And If Not, Is He Still Good?

Last year, I bought a shirt from one of my favorite vendors at the Daffodil Festival in Gloucester County.  The shirt was honestly my second choice, but they were sold-out of my first choice.  I felt compelled to find an alternative, so I selected a pretty teal cotton v-neck.

In cursive script across the front, the second-choice shirt proclaims "And if not, He is still good."

The message resonated with me, but it also stung a little.

Lately, the words have kinetically reversed into a question that I find myself asking...
And if not, is He still good?

Friday night, the weight of the question broke me.  It happens sometimes.  Some days the question stays at the hem and barely interferes with my ability to function, but other days doubts find the loose bits, and I unravel.  

I felt the questions tugging all day.  I stayed busy and filled my hours with work and avoidance.  Unfortunately, my evasive attempts were futile.

After running several errands, I took Denver to the Dog Park. I managed to make it halfway home... but then it was too much.  Sitting in the Food Lion parking lot, hidden from plain view, I succumbed to the wicked what ifs. Denver sat quietly in the backseat, taking in my tears and my self-pitiful soliloquy.

I am privileged, and from the context of my blessings, there is a lot of room for deceptive theologies. In my life, hard work has generally been rewarded with realized aspirations.  I know the fallaciousness of this ideology, but it certainly makes faith easier.
When I can control the outcomes, faith becomes a pretty t-shirt with a frayed and vulnerable hem.

It feels difficult to admit an unrequited longing. As if the absence of this realized dream reflects an insufficient faith.  We love the stories about miracles, the stories of overcoming, but what about the stories that remain unfinished?  What if the dream is never realized?  What if we experience only loss? What if we leave Egypt but never get to see the Promised Land?  If not, is He still good?

After crying and lamenting in the Food Lion parking lot for an hour, I drove home.  Glenn met me at the door with a silent and knowing embrace.  I felt God's response-
I am still good.

Later that evening, Glenn and I went to dinner.  It was past 8, and our fridge was empty. We selected a restaurant near home. When we prepared to pay for our entrees, the waitress indicated that we were receiving dessert in addition to our meals, as a gift from the older couple in the booth adjacent from our own-
I am still good.

I know the answer to the question.  A part of me has known it all along.
If not, He is still good.

His goodness is not dependent on my dreams, nor is it dependent on my frayed t-shirt faith. 

God is good-
in the moments of overwhelming confusion and disappointment,
in the moments of overwhelming joy and celebration,
in the moments of disillusionment,
in the moments of contentment,
God is good.

You hem me in, behind and before.
If I ascend to heaven, you are there
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there
[If I cry in a Food Lion parking lot,] 
Even there your hand shall find me
Your right hand will hold me.
For you formed my inmost parts;
you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Your eyes regard my unformed substance.
In your book are written
the days that were formed for me
before they were realized.
How precious to me are your thoughts,
How vast the sum of them!
If I would count them, they outnumber the grains of sand.
I awake, and you are still with me.
-Psalm 139

Dog Paddling in Quicksand

In the midst of inexplicable cruelty, we are dog paddling in quicksand.  

Rather than grieve, rather than pause, we try to rationalize our way out of the quagmire.  

Meanwhile, the situation has only escalated and devastated more of us.

Three years ago, Glenn and I fostered a son in hopes of adoption.  Unfortunately our relationship with the foster agency unraveled.  We were dog paddling in quicksand.  We were exhausted and ineffective, yet dogged.

During our son's worst anxiety attacks, he became volatile and violent.  We had been instructed to contact the on-call social worker during these "critical incidents."  During one such incident, as he started accumulating heavy objects to wield, Glenn made the prescribed call.  Glenn was immediately met with a barrage of questions regarding the causes of his anxiety attack.  I heard the subdued irritation in Glenn's voice as he indicated that we called to seek insight on how to de-escalate.  We were in the midst of trauma and did not have the time nor the emotional wherewithal to evaluate the sequence of events that led us to that moment.  We were dog paddling in quicksand and needed a rope, not a map of every misstep.

The next day, once everyone had stilled, rested, and the threat had passed, we paused as a family.  I woke our foster son up early, and we surprised Glenn with breakfast from McDonald's. We reflected over bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits.  Honestly, Glenn and I did not garner much clarity, but the pause was a necessary reminder that love is more resilient than other emotions.

Navigating trauma is like counting grains of sand... each grain (trigger) seems inconsequential, but with a single misguided step, there you are once more, dog paddling in the morass of misgivings.

I would sacrifice all I have to count those grains of sand again.  

Please do not misunderstand the use of my personal narrative.  I am not attempting to compare nor can I comprehend the trauma of those recently affected by gun violence and evil. However, as in our experience with our foster son, it is so tempting as an outsider to map indiscretions, yet quicksand is composed of millions of infinitesimal rock fragments... and we are all subject to our collective faults.

There are others drowning in the refuse, while we debate the politics of their pain. Our intentions are pure-- to prevent further trauma, but perhaps the answer is within our repose. 

It is a time to throw in our ropes.  It is a time to grieve.  It is a time to pause... to feel the wounds and to allow compassion to overwhelm agenda.  

Room 134

On Tuesday, I packed the final items into my car... letters from students that had been jumbo-magnet-clipped to my whiteboard, a forgotten box of unused pencils that had been shuffled under a cluttered book shelf, my beloved elephant-shaped paperclip tin filled with elephant-shaped clips for hugging graded papers, and approximately 2,394 other elephant nicknacks that were given to me as gifts over the past three years...

I re-entered the building with a pad of paper and a pen, swiping my staff badge in front of the lock for the last time.  Everyone else was gone.  It was past seven pm, and given that I took an additional week to clean my classroom, most of my colleagues had already completed check-out and surrendered their badges.

For the next hour, I bathed in the quiet.  Spaces are time capsules, and in our silence, they quietly release their memories.

Over the past two weeks, I have allowed the doubts to speak their mistruths and fears into my decision, but the decision has been made, and I know that I know that I know that this is the right path for me in this season.

Sixteen months ago, I spoke to my father about an idea.  Perhaps, I was trying to fill the sharp-edged space left behind by my last big dream.  Perhaps, I was just bouncing words into the conversation to spark a response.  Perhaps, the idea resided in my mind before I was even aware of its existence, and some part of me knew that by speaking it aloud, my father would hold me accountable for giving it life.

Last summer, I split my time between designing fifth grade math curriculum, building a fence, and studying algorithms and etymology in preparation for the GRE.  In August, I explored programs online, emailed six deans at six universities, and spoke with three of my former professors at the University of Richmond.  After school on a Tuesday in October, I spent nearly two hours speaking with the dean of UVA's Reading Education Doctoral Program.  The idea was slowly gaining momentum, and my father delighted in every update.

Following my conversation with Dr. Hayes at UVA in October, I decided that if I intended to foster this new dream, the program at UVA was my first and only choice.  In November, I composed a goal statement and applied. 

In early February, after a personally discouraging week, I drove to UVA on a Friday afternoon to meet Dr. Hayes in person.  During that meeting, she offered me a fellowship in addition to my admittance to the program full-time.

When I got home, Glenn took me out for a celebratory dinner at one of my favorite restaurants... Panera.  Halfway through my soup, I started to cry.  Poor Glenn managed the moment so gracefully in spite of his evident bewilderment at this sudden turn of events.  In my messy spaghetti noodle brain, I had followed a thought into a tangled mess of this opportunity's implications.  Committing to the program meant surrendering a job that I loved desperately.

So much thought, sage advise, and prayer went into the decision to pursue my own education rather than returning to the classroom next year.  It is a risk, but so is everything that is worth pursuing.

Room 134 at Randolph was and is a magical space, and I look forward to hearing about the relationships that are forged, the projects that are constructed, and the memories that are preserved within its hallowed walls next year.

As I left my badge and headed to my packed card, I was filled with gratitude that a part of me will always remain, preserved in the [forever humid] time capsule of Room 134.

Known

"Enoch walked faithfully with God 300 years... Enoch walked faithfully with God and then he was no more, because God took him away." Genesis 21-24

As Moses tracks the genealogy of the Torah's patriarchs, Enoch, father of Methuselah, is easily relegated to yet another indefinable Hebrew name.  However, Enoch has been the protagonist of my aspirations and the object of my envy in this season of waiting.

I first met Enoch in college. I studied psychology and religious studies at a secular urban university. My heirloom faith had been shaken dramatically in high school by circumstances that defied the monochromatic image of God that others had painted for me. I sought to understand the human need for divinity.

As a part of my college coursework, I was tasked with reading the Pentateuch and tracking the lineage of Christ. Enoch captured my attention. He "walked faithfully with God" and then God "took him away." In a beautifully elusive act of mercy, God spares Enoch his finite existence and takes Him to a celestial residence.

I sometimes wonder about Enoch's friendship with his Creator and whether I am capable of such closeness.

In our culture, we are so desperate to be known-- but our attempts are often misguided and monochromatic, just like the ultimately hurtful images of God painted for me by so many well-intentioned Sunday school teachers.  We lose ourselves in the fake images painted in newsfeeds and filtered photographs.  Sometimes we need to let others walk with us, even when the scenery is not covetous and lovely.  Otherwise disappointment is imminent, and often it is devastating.

Masterpieces are composed in the contrast-in the blending of vices and dignities.  I covet Enoch and his humble amble with God.  I long to be known and to know the One who is with me always, even to the ends of the earth.

Flower Girls

The fluorescent lights insulted the vulnerability of night.  The humble silence of the dark was interrupted by the vibrations of pop music.  Our bodies pulsed with the pavement.  We were surrounded by physical beauty- all of it exploited with fluorescent price tags.  Names replaced with flashing numbers.

Everything about the Thai Red Light District is a paradox- the exploit of poverty, the depravity for profit, flashing lights expanding the darkness of our transgressions.

We met Nina within these salacious sois (streets).  It was our fifth week working on Bangla Road.  Nina was nine years old, gao.  I was twenty-two, yee-sip-song.  I clung to ideals that had been tested but barely tried.

Nina was not the first child who approached my team on Bangla Road.  As farangs (white people), we were the targets for many child vendors wandering the streets draped with overpriced flower leis.  The children would approach sweetly and attempt to drape a lei across our shoulders.  "Soai Mac Mac," they would croon (beautiful, so beautiful).  The dynamic swiftly shifted as soon as the gesture was declined.

My team and I had been coached to limit our interaction with the "Flower Children" wandering in the Red Light District.  Their traffickers were always nearby and volatile. Our nonprofit received enough threats, and the trafficking rings presented a deeper level of peril.  Our purpose was explicit, as were our boundaries.  Be alert.  Stay with your team at all times.  Stay away from Soi Sea Dragon and Soi Hollywood.  Limit communication with vendors, especially children.

Nina broke protocol.  She approached without financial motive.  She took my hands and pointed to the palms.  "Pra-Yesu... Pra-Yesu...Pra-Yesu... Pra-Yesu," she repeated the name of Jesus with intensity. She approached each girl on my team of four and pointed to our hands.  She held my gaze, in spite of the cultural taboo of eye contact.  In broken English, she told me her name.  She told me that she was from Laos.  She pointed to another younger little girl across the street... her sister, Cola.

Between my broken Thai and her minimal English, we gathered pieces of her story.  Her parents lived in Laos.  They owed money.  Nina and two of her siblings were taken to Thailand in order to repay debts.  As soon as the debt was paid, they would go home. Her confidence in this knowledge offended my cynicism.

She spoke quickly, urgently.  A male in my periphery approached and paused about twenty feet from our huddle- four young farangs and his vendor, but we were not digging in our pockets for baht. I was kneeling to hold the forbidden gaze just a little longer.

Breaking Nina's gaze was an admittance of powerlessness.  I wrote my phone number on one of our "business cards" and slipped it into Nina's hands.  "Please call me.  Please meet us here at this time tomorrow.  We will bring you ice cream.  Please."

Even though I said the words, I knew their futility.

Nina caught sight of the man who now edged closer indiscreetly.  She nodded in agreement, but her attention had been redirected.

She wandered to a young Australian couple at the crosswalk.

"Soai Mac Mac," she crooned.

The next night, I waited with my team for over an hour.  It was midnight when we finally made our way down the grid of sois to fulfill our nightly work.  It was halfhearted.  My attention was elsewhere.

Two days after meeting Nina, I dropped out of my graduate program.  I emailed my advisor at VCU.  Like everyone else who knew me at the time, she questioned my certitude and told me that a spot would remain for me in the fall should I change my mind.

I didn't change my mind.  I never heard from Nina.  I have dreamed of her reunion with loving parents who rejoice at the reception of their children, but waking up feels like breaking her gaze... an admittance of my powerlessness.

Even though Nina never called me, I see her often.  She resides in the faces of so many of my students.  She resides in the photos of our foster son.  Lately, I see her in the mirror-- questioning what I know of overcoming, what I know of trial, and what I know of faith.

The kind of faith that is offensively hopeful in the midst of the human paradox.

Releasing Balloons

Standing in Mamaw's yard, dewy blades of grass sticking to our toes, Ashley and I  gently kissed the latex and uncurled our fists.  We watched the colorful ascension into heaven and whispered messages to our Papaw until the spheres blended with the sky.

Growing up, whenever we received balloons, whether from a birthday celebration or from another special gathering, certain balloons were always reserved for those we had loved and lost... the strings that slipped through our clenched fists too soon.  

I have liberated many balloons over the years.

As I reflect on my week, my mind has paused on a reel of memories- the embrace, the unfurling, and the quiet absolution.  I find myself lost in the imagery of Mamaw's tradition.

Every fall, I receive a new, breathtakingly colorful bouquet, and for a short time, I get to hold the strings.  

For eight months, my nails dig into the palms of my hands.  I hold so tightly that the nail prints crack the dry palms of winter, and at times, blood surfaces, but it doesn't matter because the beauty of the task always silences the pain.

Sometimes we pause to disentangle a string or two.  As I gingerly climb gnarled branches and carefully navigate the labyrinth of an unpredictable landscape, I question myself at every foothold.  

Occasionally our entire day is spent in the act of the unraveling, but it is worth it for the moment I find you- afraid but still capable of flight.  The descent is much quicker, but it is my favorite.  It is when I keep you closest, and you don't mind because I am familiar with each foothold.

For 180 days we continue our journey together.  There are days of clear landscapes and weeks in the woods, but every day that I get to hold the strings is a precious gift.

My 23 Valentines

"Love doesn't mean a state of perfect caring.  To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now- and to go on caring through joyful times and through times that may bring us pain" -Fred Rogers

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love."-Mother Teresa

"Love is not affectionate feeling but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained" -C.S. Lewis

"[Love] always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.  Love never fails." -1 Corinthians 13:8

Recently, Glenn and I experienced a setback that in my perfectionist brain feels a lot like failure.  My lexicon cannot keep up with the emotions of it.  Generally, I pride myself on my eloquence.  When given paper, utensils, and time, I compose meaning from my chaos; I create lyrics from the dissonance.  Words feel somewhat powerless in the current context, but I concede that my perspective is finite, and seasons are transitory things.

Every year, I write about each student in my Room 134 Family.  Generally, I write for them as a reassurance of the beautiful unquantifiable attributes that outweigh the standardized assessments that are administered each spring.  I share my prose prior to testing as an affirmation of my love.

I am writing sooner this year, and my intention is more selfish. I am writing because failure is my greatest fear, and anxiety is antithetical to love.  If I dwell in love, I believe it will cast out fear and assuage the lies that disguise themselves as terrible truths.

I am writing because love is more powerful than my fear.  I may fail, but love does not.  I am writing because love does what I cannot.  Love speaks, and all of creation obeys.  I have been reminded of love's persistence this week.  I have been humbled by love's resilience, and I am choosing to speak love into the disparagement of my soul-- to be the kind of person that I teach my students to emulate... to hope and to love and to get back up when dealt a seemingly unfair hand.

Here are my 23 reasons to get back up again.  Here are my 23 reasons to push through hard feelings and to keep loving.

Here are my 23 belated valentines:

1) I love you because you are dedicated.  You seek assurance even though it is never really needed. I love you because you are thoughtful.  You remember the details and bring them into conversations.   I love you because you are going to be the most amazing big sister.  You protect your peers.  You are the quiet, humble benefactor of their success.  You create peace and strive for excellence without ever seeking the credit for all that you do for others.

2) I love you because you curl up in a ball under the standing table with a book each morning.  I look back and see the sweetest little human grinning sheepishly at me, book in hand.  I love you because you are always positive.  You never complain, and you always give your best.  You quietly, humbly, consistently pursue excellence.  You listen before you speak.  You are attentive, and you are kind.

3) I love you because you are spirited, quick-witted, and bold.  You know who you are, and you are unafraid.  You demand at least 5 hugs each day, and it makes me feel like the kind of teacher I aspire to become-- someone worthy of that much admiration.  I love you because you have brilliant ideas, and you are willing to defend your beliefs.  You push others to be their best, and your creativity inspires your peers to expand their understanding of what is possible.

4) I love you because you make me laugh with your non sequiturs.  I love you because of your ridiculous love for 'kitties.'  You construct fantastic Sesame Street fiction.  I love you because you are an extraordinary writer.  You overcome and quietly persevere.  You focus on your peers, and you love them well.  I love you because you remind me to look outward.  Your silent courage humbles and inspires me.

5) I love you because your trust is earned.  I love you because even on the difficult days, I know that you trust me, and it is more meaningful than you will ever know.  I love you because you seek opportunities to spend time in our classroom and in our school.  I love your determination and your sense of solidarity with others, especially when it's with me.  I love the stories that you possess.  I look forward to your narratives from the tales of an eventful bus ride to school to our fictitious and mischievous math student, Charles.

6) I love you because your joy is a constant.  You are one of the rare humans who radiates joy from a deep internal place that cannot be shaken.  I love your laughter and the way you delight in every circumstance.  I love the way that joy will consume you at times-- with a picture prompt or a funny story.  I love you because you share my affection for elephants.  You are thoughtful, kind, and positive.  You compose elegant prose, and I wish we could all reside in the beauty of your creative world.

7) I love you because you also possess a deep-seated unshakeable joy like a song.  You are constantly singing or dancing to silent music, and I believe that it is just the melody of your spirit- lighthearted and lovely.  I love you because you make loving others look so easy.  Your love is genuine and generous.  I often wonder how your body holds the enormity of your heart.  You are emotionally attentive to everyone, even me.  Yet, your spirit remains light.  Our Room 134 Family is a much more joyful and compassionate place because of your presence.

8) I love you because you are tremendously brave.  You entered a new classroom in the middle of the school year without knowing the language.  Yet your eyes dance as you read bilingual books with new friends.  As the soles of your shoes split in Virginia's unrelenting rain, you laugh with each squishy step.  Our world needed you.  You are a reminder that love, bravery, hope, and childhood are gifts that are blind to the barriers constructed by our fears.  You are unafraid and grateful in the midst of change.

9) I love you because you are the kind of friend that everyone in our classroom seeks.  You are conscientious, kind, and perceptive.  Your writing from the perspective of a door amazed me.  You navigated the seasons of life with elegance, grace, and wisdom.  You possess attributes that many adults lack- the ability to see circumstances from multiple perspectives and the humility to compromise.  When you smile, your joy is merited, and it is infectious.  You absorb and process each experience with depth and clarity.  Your peers appreciate your gentle honesty and your ability to negotiate unselfishly.  You are a trusted friend and a coveted team member.

10)  I love you because you are insatiably curious.  You participate eagerly in class, especially during math! I love that you quickly became a friend to every member of our Room 134 Family this year.  You are warm, accepting, and kind.  You treat everyone you meet with respect, and I have been approached on multiple occasions by adults commenting on your kindness.  Your laughter is infectious, and our Room 134 family is a more inviting place because you are a part of it.

11) I love you because you are lighthearted, creative, and thoughtful.  You are kind in the way you seek to help and uplift, even when you are feeling down.  You give your kindness endlessly and effortlessly.  Your peers know that they do not have to earn your kindness, positivity, and grace because those qualities exude naturally from you.  I love you because you are caring.  You wrote me a picture book about elephants that I will treasure always.  It remains in a box on my dresser, and on difficult days, I read your sweet tale.  You are an author of grace, joy, and kindness in our Room 134 family, and I love being your teacher.

12) I love you because you are the most dedicated student I have ever met.  You push yourself, and you constantly seek opportunities to improve and to learn.  Your peers know that your work ethic is unparalleled.  They know that you are earnest, kind, and capable, yet you do not see these attributes in yourself.  You rarely receive the praise you deserve because it is easy to miss all of the effort when our world seeks outcomes. I know you will be tremendously successful because of the way you never settle.  You overcome, and don't let setbacks discourage your heart.  Your willingness to keep pushing yourself inspires me, especially in this season.  I am grateful for who you are.  It is a privilege to be your teacher and to receive your love.

13) I love you because you are creative, joyful, and willing to take risks.  On the second day of school when I read your Reading Inventory, I knew that being your teacher was going to be such an amazing privilege.  To me, you will always be "in the cave alongside Harry, battling Voldemort."  Your creative input elevates our classroom.  You see things as they could be, and you find realistic ways to bridge the gap between what is and what is possible.  Your peers look to you as a leader and as a beloved friend because you embrace joy and you see beyond what is immediately apparent.

14) I love you because you are logical, ethical, genuinely funny, and amazingly flexible!  You treat your peers with kindness and grace. You seek to understand before you seek to be understood.  Your contributions are so valuable because they are never selfishly motivated.  You are perceptive and honest, and your humility inspires and challenges me. You never complain, grumble, or seek accolades for your positive choices.  I love you because you make others feel known, respected, and valued in our classroom.

15) I love you because you quietly persevere.  You never seek the spotlight, even when it is deserved.  I love you because you are dedicated and fiercely competitive.  When you put your mind to an endeavor, it consumes you.  You fear the effort will result in failure which has kept you from trying at times, but I am familiar with the fear of investing too much in defeat.  I love you because you are capable, even when you don't see it or feel it.

16) I love you because you delight in the small things.  I love you because you are dedicated.  You work tremendously hard, and you never give up.  I love you because your gratitude is only paralleled by your genuine kindness.  You encourage your peers, and you delight in their successes as much as your own.  Your joy overflows and invades everyone in our classroom.  I love you because you see the beauty in everyone.  You make kindness look effortless.

17) I love you because you are dependable and detailed.  You hold yourself to high standards.  You strive for excellence, and you push others to do the same.  Without being asked, you see what is needed, and you fill the gaps.  You have become an asset to me and to so many other teachers because you seek opportunities to assist.  You do not pursue accolades.  In fact, so many of your acts of service go unnoticed, but the entire dynamic shifts when you are absent.  I love you because you are tireless in your kindness, in your work ethic, and in your compassion.

18) I love you because you are a loyal friend.  You are silly and good-natured, and you are eager to please.  You receive evident joy from helping others, and you defend what you believe is right.  I love you because you have pushed yourself this year, and you have shown tremendous growth.  I am tremendously proud of your motivation and desire for excellence.  You are capable and bright, and I love having you in class.

19) I love you because you quietly compose beauty.  Your artwork is the invitation into your lovely mind.  You are breathtakingly humble and brilliantly creative. You are eloquent in your words and in your vision.  In the entropy and noise of our world, you are constructing the stunning reprieve.  Your words and pictures decorate my whiteboard and refrigerator.  Your letters speak that beauty into my spirit.  I love you because you find beauty in the ordinary, and you draw it out for others to witness.

20) I love you because you are optimistic.  You radiate positivity in our Room 134 family.  I have witnessed tremendous growth in your confidence this year.  I love that you eagerly participate in class, and your optimism inspires others.  You encourage your peers and stand up for your friends.  You are brave in your willingness to stand up for what is right.  You possess so much strength in your character, in your convictions, and in your hope.

21) I love you because you make me laugh every day.  Your wit and original ideas illuminate our classroom.  I love you because you compose wonderfully hilarious stories about Grandma's theft of the illustrious golden cantaloupe!  I love your imagination.  Your friendship is sought after because your peers know the warmth of your joy and the depth of your care for them.  I love you because you are creative, clever, and compassionate.

22) I love you because you are a phenomenal teacher.  We tease you about your teaching voice, but in all sincerity, the qualities that make you a great teacher are the virtues that will ensure your success in all of your future endeavors.  You are a helper at heart.  You lead naturally.  You are resourceful, judicious, and dedicated.  You are motivated by your convictions, and the strength of your character is admirable and breathtaking.

23) I love you because there is delight in your spirit.  After witnessing your performance in the talent show last year, I told Mr. Gardner that you possessed the radiance that I strive to live within each day.  At times, that joy has been tested this year, but I have seen the way you have grown in confidence, independence, and strength.  I love you because you "get back up again," and you give me hope to do the same.  You make me feel so loved and so valued.  You will never know how much it means to me to walk out my front door and hear you shout my name from the bus stop.  You breathe life into others with your generous joy.

It is a privilege to be a part of your academic journey, and I love being your teacher.

Always.