Partial Attention and Vulnerability

Today I received a letter in the mail addressed to "Aust" from "Chicken Man."

A flood of nostalgic longing overwhelmed me, and it hasn't quite passed.

"What I wouldn't give to be cleaning rotten toilets with you in our hot as hell Thai dungeon," the letter continues. 

On our chore chart, Amber "Chicken Man" was my squatty potty scrubbing buddy.  Every other Saturday, we shared the repulsive task of cleaning the rudimentary showers, toilets, and sinks in the basement where we resided for five months.  

I hardly recognize "Aust" now.  The depth of the relationships kindled in a small basement room with one glassless window and no AC, changed everything.  

I hold tightly to thousands of stories- awaiting a tsunami on the rooftop of an unfinished building, dumping water on strangers during Songkran, feeding a pack of ungrateful monkeys from a highway overpass, being chased through the Red Light District after overhearing a conversation about "four young American girls," struggling to communicate in a tonal language... and misspeaking on hundreds of occasions.

Each day began and ended in the same way- my team and I would gather in the center of our bunks. We gave each other honest feedback for 30 minutes; we prayed and praised; we wept and laughed.

Grace was realized in our midst.  We knew the best and worst in each other and gained a much greater sense of ourselves.

On Sunday, our pastor spoke about living in a "continuous state of partial attention,"  and it resonated within me.  

Vulnerability is no longer a choice when the environment demands immediate and extreme adaptation. It elicits a sense of helplessness that I believe we should all experience at some point in our lives.

This time of year is so busy.  My schedule becomes an excuse not to dive deeply into the relationships that inspire and fuel growth and self-awareness.  The cycle fuels a seasonal depression that I try to denigrate with excuses and blame.  Glenn has commented how frequently I miss Thailand during the winter months... last week, he made the connection that the place itself is not the object of my nostalgia. I would not want to scrub a squatty potty without Amber singing beside me.

It is the sense of being fully known, fully seen, and loved regardless of it all.  It is easy to remain hidden within a routine.  We rarely see each other this time of year... not truly.  We live in a state of partial attention, and it takes its toll.

I see the toll on the little people in my classroom.  They need to be known and loved for all of their unique gifts and vices.  We all do.

As we spend time preparing and packing this holiday, my goal is to be less hurried and more present... to recognize that the world changed as the result of a baby boy who remained unseen to so many for so long... to pause more often and engage in a more meaningful dialogue...to be more than partially attentive.

Bathtub Ballets and Slip N Slides

Somewhere buried in the boxes of VHS tapes at my parents' house, there is a video of my sister and I dancing in the bathtub. Ashley loudly hummed the tune to Für Elise as our shampoo caps became tutus and four circle-shaped bathtub blocks became our bikini tops. We tiptoed in a circle around the tub. Ashley directed our bathtub ballet. Our sobriety and the earnestness of our imaginative play only elicited more of my mama's beautiful laughter.

My sister has always possessed an eye for magic. She has a knack for seeing tutus instead of shampoo caps and slip n' slides instead of trash bags.

Growing up, we eagerly anticipated summertime. Ashley would line up large garbage bags, squeeze out an entire bottle of dawn dish soap, and leave the hose running for hours as we reveled on our homemade slip ‘n slide. Alabama summers consisted of frequent visits to the snow cone vendor in the Delchamps Grocer parking lot and dancing in the neighborhood sprinklers with blades of grass sticking to our ankles.

Siblings are tricky business. As a child, I loved and hated my sister. In my eyes, she was the strong one, the brave one, the beautiful one, and I felt as if I were trapped in the shadow of something extraordinary. Yet her greatness did not come without its consequences. She received the blame whenever our plans went south. She would take on our punishment without tears. She would never expose her weakness, and she rarely admitted my complicity. I coveted her, resented her, emulated her, and adored her all at the same time.

Ashley's journey has been incomprehensibly difficult, and over the past ten years, outsiders have been quick to pass judgement, but this truth I have known since the days of bathtub ballets, Ashley is stronger than I am. Her eye for beauty inspires me, and her resilience challenges my understanding of what it means to overcome. She has fought tremendously hard for the ground that she now stands upon firmly, and she is one of the greatest gifts that God granted me upon entry into this life. I owe so much of who I am to the little girl who fashioned a slip n slide from trash bags and dawn dish soap.

Of Protagonists and Seashells

He had never seen the ocean.

We visited my parents in Myrtle Beach for Thanksgiving.  

On the second day of our trip, we drove to the state park.  

D. spent the first hour collecting every seashell within a 100-yard radius of the pier.  He filled up three grocery bags with broken shells and other sandy "treasures" before I had the heart to cut him off.  I asked him to select his favorite shells to keep.  He picked out all but two shells from the first bag, and I capitulated. 

Every shell was a story... a precious memory that he was determined to preserve.

His wonder was only paralleled by a sense of urgency.  He consumed each new experience with a ravenous hunger-- he was too familiar with the fragility of each plot line.  In 3 years, he knew four homes- four chapters, each with a different set of story elements- settings, characters, rules, and conflicts.  The protagonists doubled as the antagonists, and self-preservation became the only theme, but I digress.

It was November, and the ocean was frigid and irresistible.  I encouraged him to test the water with his toes.  Minutes later, an especially large wave soaked his t-shirt, and we both relented.  I ran into the water after him.  He grabbed for me with each crashing wave.  Laughter immunized us to the cold.

As we departed, Glenn's jacket replaced D's soaking garments, and he waddled to the car, looking small beneath Glenn's windbreaker-turned-trenchcoat.

My mind often wanders to that day at the beach.  I pray that heaven feels like D's grateful embrace with sand between his toes for the first time.  

This summer, I read somewhere that "we own our stories."  As a teacher, I understand the premise for such a statement.  By sharing our personal narratives, we are inviting others into the cathartic reprieve offered by articulating the emotions that are often lost in the plot lines of our daily lives.  However, I hesitate to promote literary despotism among my students, when so many story elements are beyond a child's control.  Their stories fall victim to circumstance, and even the pen fails to defend the desired resolutions.

As teachers... as adults, we have a responsibility to protect the fragile story elements that ultimately determine the character traits of our smallest and most vulnerable protagonists.  

In a world that values convenience before communication, consumerism too often denigrates the integrity of childhood.  I am convicted by the burden of their broken stories.  I am Holden Caulfield at the carousel... instead of metal horses, I am haunted by bags of broken seashells.  

Regardless of my personal failures, or perhaps in light of them, I consider it an undeserved privilege to spend another year as a protector of stories for twenty-two very deserving protagonists.

Words for my Father

It is funny how certain words stick to the concrete walls of our minds, while other words drift through open windows--elusive and nearly impossible to recall.

As a teenager, I always felt uncomfortable when my father introduced me to his colleagues and friends. Within seconds of our introduction, I would learn that they already knew several of my finer "resume credentials."  In spite of my momentary embarrassment, I knew that my achievements were a source of tremendous pride for my father.

My father is perhaps the most brilliant man I know.  He is fiercely tenacious, courageous, and kind.  He may not have a college degree, but his work ethic has filled more space than any piece of paper ever could. 

I have a tendency of committing to grandiose ideas, but my father has always stood in the gap between reality and my quixotic ambitions. My father helped construct an entire Roman village from shoeboxes for a Latin project in middle school.  He stayed up all night helping me edit a documentary for AP US History.  He constructed a bridge from toothpicks and Elmer's glue, adopted a Jack Russell "Terror," researched hundreds of scholarship opportunities, helped me move four times in as many years, and held my hand as the wedding march blended with one of my Mamaw's favorite hymns.

My dad may brag about my accomplishments, but in truth, none of these so-called achievements belong to me.  My father has been the silent benefactor in all of my greatest endeavors.

When I dropped out of graduate school for a capricious venture to Thailand, my father's initial disappointment was evident.  However, I later learned that he shared all of my blogs with our family, friends, and neighbors.  Upon my return home, acquaintances would recite my stories back to me with surprising accuracy, while my father added the necessary hyperbolic details.

My father set an impossibly high bar for all of my relationships. During my first year of marriage, I struggled.  I held unspoken and unrealistic expectations.  My father made loving me look so easy. He always elevated the narrative for me.  He provided the audience and added the details that painted me in a flattering attire. He filled the gap between the reality of my human nature and my proud self illusion. 

Last year, Glenn and I fostered a son.  Being a mom is another one of my dreams.  Glenn has learned a few things since our first year of marriage, and he adopted my dream as his own without hesitation.

My father, as he is prone to do, adopted my dream as his own, too.  It took one trip to Myrtle Beach, and our foster son referred to my dad as "Grandpa" before he called me "Mom." "Grandpa Bill" quickly became his "favorite person in the entire world."  Grandpa Bill offered endless patience, grace, joy, and fishing opportunities.  He once again stood in the gap between a reality of rejection by adults and the unconditional embrace of a loving grandparent.  Every child deserves a Grandpa Bill.

For those of you unfamiliar with the narrative, my dream ultimately resulted in a lot of hurt and disappointment.  Yet, my father did not allow pain to remain the exclusive byproduct of our experience.  Instead, he absorbed my pain with his own and transformed defeat into hope.  Following our experience, my dad became a volunteer with CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocates).  I have no doubt that he will quickly become a "favorite person" to the siblings he is currently serving in South Carolina.

Several weeks ago, I wrote that my mother taught me to love, and that is true.

However, life has taught me that love often exacts pain.  It is waving good-bye to a dear childhood friend as she shrinks in the rearview mirror.  It is the kleptomania of age, stealing memories and life from our most treasured defenders.  It is the absence of legos scattered on the carpet and the oppressive presence of silence. It is the mother at the foot of her son's cross.

My mother taught me to love, but my father has taught me to get back up again.  He has taught me to rise, to fill the gap, and to dream.   When I am reflected in the light of my father's presence, I see the person I would like to be-- the person I hope I am becoming.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus directed the crowd that "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." Matthew 6:21

I believe that our words betray the location of our treasure.

I am undeservedly blessed to have a father who so evidently finds treasure in his impetuous youngest daughter.

Thank you, dad.  I love you.

Words For My Mother

Every year at Christmas, my father and I exchange children's books.  We write letters to each other, extolling the relevance of the chosen texts.  After the rug has been adorned with wrapping paper and gift bags, we exchange picture books.  We read aloud our chosen books in turn.  We read the letters.  It is my favorite part of Christmas. 

I frequently celebrate the influence of my father.  I reflect gratefully on his profound impact on the person I strive to become.  Every year, we celebrate each other, and throughout the year, the letters and stories remind us of who we are to each other.

It is not so simple with my mother.  

I struggle to write to my mother.   Words tangle and collapse in my mind, and I become lost in a spaghetti noodle mess of my thoughts and feelings.  

If you are reading this, please have grace for me.

I love my mother deeply, and to this end, words are not sufficient. 

As the younger of two daughters, sharing my mother has felt difficult and painful at times.  

My mother and I share a common vice.  We internalize the blame for circumstances beyond our realm of control.  However, my mother is much better at articulating her emotions and catalyzing change.  She allows the pain to motivate her.  Her storehouse of compassion runs incomprehensibly deep. 

My mother has a gift for finding the wounded birds.  She loves them until the wounds heal...

Twenty years ago, in 1998, I was invited to a birthday party.  Every girl in my 4th grade class was invited to Janelle's birthday celebration except for one.  Destiny.  
Destiny was not very popular.  She was kind and friendly, but she did not always understand personal boundaries.  She always had an assigned 'buddy' in class.  Janelle was frequently Destiny's buddy.  They lived in the same neighborhood, and Destiny idolized Janelle.  

Somehow, my mom discovered that Destiny was quietly uninvited to Janelle's birthday party.  I do not believe that Destiny's exclusion was an act of cruelty, so much as a reprieve for a little girl whose patience had been exhausted.

My mother called Destiny's mother.  She invited Destiny to go to the ice skating rink with my older sister.  My mother also graciously extended the invitation to me.  I could attend Janelle's birthday party or join Ashley and Destiny at the ice rink.  To my mother's silent disappointment, I chose to attend the birthday party.  Vanity was/is another one of my frequent vices.

Destiny bragged about ice skating with a 6th grader from Berry Middle School for weeks after Janelle's party.

When I think of my mother, Destiny comes to mind.  Her face joins a large crowd of friends- the lonely, the excluded, the invisible, the marginalized-- my mom had a knack for finding them.  

I know that I am only aware of a handful of the people that have benefited from my mother's humble compassion. I am filled with so much pride when I imagine the crowds of strangers who will someday line up to shake my mother's hand in heaven.

It is difficult to write about the woman I hope to become.  It feels too important and personal somehow.  She feels too important. 

My father has taught me so many things. 
But my mother has taught me to love.

22 Reminders

It's that time of year again.

Fortunately, I serve in an amazing school system that values people more than numbers.  However, the pressure remains.

I waste time fretting about all of the factors that are beyond my control.  Details of their lives that desperately need my attention go unnoticed because my attention is elsewhere.
  My classroom is my sanctuary.  I get to become the best version of myself as I enter the door to Room 134.  I love my work, and to me, it is not a "job."  It is one of my favorite identities.

The anxiety of testing relegates my work to a job.. a performance.  It is as if someone extracted the light bulb from within a lamp in order to examine the bulb's wattage and design.  We undermine the efficacy and purpose of the bulb when we dismantle its parts.

The potential of a human, no matter how small, is so much greater than the sum of its parts.

It is with this conviction that I compose these thoughts.  Last year, I wrote about my 21 Reasons Why... in this season, I hold fast to 22 reminders.  These are the precious moments that I treasure and value.  These are my glimpses at the elusive sums of unquantifiable parts- each one uniquely brilliant and breathtaking.  As I reflect upon this school year, the quantifiable data will depreciate in its value and consequence, while these are the stories and attributes that I want to remember in the years to come.

1) I want to remember "Strom" Wars and your subdued laughter.  I want remember the way you light up with an insatiable curiosity when we begin a new science unit.  I want to remember the feeling I had when your mom told me that you claimed that I was the "best" teacher you ever had.  It was only the third week of school, and while your sentiments may have since changed, I have spent every day trying to be that kind of teacher- the kind you deserve- the "best" kind.  Most of all, I want to remember the way your peers are transformed and inspired by your kindness.  Everyone is excited when assigned to your group because they are familiar with your work ethic, your compassion, and your humble leadership.

2) I want to remember every, "I Love You, Mrs. Hecker."  I want to hold on to every hug.  I want to recall your overwhelming joy for the small things- the gorilla video... the morning meeting gifs... the "interesting" pieces of artwork at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.  I want to remember your love for your peers- your desire to invite everyone to each "Lunch Bunch" purchased at the Hecker Store.  I want to remember your questions, your honesty, your frequent gifts of fruit in the mornings.  I want to remember feeling so loved by a little boy who exemplifies the empathy that our world often lacks.

3) I want to remember the way you invited the new student to eat lunch with you on his first day at Randolph.  I want to remember your desire to do well- your excitement when your grades reflect what I have known all along- that you are brilliant.  I want to remember the way I felt when I met you on Back To School Night, and you told me that before I even knew your name, you wanted to be in my classroom.  I cling to those words every day, and I feel so privileged and humbled to be your teacher.

4) I want to remember sitting next to you at Theatre IV.  You talked to me about your sisters and your grandmother.  You were in our class for a few months, but your fingerprints remain, and your absence is felt every day.  I want to remember the way you protected and cared for your siblings.  I want to remember your resilience.  I want to remember the way you challenged my definition of strength.  Sometimes strength is quiet, and sometimes it is loud. And sometimes strength looks like a little boy.  I want to remember your passion, and I hope it never dims.

5) I want to remember the way you light up when given well-deserved accolades.  I want to remember the look on your face when I showed up at your house the first time- so much confusion and gratitude.  I want to remember the crafts that you bring me occasionally... the small gestures that decorate my white board and lift my spirit.  I look at them every morning and absorb your kind words- they remind me of why I love what I do and why it is important.  I want to remember your humility, your quiet perseverance, and your kindness- towards your teachers and your peers.  You keep your burdens like secrets, safeguarded. Despite life's injustice, you quietly strive for excellence.  You do not make excuses. You never give pity a foothold.  I want to remember your quiet hope... your humble perseverance.  These qualities convict and inspire me every day.

6) I want to remember the way you positively affect everyone around you.  Your optimism and work ethic set you apart, and your peers enjoy working with you.  I want to remember the way you insist that your classmates give you a "high-five" before they leave school each day.  You make others feel important and valued.  I want to remember the way you laugh at your own silly jokes.  Your laughter is infectious, and your joy makes our classroom into a more positive place.

7) I want to remember your infectious humor and quick wit.  I want to remember finally earning that first hug. I want to remember all of the small ways you have left your comfort zone this year and demonstrated a level of empathy that is rarely realized by adults. I want to remember the way you recognize and affirm excellence.  You admire your peers' accomplishments with sincere gratitude, and they ascend to meet your high praise.  I want to remember reviewing the cell city group reflections-- you were the only person within your group that did not perceive your own contributions as worthy of a perfect score. Your reflective insight humbled my own pride. I want to remember your frequent questions, your eager desire to help, your passion for growth- in yourself and in your peers.  I want to remember your bright personality that lifted the entire dynamic within our classroom and raised the limits of the possible to new heights.

8) I want to remember your overwhelming enthusiasm for European history.  I want to remember the feeling that I had when you told me that you chose Creative Writing as your elective for 6th grade-- following a year of disassembling your tearful misconceptions about "good" writers.  You are an outstanding writer, and you have been all along-- you just didn't know it.  I want to remember the way you get so excited when you make a connection or have something to share-- it's as if someone has shaken a soda bottle, and you can barely wait for the explosion of thoughts and information to rush forth and baptize the audience in an unexpected surge of facts and stories.  I hope that I exude that much passion into my teaching.

9) I want to remember your creativity and attention to detail- the way you can make a piece of paper into something beautiful and unexpected.  You possess such an exceptional gift in your ability to see purpose and utility for the parts and pieces that most of us simply discard.  You see beauty in the forsaken bits.  I pray for this gift- to see what is easily overlooked, to appreciate it... to make its beauty evident.  You are unafraid of independence.  Your vision compels you, and the end product is always awe-inspiring.  I want to remember your determination, your creativity, and your quiet sensitivity to each detail.

10) I want to remember your laughter.  Every one in our class enjoys working with you because they know that laughter is a guaranteed byproduct.  I think that twenty years from now, I will still know the sound of your laughter because I hear it 23,485,492 times each day, and I pray I never take it for granted.  I believe that God gifts certain individuals with beacons of immutable joy.  No matter the circumstance, these individuals emit warmth and positivity. They are unafraid to laugh at their own expense.  You possess such a precious gift.  Your peers feel it, and we are all better for it.

11) I want to remember your sincerity. I want to remember your sweet southern drawl, your compassion for all creatures, and your desire to succeed.  You are so bright and so kind.  You are perhaps one of the most compassionate and most polite little boys I have ever met.  You advocate for your peers when needed, and you exemplify respect.  You have gained the respect and admiration of everyone in our classroom because you are considerate, genuine, and diligent.  You have such a big heart filled to the brim with kindness.  Our classroom is a more benevolent place because you are a part of it.

12) I want to remember your humble and quiet leadership. In one of my favorite books, Katherine Applegates purports that "Humans waste words.  They toss them like banana peels and leave them to rot.  Everyone knows the peels are the best part," (The One and Only Ivan).  While you may appear more reserved than your peers, your silence speaks louder than wasted words.  You share your thoughts when it is timely, but you allow others to speak first without interruption or complaint.  You are a fantastic listener, and your positive choices speak louder than our reckless words.  Your peers enjoy being with you because you lead by example.  You listen intently before sharing your thoughts-- the world could use more individuals like you.  Our classroom is a more respectful place because you are a part of it.

13) I want to remember your audacity... your silly side... your sassy tenacity.  Every day as we walk inside from recess, you magically make your way to the front of the line and tell me hyperbolic stories with dramatic emotion.  While my attention is often pulled elsewhere, I treasure your stories and extravagant theatrics.  It is perhaps my favorite part of the day.  I love your stories, your songs, and your bold emotions.  When you are absent, the class feels it all day, but I feel it most during that walk from the pavilion to the backdoor.

14) I want to remember your ingenuity.  I want to remember the way you pursue your goals with an unparalleled quiet determination.  On Back to School Night, you entered my classroom and immediately shook my hand.  You introduced yourself and expressed your intent to apply for the position of classroom banker.  I was so impressed, and in that moment, I knew that being your teacher would be an enormous privilege.  You are a valued friend because of your humble leadership and kindness.

15) I want to remember the first time I witnessed your "silly side." You introduced yourself by a new nickname, and it immediately stuck.  I want to remember the way you can illuminate the entire classroom with your smile.  Your peers enjoy your company because of your positivity and fun ideas.  I want to remember your Toontastic video with the character that looked like you and your "Johnny Appleseed" presentation. I love seeing your personality reflected in your projects. I want to remember your determination to learn and to succeed, and the pride that we share when you exceed your goals.  Our classroom is a more joyful place because you are a part of it.

16) I want to remember the way you recognize needs and fill them without being asked.  You possess a beautiful gift in your ability to perceive when and where help is required.  You are an excellent friend, and your kindness is a force within our classroom.  You quickly filled the role of "best friend" for several of your classmates who really needed your affirmation, encouragement, and influence.  I want to remember your kindness, your compassion, and your sensitivity to others' needs.

17) I want to remember your genuine interest in your peers.  In the fall, you were given a writing assignment- to describe your goals and ambitions for fifth grade.  I was impressed by your response; you wrote about becoming an advocate for your classmates.  This year, you have been a proponent and trusted friend to every student within our classroom.  I am so grateful for the way that you care for your peers and for the way they trust you.  You challenge and inspire all of us with your endless grace, patience, and altruism.

18) I want to remember your friendship with Ms. Selma, your curiosity, and your love of stories.  Every Tuesday, I look at the back table, and you and Ms. Selma are preoccupied sharing life experiences.  While it takes you longer to get your contract work done, I do not mind because I know that the relationship takes precedence, and you are learning from a fantastic teacher.  I am so grateful for the way you interact with our volunteers and classroom guests.  Classroom visitors always remember your name because of the way you engage in conversations.  I want to remember your insatiable interest in the world around you and the people in it.

19) I want to remember your eloquence and independence.  You are self-motivated and driven to succeed.  I want to remember the way you humbly and selflessly make positive choices without want of praise or acknowledgement-- simply because it is the right thing to do.  Whether it's picking up another student's trash, walking silently in the hallways, or helping a peer get packed-up for early dismissal, I know that I can trust you to set a positive example.  You never ask for permission or seek my approval, therefore it may seem that your actions and choices are frequently unnoticed.  However, your fingerprints of kindness are felt by everyone in our classroom.  I know that all of your peers will strive for more when placed in your small group or when sitting beside you because your character creates an atmosphere of excellence.  I want to remember the strength of your character- the sum of the wordless choices that challenges all of us to be better.

20) I want to remember your excitement for daily routines.  You get so thrilled for Mystery Number Mondays, Bubble Pop Review Games, and Kahoot.  It makes me feel valued as your teacher, and it creates an environment of engagement within our classroom.  Your gratitude for these routine activities inspires and challenges me in my lesson planning.  Your anticipated response is often my motivation for creating more engaging tasks and games to use during daily instruction.  I want to remember your encouragement and appreciation for me as your teacher. For most students, the excitement and appreciation of a new teacher wears off after the first nine weeks, but you have continued to express your gratitude for me and for your Room 134 family every day. 

21) I want to remember your dependability.  You are perhaps the most responsible 10 year old I have ever met.  I love the way you help your peers.  You hold them accountable while still treating them with kindness and positivity.  Your classmates enjoy working with you because they know that they can trust you to lead them to success.  I want to remember the way you seek opportunities to help, and you selflessly volunteer your time to assist others without complaint.  You are a dynamic leader among your peers.  You work well with any and everyone, and you bring out the best in others. 

22) Even though you have only been with us for a short time, I want to remember your
sweet voice, your desire to please your teachers, and your kindness for your peers.  You are adaptable, and you quickly became a fundamental part of our Room 134 family.  You are a good friend to your classmates, and they are so encouraged by your presence.  You are a priceless addition to our class, and we are all so grateful for you.

Today, as you begin MAPs testing, I want to hold fast to who you are.  Data can quantify certain attributes, but the sum is much greater.  You are much greater.

Pancake, Doughnut, and the Pain of Silence

Doughnut does not squeak anymore.  It has been three months since we last heard the high-pitched squeal of our little guinea pig.  She used to sing every time the refrigerator door opened.  It was Pavlovian magic.  The door opened, and the guinea pig serenaded the kitchen.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Pancake, Doughnut's roommate, crossed the "Rainbow Bridge."  Doughnut has not squeaked since the loss.  The refrigerator door opens without its siren song.

Rewind 6 years... before Glenn, before teaching, before certainty--   at 23 years old, I had aged out of childhood, but I was not yet comfortable with an identity.  I was 'in-between.'  After returning from Thailand, I decided that my studio apartment felt lonely.  On a clandestine trip to PetSmart, I fell in love with a long-haired orange guinea pig.  My one-room apartment could not accommodate a cat or a dog, but the guinea pig with ragamuffin red hair (matching my own) was the perfect fit.

Pancake inspired several unpublished picture books, and she became a celebrity in my graduate coursework.  One of my professors recently emailed me requesting an updated copy of the SmartBoard lesson, Where in the World is Pancake?

Pancake became a symbol of my transition out of the "in-between" and into the stability and responsibility of a career and marriage. Pancake was a reminder of who I was- Pancake tied together the lapse of time.

Several months into our marriage, Glenn, avid animal-lover and sweet husband of mine, insisted that Pancake needed a companion... Therefore, our family expanded.  We named the new, tiny, 3-month-old guinea pig after my second favorite breakfast treat, doughnuts.  Doughnut and Pancake became quite the duet at meal times.  

As our family expanded, the guinea pigs brought us a lot of joy.

Doughnut's silence is irrationally painful.  It is a reminder of all of the sounds that I used to take for granted... guinea pig squeals, bedtime prayers, Taylor Swift singalongs, the exhausting little boy raucous that I once knew so well.

It is the silence of loss; it is isolating, deceptive, and cruel.

This week, I learned that several of my students have been suffering in silence. In multiple incidents, students revealed their wounds by inflicting their pain upon others; they were isolated by the shrapnel of silence that I know all too well.  I feel it every time I open the refrigerator door without a guinea pig chorus.  I feel it every night as I whisper bedtime prayers to the ceiling. I feel it every evening, as I dread the drive home with an empty backseat.

Silence is an unexcused absence- a void that aches to be filled.

As I reflected on my teaching this week, I was reminded of our need to fill the silence.  It is imperative that vulnerability is praised and silence expelled.  We owe it to our children to advocate for honesty... to create music with our praise... to sing, squeal, and plead when the door is opened... to ensure that our silence does not become their void.  

New Year's Questions

Yesterday, I sat down for coffee with one of my dearest friends, who also happens to be a former co-worker of mine... a fellow teacher motivated by a deep love for her students and a deeper love for our Creator.

Our conversation gradually slipped past the necessary preliminaries and into the deeper matters that have occupied our hearts and minds since our last coffee date over the winter break.  

She brought up New Year's resolutions, and a few questions that have inspired her recently... questions about motivation, inspiration, and change.

As I often do following these conversations, I found myself preoccupied by our dialogue and reflecting on these questions for the remainder of the day. 

Within my role as a teacher, I have the beautiful privilege of answering 8,347 questions every day.  I believe questions are an incredibly powerful tool, yet I rarely question myself.  I am accustomed to questions with definitive answers.  These are safe questions, and I am comfortable responding to these inquiries.  Yet, I fundamentally believe that comfort is an incredibly dangerous path to complacency.

As my mind spaghetti-noodled its way through the power of questions, I remembered a conversation with my ethics professor in college. She and I took a road trip to Georgia (another story for another time).  Along the way, the conversation graciously slipped past the conventional vanities.  We started exploring the idea of God's voice.  She told me that throughout the Bible, God frequently begins his dialogue with questions.  In fact, in many instances His entire response to His beseeching creation is posed in the form of a question.

Why would the omniscient God of the universe ask questions that He could answer?  

To me, this further affirmed the necessity of questioning and self-reflection. In order to affect change, we must focus on the internal forces that are often silenced by our external culture. 

As I considered the concepts of resolution and change yesterday, I started constructing my own list of questions-- questions that when considered honestly convict and remind me of who it is that I would like to become... who I strive to be, in the classroom and in my personal life.  

1) What is "good"?

My friend and I considered this question yesterday.  I have some gross misconceptions about what is good. Misconceptions that drive me to work for hours on end, in order to feel like a "good" teacher.  Ultimately, working for that long is frivolous and does not make me "good."  To me, goodness is an internal state of being that is characterized by gratitude and compassion.  God is the sole proprietor of goodness, and in order to recognize goodness and feel its comfort, we must see it within ourselves.  
When I inevitably allow anxiety to motivate my work, I want to pause and re-define- "what is 'good'?"

2) Who is it for?

I quietly judge others based on my misguided assumptions regarding their motivations, yet I cut in the line for treats at the end of my own dog and pony show.  I crave accolades from the individuals that I respect, and I allow myself to become so discouraged when negative feedback is not cushioned with lavish affirmations.  I hate that about myself, and I think that's why I am so quick to judge... questioning my own motivation is just so frustrating sometimes (because I know the answer).   

As I ponder this question, I also ask myself- who gives me worth? I believe that God is the only one worthy to hold such a place of power-- to define the value of His creation.  I believe that He did define our worth when He placed His own blood upon the cross.  To surrender my worth to anyone else, not only devalues myself; it devalues my God.  Before I speak, I need to question- "who is it for?"

3)  Where am I looking?

Over the summer, I read The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein.  The protagonist in the story repeatedly admonishes the reader that "Your car goes where your eyes go."  The book led me to question my end game.  I tend to be fairly detail-oriented, so stepping back to absorb the bigger picture is imperative.  I get stuck on a problem that I cannot solve (and perhaps I am not meant to solve), meanwhile I miss multiple opportunities to serve in another way.  My goal is to seek more beauty.  If my current vantage point only diminishes my "goodness" (see #1), perhaps, I need a new perspective.

I want to spend more time admiring God's fingerprints and less time lamenting my mess.  


As the seasons of my life inevitably march forward, I long to draw closer, dig deeper, and love better.  

What is your "good"?  Who is it for?  Where are you looking?  And what questions are you asking yourself this year?