Changed?

My schedule has been busier than usual. For the past few weeks I have taken a couple of classes off of the hands of this man.

You are probably wondering how this guy got into teaching in the first place, but that is another story.

Here is a picture of him with his family. (They're our neighbors and I happened to be out taking some pictures when I saw them and snapped this one.)

Corey, the man in the above pictures, was trying to convince the children who were with him to sled down a pretty steep hill. The kids were not entirely sure that this was a good idea. So, Corey - the consummate teacher, decided to demonstrate the safety of sledding.

Unfortunately, I do not have any pictures of the moments following the sledding safety lesson. If I did, they would involve a hospital ride and several fractured vertebrae.

He is okay now - pretty much anyway. He is back in the classroom and I am back to my normal class load which allows me time to - you guessed it -

BLOG!

I forgot how much I love my schedule. With my first class beginning at 10, I am able to have some time to schlepp around in my slippers in the morning.

I have really missed schlepping.

I picked up 2 of his classes, covering his 6th grade math class and his 11th and 12th grade Civics class.

Yeah - I know, civics?

I'm not that smart.

But then, look who I was covering for:



On my first day of teaching Corey's civics class a student put her head down on her desk in something similar to despair.
It didn't help that the student was my own daughter.
I knew I had to quickly regroup or this would be a painful two weeks for all of us.

So....I begged and pleaded with this man



for something else to do with this group.
I waited to speak to him about changing the schedule until I was certain he was heavily medicated.

In all fairness I really should throw in a normal picture of our beloved Mr. McEachran. He really is a wonderful teacher and my kids are lucky to have him. Here he is when he's not dressed up as a beggar for some sort of school function.

(This is Corey with his sweet family when we celebrated Advent at our house this past November. Very normal and delightful family.)

Now - on with the story.

I was able to teach 2 weeks of literature during Civics in which we explored society and politics. The books we read were:

Killer Angel: the biography of Margaret Sanger


and

Fahrenheit 451


Both were excellent books, entirely different from one another.

On my final day with the Juniors and Seniors we dissected Fahrenheit 451 over coffee at Cafe Mela. (It's a small class of 8 students and that is how I roll, occasionally.)

As we explored themes, symbolism, biblical allusions, etc... I asked them what they thought of the book. One of the girls said she really didn't like it. She felt it was a "downer." I explained that a world without books would, in fact, be a "downer." I asked my small group of students if perhaps we were asking the wrong question. Rather than asking, "did I like this book?" maybe the real question should be, "was I changed after reading the book?"

That, to me, is the mark of a good book.

I have had opportunity to think about that comment all weekend and into this week.

"Am I changed after reading this?"

God offered me a gentle reminder this weekend in the echoes of my own words.

"Do you leave changed, beloved?"

This question has pricked my soul the past few days. How is it possible to enter into the presence of the Holy One and remain unchanged?

It isn't.

And yet time and again I do.

Still, His voice calls to me~
Come and be changed.

How often do I meet with Him and read words of life into my barren and thirsty soul, and yet leave His presence virtually unchanged?

And still He whispers words of love to me. He does not storm out of the room, as a wounded lover might, or even ought. He bears with me and bares my soul in the process.

It is in this gentleness I am changed.

Because it is so unlike me.

And so my soul cries out, do not let me leave again unchanged.

May this year, this day, this moment find us changed and fitted into the image and glad service of the One who gave all as He bids us,

~Come and be changed.

Reflections

I found this note and gift on my porch the other day~





Such an unexpected blessing
from someone who has walked this road already
and has not
forgotten.



(Here is my dad holding me with our childhood dog, Miss Royal.)


I opened another letter, almost a year ago now, and read what I believed to be just another kind sympathy note, when the words,

"Welcome to the Orphan's club"

caught my breath and my attention.

It was just a year ago when my father unexpectedly traveled on ahead to his "forever home." It has been a year of process for me as I walk every day as a daughter no more.



(Yes, that is me -sporting my fish with my hand on my hip- not at all camera shy! My sister is the cute little one with the groovy plaid pants and boy hair. Okay, my hair also qualifies as boy hair so I can't say too much. There is my beautiful mom and my dad in the background. The other two are friends of the family. )

The sender conveyed exactly what my heart knew but my lips refused to verbalize. With the loss of my mom, 28 years ago now, and in the wake of my father's death, I found myself not only grieving the loss of my dad, but also mourning my existence as a daughter.

As an honorary club member, I was joined by two other dear ladies who felt the sting of loss and death of not only a parent but of daughterhood. As painful as it was to read my new club membership title, it was helpful to know others understood the grieving that my soul felt. However, this is one club I wish I did not belong to.

As my mom faced her own death, she told my dad that she knew the Lord would be a mother to her daughters. I can honestly say, on the other side of the loss, that my mom's faith was well placed. God provided for her lack in ways that were real and soul sustaining, that softened the edges of our loss and simply held us.

That is the best description I can give - that in the middle of this young girl's loss of her mother, I felt "held" by my God.

Now, at the one year anniversary of my earthly father's passing, I know I am held, but I feel my loss more significantly. The sadness creeps in and covers me, threatening a freeze that whispers to destroy this tree, with its questionable root system. It is here in the deep freeze that a warm breeze blows in my mother's simple words of faith and I am reminded by the very One who carried me through so many valleys that I do belong, that I am still held, that I am not orphaned.

Sometimes I am appalled at how little progress I have made as a traveler. I expect to weather these storms better and believe I should experience sadness but it should be relegated to a two week period of grieving at which point I should be able to move on with words of wisdom and healing for all who are watching.

Instead I can only offer broken words, small steps, and invisible scars that still ache at the most unexpected times.

Today I finish this post on the first day of a new year.
I look to a new year full of certain lessons and I pray for grace to keep my roots from becoming brittle. And I am thankful for those who have been instruments of grace to me this past year and have kept me "held."

May you be "held" this new year and may you know his strength and comfort in the valleys.

Birthday Girls

These are some of the most wonderful ladies I know. When we get together I am reminded again how much I love each one of them. We have many differences - the four of us - but when we come together for our "birthday club" the differences remind me how diversity in the body of Christ is beautiful and necessary for continued growth.

I am at a time and place in my life where I am surrounded by people who surround themselves with those who are just like them. I have watched our church go through a metamorphosis as of late and unfortunately diversity among the body is not one of our strong suits. I watch as my family and I find ourselves on the periphery of our body at large - we do not "fit" into an "acceptable" category- our children are not home schooled, we do not spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about or discussing the benefits of grass fed versus corn fed cows or whether the chicken we had for dinner was free range or not. We wear deodorant that contains aluminum and I do not lose sleep. I do not press my own wheat when I make bread - I actually do not make bread and I know I am suspect.

What I love about my ladies is that we are all at different places in our spiritual journey, at various stages of motherhood, and we do not all worship at the same place, but this is what makes our time together such a gift. We are a conglomeration of hilarity, tears, prayer, and forgiveness. We are an unlikely mixture of organic only- junk food eaters - naturopathic and immunization free - pass the Tylenol please -"Survivor" contestant -fragrance wearing -steel ground oats only -taco bell loving- hodgepodge of ladies.

The conversation I have with these dear women of faith is some of the richest, most thought provoking, and meaningful in my life. We are in no way perfect. We are the seekers of the One who is perfect - and this we do imperfectly. I am loved and accepted with these friends. I do not have to be something I am not - in fact, I am pretty sure they would call me out if I tried it. These are the ladies who make me better. I know it without a doubt. Our vast differences temper the extremes in our personalities and provide an appreciation and great affection for the "other than". And so, in this busy season I want to pause to recognize the gift of friendship. As I age I understand its rarity. I thank God for these women who grace my life with themselves and I thank the Giver for them.

The season of Advent

Quiet presses in
the silence of winter's first snowfall,
light juxtaposed against the blackness of night.

Water reflecting multicolored lights
dressing homes across landscapes
as we drink in the symbols of the year.

Flames bent, dancing to keep up,
music reminding my soul
that light
dances.

Small treasures in tissue unwrapped-familiar friends
welcomed home for their yearly visit
to grace our tree,
reminders of time passages
and lives built
together.

My children can reach the tall branches now,
the ones I cannot.

The season of advent is
the living, the giving-thanks for, the hope reminder, and yes,
the waiting,

light juxtaposed against the blackness of night.

Just a few more reasons for Thankfulness

It is four something in the morning with alarm clocks set to ring at five, encouraging us to make it into the car and on the road before morning lights first flicker. 750 miles today - at least that's the plan as we make our way back to our old stomping grounds and Jim's family. Today is my last post before Thanksgiving and I wanted to make sure to keep my list going.... These are the things that have filled my life with gratitude this week. Enjoy.

Locating this year's Christmas photo

a casual dinner around a rambunctious table with friends

flour covered counter, watching my teenaged son roll dough for his first pie

feasting with a bunch of sixth graders

family games and laughing till I cry

observing what my son's eye catches in photos

the dog, who's certain she's not

snuggling on the couch, a mixture of blankets and slippers, coffee and books

the diesel smell of father and son coming inside after working

watching that old movie - together

listening as my daughter reads words of her own creation

laughter

coffee, at my favorite bakery with my love

singing psalms together

words, dancing across pages, catching my soul aflame

seeking our Father's face

forgiveness

hugs for this momma

What a Foreclosure Sign Means

I'm not sure why I remembered that event with such clarity, but it struck me with such force a few days ago that, for a moment, my breath was taken. Maybe the pictures of those people leaving their offices with their possessions piled in their one box, walking void of emotion, triggered it or maybe I had heard a few too many news reports of families leaving their homes and that sent me back to a lifetime ago.

I was 15 and we were packing up our belongings. We were "starting over." My dad took a job in a city 2 hours away because there was nothing else in our area. Still reeling from the death of my mom a year and a half earlier, this was more than we could bear.

It was the early 80's and we were still experiencing the effects of the recession of the years prior to this and were in a business unkind to those desperately wanting to hang on until the economy turned. There would be no turn for us.

I was the one who answered the door when a man, whose face I can no longer see, asked for my father. He handed some papers to my dad; I don't recall my dad every explaining it, but I knew.

My father went to the bank to ask for more time. They were not interested in giving us time. It was after this that my father began sleeping longer.

We lost our business- the business my mom and dad built. My father took whatever job could pay.

I remember grocery shopping as a 13 year old, shortly after my mom was gone. It was my job to buy groceries with what money we had. I would clip coupons and try to purchase only what was needed, but sometimes there wasn't enough in the envelope and I would become terrified that I would have calculated incorrectly and would be humiliated when I reached the register and have to choose what to put back. Sometimes I would add my babysitting money to cover the lack. I never told my dad; it would have wounded him unnecessarily.

I remember the day we left. Someone had given the cat medicine to help him sleep during our move. The medicine made him ill and he vomited up a mouse on our living room carpet right before we walked out of the house we used to call home. I realized we didn't have any cleaning supplies and I remember a friend saying to leave it for the bank.

I died inside that moment. The thought of leaving our home- the home that I was responsible to clean, with vomited mouse remains on the floor, as if we were white trash leeching off of society, unwilling to pick up after ourselves- was unthinkable to me. I frantically searched for something to remove the newly formed symbol of our destitute situation.

We left our house, the last home I remembered with my mom, the last place we gathered as a family, and turned down the driveway. We had acres of wooded property that now belonged to someone else. I suppose it always belonged to someone else, but it's funny how you never think that when you're living there.

I have only been back one time. There was a man in my front yard, wearing a jacket like my dad wore, looking at the trespassers in his driveway.

I don't know what sparked this memory - the one of the cat throwing up the mouse. It was the moment that changed me. Humiliation and shame were my companions then. I also watched my father and knew I lost another parent; for the bank took more than our house and business that day.

When I see foreclosure signs I view them differently then most people probably do. I know another side of the story. I know some people live beyond their means and there are natural consequences for foolish choices, but I also know sometimes situations occur that are not a result of foolish choices, and occasionally normal people find themselves in places of great loss, not of their own creation. That is not to say my dad did everything right. I'm quite sure he did not, but I do believe he did the best he could with what he knew.

I wonder about the stories of the people who live in those homes with the signs in the yard. What dreams did they leave there? And will they ever hold their heads high again, or will the demons of their past haunt them?

25 years later I still get nervous and sweaty palmed when I reach the check out line, and I secretly hope I calculated correctly.

Love?

I recently challenged my ninth grade composition students with a poetry assignment. It was actually a very simple assignment and they were allowed 25 minutes to write.

When I mentioned "poetry" a few looked at me with glassy eyed stares. I explained the challenge and presented them with a few models - we brainstormed abstract nouns and they put pencil to paper; well, some put pencil to paper; let's just say everyone put pencil to paper -eventually.

One of my students chose to write about love. She wrote about that "special feeling" in great detail. I thought how love is so different from that glamorized televised version that pervades the lives of young people.

and so I write my love offering ~

give me love,
stable and true,
more like
Ruth and Boaz
or
Marianne Dashwood and Colonel Brandon
or even
the faithful friendship of
Sam Gamgee and Frodo

rather than
Heathcliff and Catherine

love
not destructive or selfish,
but gracious and preserving
if necessary, at great cost to oneself
understanding
honor and
courage, flying
in the face of defeat
but nevertheless

flying

give me love
unwavering and steady
seeking to bless for the glory
of blessing
overcoming unimaginable
obstacles

so Jacob served seven years
for Rachel
and they seemed to him
but a few days
because of his love for her

love - one syllable
with more transformative power
than any other noun

young girl,
love is
so much more than
a feeling