those around us not only live, but thrive. 

If you're like me, you get a little overwhelmed sometimes-lots of tasks, committees, assessments and meetings.  And sometimes many of those can hinder my best intentions of making sure every child feels safe, needed and cared for in my classroom.

So this year, in addition to trying to making sure I don't let the trivial things become huge, I want to be intentional about making my words cultivate my classroom (and the meetings, the PLCs, the ARCs, the end of the day, and the...you get the picture).

May I not forget that like those little ones, I too seek out words that affirm.  And may they be used every single day in my room.

I want to make my words count.

Perspective

I don't know about the rest of y'all, but the beginning of school may be most stressful few days of my year.  Every year.

And I've spent the last few days seriously stressed because of that.

I want everyone to feel welcome, to feel appreciated, and (most importantly) arrive home safely.

A few days ago, I saw this on Pinterest:



and I cannot help but hearken back to it in the moments of anxiety.

You see, it reminds me of my grandmother and my aunt.

My granny, who will turn 91 this November, is not in the best of health.  She fell and broke her hip a few years ago which left her unable to walk.

Given that she was already experiencing dementia, this was just another blow.  So after this fall, she was/is bedridden.  It wasn't long before she was unable to talk.  My aunt (who also has a bit of age on her) now cares for her.  This includes feeding her via a feeding tube several times daily, changing her diapers, and turning her often so she doesn't acquire bed sores.  And she often does this alone.

As I've spent the last couple of days in the mandatory meetings, the thought of how I really needed to be in my room working has crossed my mind.  I think about the delays they're causing me-the borders that need to encompass the bulletin boards, the parent calls I need to make, the organization of supplies, and many other things.  And then I realize my problems are microscopic.

My grandmother would trade places with me in a hearbeat.  (Okay, truthfully, she probably wouldn't because she always put my needs ahead of hers.)  To be able to identify people, to carry on conversations, to care for yourself without the complete dependence on others are things I take for granted. 

And then I remember that quote.

So, in the midst of my rambling, I ask you to embrace everything this year.  The good, the bad, the painful.  And please know I understand what I'm asking-Sunday I got a head cold right before the most important week.  Yesterday I was gone 14 hours from my home.  Today I had a migraine from the stress of everything.  And even though those things were time consuming, I can't help but think of how inconsequential the majority of things I get upset about.  And just taking the time to be aware that most of us are blessed beyond belief helps center my heart.  (Well, that and some effective migraine medicine.)

A while back one of my favorite authors (Jill Conner Browne) included a portion of one woman's reflections in her book.  Thanks to Kay the entirety is on her blog.  I would like to share it with you:

Let Me Hold You While I May
By Mary Jean Irion
The day is over; now I will sleep. It has been a normal sort of day, common like a rock along the path. Nothing about it would make one exclaim over it, as one might do with a shell or a glistening piece of quartz. It was just a rock, lying there along my way. But now, knowing that it is about to go from me forever, I hold it in my hand curiously, turning it this way and that, marking its shape and texture, weighing it on my palm. What was it really, this normal day?

It was routine, mostly....washing, ironing, a trip to the store, meals, dishes--the common denominators of women;s days.

It was pleasant here and there...a letter from an old friend, my husband's telephone call for no reason, a back fence chat with my neighbor, half an hour with a good book, some loud laughs with the children at dinner time.

It was irritating now and then....a sticky ocean of spilled maple syrup, mealtime with one greedy child and one finicky one, the arrival of a bill unexpectedly high, a persistent salesman's theft of fifteen beautiful minutes.

It was deeply joyous at times... the whole house glorified with the strains of the new "Greensleeves" record; our unliterary twelve-year-old's first book (begun today, to be finished tomorrow) with its dedication--to wonderof wonders--his parents; our eight-year-old and her friend playing dress-up, painted and perfumed, scarved and veiled, clattering through the kitchen in spike heels and courtesaned innocense.

It was sobering and frightening in some ways...Mom's waning health and increasing discouragement; the big blow up after dinner about homework and learning to accept responsibility, and the guilt that followed my hasty words; The vague, huge uncertainties that draped themselves over us, cobweb-like, with the ten o'clock news from a tense and shadowed world.

It was blessed with love throughout...in a pig-shaped breadboard made and presented to me by my son; in the wave of feeling as I watched our little daughter sleeping in soft moonlight, her long lashes shadowing her cheek; in an hour alone with my husband at the end of day.

Just a normal day. A normal day! It is a jewel! In time of war, in peril of death, people have dug their hands and faces into the earth and remembered this. In time of sickness and pain, people have buried their faces in pillows and wept for this. In time of loneliness and separation, people have stretched themselves taut and waited for this. In time of hunger, homelessness, want, people have raised bony hands to the skies and stayed alive for this....

Normal Day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it will not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want more than all the world your return.

As we begin this new school year, please join me in simply being aware of the minute moments that help make up our lives.

And let us see them as the blessings they are.