"...Last Sunday, we lit the candle of hope." I break eye contact with the people in the pews and nudge Sweetie's shoulder.
Husband leans forward to dangle her closer to the mic. "Today we're gonna light the candle of love," her tiny voice squeaks out, "an' God loved the wor-rld, an' he sent Chee-sus to save the wor-rllld." She beams proudly, squirming back against Husband's chest in excitement as the congregation titters.
"Now Daddy!" she squeals and throws her arms around his neck, prompting a second rumble of louder chuckles.
"No, now we get to light the candles! Then Daddy will read his part," I whisper. I kiss her head and take the ornate candlelighter to the altar candles, pushing the lever to raise the wick as I did so many times as an acolyte growing up. The flickering candle wavers with pure magic as I carry it carefully back to the wreath. Our three hands wrap around each other and we lean forward together to light the candles of hope and love.
Just like I did with my parents, and Husband did with his parents.
"Now there'll be lights and lights!" Sweetie chirps in my ear. Husband begins to read. "Dear friends, let us continue to love one another..."
Hope and love.
Light in the darkness.
Our love is shining so bright within and through me that it feels like I might float away.
Isn't our historic church gorgeous?
After the service, as people come up to tell us how cute Sweetie was and what a great job she did, one man grins and winks. "So what is it like to live with all that cuteness all the time?" We giggle, but I'm serious when I answer. "So, so sweet!"
"Well, you're going to want shoes that are much better for walking..." I raise my eyebrows at Sweetie as I convince her to trade her new glittery dress shoes for her pink and purple flashing star tennis shoes.
"Why?! What we going to do?" She leans towards me, and when I answer, her already-big blue eyes fly wide open into sparkling pools of joy. Her mouth forms a perfect circle. "OHHHHHHHHH!" she squeals. "Can I tell Daddy?! I'm going to go tell Daddy!"
She flails out of her room, little flashing feet thudding down the hallway to peer downstairs. "Daddy! Daddy! We're going to the zoo to see the lights! Daddy!"
It's certainly not hard to get her out the door, and before we even get to the "zoo bridge", she declares, "I can see the zoo peeking over the trees!"
She thinks she's a dancer, so of course she had to dance along to the moving light tree!
The playground is even more fun with lights all around!
Walking with Daddy <3
To me, the magical sparkle of Christmas lights in a dark world has always been a symbol of the hope and wonder of the season. Now, it's even more special to see that magic reflected in her eyes, our own light in the darkness.
"Looook! They're on the field!" Sweetie's little arm shoots out, tiny pointer finger waving. "Can we go on the field?"
My eyes twinkle as they meet Husband's across her head. I've been thinking about this moment since partway through the third quarter, when it first looked like we might really win. Really, I've been hoping for it (in an "ooh, do I even dare to hope?" way) all game, especially after we got off to such a nearly unbelievably good start, stopping That Team and scoring a touchdown on our first drive.
"The Game", with all the surrounding pageantry, is so woven into the fabric of who I am that my eyes got watery just walking up to the stadium with Sweetie and seeing traces of that hideous maize and blue sprinkled throughout the gameday scene. I was the kid who taught my cousins to make sure all blue and yellow Legos were separated by red or green ones in every one of our construction masterpieces. I was the kid who really didn't buy yellow shirts, and if I ended up with one, I had to wear it with khakis, because it couldn't possibly go with blue jeans. When we made some mistakes at the end of the first half that whittled away at our lead, I started yelling so loudly that Sweetie turned to me and asked, "Do you need a hug, Mommy?"
My dad, who hasn't missed an OSU home game since 1968, grew up going to games and rushing fields with his dad. When we finally beat M*ch*g*n for the first time in my memory, when I was 10, he didn't hesitate to throw me on his shoulders, where I was so cute in my inflatable football helmet that we ended up as the background for ABC's sign-off at the end of their coverage. The elation of riding on my dad in the midst of a sea of celebrating Buckeyes stands out in my memory with unparalleled clarity.
me on my dad's shoulders after the 1994 game, from the TV broadcast
In college, my parents laughed at the way that I was one of the first band members (along with a few big sousaphone players) to run onto the field in Ann Arbor when we won there my 4th year (after having lost there my 2nd year). NOT running onto the field hadn't even crossed my mind - as soon as the first few guys went, I was with them!
When I was pregnant with Sweetie, she got to rush the field inside my belly. So now, even though I'm adamant that we don't skip her naps, the possibility of building her first field-rushing memory was so special that I'd decided that just this once, we could stay for the whole game. And what a wild, astonishingly fantastic game it was! We scored so many touchdowns that we seemed to be celebrating constantly (after that right-before-halftime, hug-inducing scare)! Sweetie's wide-armed "touchdown" signal got bigger and more open-mouthed every time. Still, I hadn't even dared breathe the "if" of going down on the field until the clock ran out and she beat me to it!
"Would you like to go down there?" I looked into her huge blue eyes as the faint sounds of our alma mater tried to float above the raucous cheering.
"Let's go down on the field! Let's go down on the field now!" Her wiggly body started trying to wriggle out of our attempts to take selfies with the scoreboard in the background. Laughing, we joined the lines of people calmly but happily pouring down the stairs. As I handed her over the railing to Husband and dropped myself down, I stopped to breathe in the pure sweetness of passing this joy on.
crossing the goal line: Touchdown, Sweetie!
Another blonde-haired girl on her daddy's shoulders, a familiar kind of special!
leaving the field through the team tunnel!
Football is more than just a fun activity. It creates moments and memories that weave our family together.
Two minutes of my planning period remain before the bell rings to signal the start of the weekend. H. who is in one of my morning classes but has a class in my room during this period, is hovering a few steps away from the corner of my desk.
When he did this a few days after joining my class, it was to tell me he thought our class was too hard. (I reassured him that meant that he was now in the right place, as we'd switched him out of a class that was too easy for him.) A week later, it was to campaign for a break and ask why we have to work so hard all the time. (I took this a compliment, pointed to the big cut-out word "relentless" on the wall, and told him that I want him to graduate... and reassured him that we do have fun, too!) Does he need something? Is he going to complain about something again?
I "fix my face" a la Maya Angelou*, making sure my eyes sparkle with a real smile for him when I look up from my laptop. "What's up, H.?"
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and half-smiles. "You know how much I love you?"
??? I'm not sure how to answer this question from a male teenage student. Is he serious? "Yeah?" I answer-ask in what I hope is a joking tone.
"A LOT!" The half-smile blooms into a full one that spreads across his face. "I didn't know what to think of your class at first, and I didn't really like it..." His words are picking up speed and he's standing more firmly on his feet. "But now I really love it. I love being in your class!" His eyes beam joy right into mine.
I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding and relax my shoulders. "Aw, thanks, H! I love having you in my class!" What high school boy actually says that to his teacher? And at the end of the day on Friday? "Seriously, thanks so much for saying that. It means a lot!"
The bell rings, he waves, and the boisterous bustle of a high school at 2:42 on a Friday erupts in the hallway. I'm frozen in my desk chair, wrapped in the same kind of surreal delight that happens when I finish a really remarkable book and I just have to sit for a minute, feeling its weight in my hands.
* "You must remember, the very first thing a child sees, the first thing they notice when they see you, is you seeing them. They look carefully to see what your face looks like as you lay eyes upon their face. When you see a child, no matter what, remember to fix your face."
"Do you want to stand and play beside Daddy?" Husband's marching spot for this year's annual TBDBITL reunion was absolutely perfect: the last person in the last row of the block.
After all, when she "played" her toy horn during the warm-up for a parade and for a song in an empty seat behind me at an alumni band concert, Sweetie really thought she was part of the band. On the ride to campus earlier, she'd declared "I can be in the 'hio State Marching Band someday!" in between bursts of enthusiastic horn-blowing.
Clutching that toy horn, she scampered up beside him, blonde ponytail swinging. Errrnt! Errrnt! The little hums of her plastic horn mixed with the resounding tones of nearly 700 real alumni instruments booming out "Buckeye Battle Cry", and her little feet pumped alongside the generations of legs marking time during the slow step.
As the pickup notes to the faster chorus approached, I knew the band would take off down the field and figured she'd stay standing there, but she had other plans. Suddenly, that bright blonde ponytail was whipping back and forth as those little legs flailed down the field, scurrying to catch up to Daddy!
As practice went on, she worked hard to pick up her feet, hold up her horn, and even listen to the director. "24 counts!" she'd repeat. "What's 24 counts mean?"
Reunion weekend always brings a reminder that this band is truly a family, but there's definitely something special about bringing your family to the band, too! This year, the 100-year-old i-Dotter stole the show in the stadium, but our 3-year-old marcher stole plenty of hearts at practice!
What if the kids are bored? What if the other staff members don't like it? What if I don't do a good job? What if nobody wants to come back? What if... I take a deep breath and glance back at the awesome picture I put on my title slide. It's one of my favorites, with me as squad leader in the middle of a proud hats-off during my last year in the OSU Marching Band. I glance out across our club members, half-glad there aren't too many and half-wishing there were more today. I think back to my colleague's encouraging reply after I'd sent him my slides yesterday. Okay. Go.
A few minutes later, blood is pounding through my body as hard as when I dove so deeply into creating my slides this weekend that several hours somehow disappeared. I can feel the rush of marching again as I explain how every incredible moment in uniform was built on innumerable hours of diligent, intense, relentless practice. How every roar of the crowd came from countless choices of intentional discomfort and sacrifice: 2-5 hours a day, every day, all summer, repeatedly executing precise fundamentals with militaristic precision. In the heat. In the rain. When I was exhausted. When I was sore. When I wanted to sleep in. Analyzing every movement with a running checklist in my brain. Starting every time with the most basic elements of posture and in-place movements, even when I could have done them in my sleep, because I didn't want to do anything on default. Woody Hayes said that "you're either getting better or you're getting worse," and I wasn't about to get worse.
I run my fingers over the now-taped-up spine of my old spiral notebook and brush its coarse, battered cover against my palm before I pass it to a student. The E-7 notebook. Covered in quotes to inspire myself on the hard days and filled with precious tidbits of feedback from the mentor who would go on to become one of my best friends. My journey to earning the spot reserved for the best marcher in my row, to make sure that I wouldn't get complacent, to keep myself truly getting better every day. Just holding it gives me shivers, 15 years later.
All those hours on the field, devouring feedback after every drill, scrawling notes before jumping back on the line and snapping back to attention for more. Conversations with my friend about hard work, courage, leadership, and life, as we built the trust that was so essential for my growth. The determination with which I cut up the descriptions from our fundamentals packet and rewrote his feedback under each section to study, memorize, and turn into a mental checklist that ran through my head every time I marched. Back straight, horn straight, eyes ahead, legs up, toes strained downward, march "to the wall", don't dip shoulder, don't flash early, relax neck, throw head back, slam back down, tense shoulders, "hit the table", don't dip, snap leg up...
It's surreal to stand in front of a classroom now, so far removed from those days, and see colleagues and students flipping through those tattered pages. I feel like they can finally see who I am, now that they can see where I came from. This is what I mean when I say I'm hardworking. This is the culture of challenging support, trust, and accountability that I dream of recreating in my classes and in our school.
"Did you guys see what it takes to become the elite of the elite?" the colleague in charge of our club jumps in. He starts to tie my ideas to his hopes for our future discussions and gives me a fist bump, and my blood and breath begin to find their way back to a normal pace.
"I can use this with my classes, right?" As we scurry to class, one colleague excitedly waves the planning worksheet I led the group through.
"I was starting to write up something as you were talking, and then you had it made for us!" another colleague declares. "And wow, those old notes of yours... how do you even learn how to take 22 1/2 inch steps?!" We giggle as I try to explain using maximum toe point to train your muscles to hit the yardline precisely with the ball of your foot every 8 steps. "I think we should keep checking in with our plans all year!" she continues, and I feel hope floating from my toes to my curls.
I glance back over my shoulder and catch a swatch of neon pink over on a bench. For me to hear her from the other side of the track, she must be yelling with every ounce of love her little lungs can hold. And the next thing I know, she's on the track chasing me, her spindly legs churning, arms flailing with joy.
left pink blob: me, tiny gray & pink blob on the right: Sweetie <3
As much as I'd like to stop and see the cuteness, I'm here to run. To get strong. To clear my mind and build my muscles. To make myself proud. For me and for her.
So I swing my head back, let my eyes take in the blue sky, woods, and wetlands for a minute, and then set my sights on the next curve. I keep my legs pushing. I keep my feet pounding. Even especially when it's hard. Even especially when stopping sounds pretty tempting, especially in the heat. Even especially when my sneaky brain tries to make me doubt myself. (Nope, nice try, brain!) I can do this. I have run this distance before and I will do it again. I've come so far in the past year. I'm getting better and stronger all the time. Look at me! I furrow my eyebrows, feel the rhythm of my breath, and push my arms and legs and feet and brain to keep on.
Some corners, that sweet little voice is there to give me an extra boost. Sometimes, I look across the field and see her wiggly, bouncing, unfettered delight scampering around Husband at the other end of a straightaway.
And when I pound down toward the finish line for the last time, she's there, swooping her little arm across her body like she's pulling me along. "Go, go, go! Go, Mommy! Yay Mommy!"
Two miles down again. Like always, everything slows down as I walk-float my cool-down lap. My ears seem to reopen to the sounds of birds chirping and my view sharpens: the leaves and branches of the trees seem etched extra clear against the vast sky. But this time, a bubbly bundle of energy scurries up to greet me, ready for a hug. I show her the finish line and we "race" 50m, open-mouthed cackling the whole way.
Too bad you can't hear the giggling!
She mimics my stretches, trying to figure out how to twist her little limbs without tumbling over.
And as we walk to the car, I get awarded my very first running prize: a clover flower she picked just for me!
I love sharing my life with her.
I love showing her who I am and helping her discover who she is.
Who I can be, and who she can be.
Who we can be:
"I did it! I didn't think I could write a poem, and I did!" M. beams up at me, eyes twinkling under her elegant hijab.
By the time I'm halfway down her page, the hubbub of writers around me has completely faded away. It's just me and her words on this creamy notebook page. "Whoa. Your repetition and parallelism are really powerful! How did you decide to do that?" The day before, she was whining that she couldn't write a poem, and now these beautiful lines have flowed right out of her heart.
As I peer over shoulders and chat with other writers, I'm struck by two extremes. At the beginning of April, when I showed them my SOLSC reflection poem, their astonishment at the idea that a regular person could write a poem was palpable. ("Wait, how long did it take you to write that?!") Now, many of them echo M.'s transformation into proud poets as if they've breathed in our recent weeks of poem study and are now exhaling beautifully crafted lines of imagery, tone, and figurative language.
On the other hand, some of their tortured, trapped classmates still writhe in their seats, tongue-tied. "I don't know how to do this! I can't write a poem!" Despite all the strategies I've suggested over the past few days, they are paralyzed. ("But Mrs. M, we're ELL students!" one whimpered last week, as if she hadn't just written 13 incredibly well-crafted slices of life in a month.) How can I get their lines to stream out onto the page too?
As H., my first poet who started to play with poetry at the end of March, gushes to me about how he doesn't even want to write stories anymore, just poetry, it hits me. "Hey, would you like to talk to the class about how you think as you write your poems?" Maybe they need to hear from others who have been right there, stuck, unsure, just weeks or days or moments ago. We've purposely moved on to studying former student mentor poems over the past few days, instead of published poems, and I've been working on a new poem in front of them, but H's enthusiasm and M's proud shift have reminded me how much emotion is tied up into poetry. These writers have mostly unlocked their hearts and minds enough to tell their mighty stories this year, but poetry carries a whole new level of trepidation for those who have never seen themselves as writers, let alone poets.
We've done enough talking this year about pushing ourselves out of our comfort zones that, even though speaking out in a group is still one of his most significant areas of discomfort, H. stutters his way to assent. When I nudge her, M. gulps and agrees too, and so does R., who tried a couple of poems right away in early April after seeing H.'s poem slices.
The next class, instead of another mini-lesson by me, I invite all three of them to share about how they created their poems. Every eye in the meeting area is pinned to the screen. "I started by finding the feeling I wanted to show," H. softly declares. "When I wanted to think of a picture, I closed my eyes so I could really see it..."
(The ending of one of his March slice poems!)
The only side whispers are of thoughtful admiration. "I tried to feel like I was talking to a special friend," R. reveals. "I wanted to put my honest feelings." She gestures toward her line breaks. "I said the words out loud and tried to stop the lines where I'd slow down or finish a thought..."
(The beginning of one of hers!)
Supportive applause, nods, thoughtfully furrowed brows. "I thought it would be cool to repeat these lines to show how much my mom means to me." Her graceful abaya swishes as she shrugs and grins. "I thought I couldn't write a poem, but I did!"
(The first 2 stanzas... isn't the repetition awesome?)
Work time goes in waves of louder-than-I'd-like-it-but-they're-really-helping-each-other and so-quiet-the-room-next-door-must-think-we-left. Poem lines are dripping through the classroom like spring raindrops. One by one, line by line, they are coming unfrozen. One by one, line by line, they're discovering that Charles Bukowski was right when he proclaimed that “everybody is a writer, and almost every writer is a poet.”
Flop. I can't help fiddling with the stack of coarse, creamy, cottony paper in my hands. My fingers relish the gravity and richness of the weight and texture. I love the way this paper feels. Flipping through the pages, I feel the pull of colors: the bold orange Classroom Slice of Life Challenge logo and the vivid, swift blue strokes of my signature and my principal's signature. I love the joy of honoring my students with something special.
"It's time for the 2018 Slice of Life Awards!" All around the meeting area, eager eyes meet mine and bodies lean forward. "I had so much fun this weekend looking at the results of your voting! And just like A. suggested, this year's certificates are signed by our principal, and he was really excited about your writing!"
My mind flits back to the several days last week we spent submitting award nominations and the final voting on Friday. The sweet silence of engaged readers carefully considering their classmates' writing, broken periodically by whispers (and sometimes not-so-whispers) of "I didn't know you wrote about Omar Mokhtar!" or "Psst, read 'My First Pet'!"
Category checklist on the nomination form. We dedicate a couple of class days at the beginning of April just for visiting classmates' posts, leaving comments, and nominating. Each time they want to make a nomination, students submit this quick form with post title, author, as many of these boxes as they want to select, and a short justification for why that post deserves to win an award. (I have my own ideas of which posts should be up for voting too, but they usually nominate almost all of those, plus some I might not have thought of!)
Some of the explanations in their responses. Very thoughtful, right?
On final voting day, excited whispers and focused silence were also broken by occasional shrieks of "Someone put MY post on there!" and "How am I supposed to choose?!"
Part of the final voting form, made by linking the best 3-5 nominations in each category. We spend one day of class on this final voting, where students must pick one response per category.
Final results for a couple of categories. Google Forms make it so easy! :-)
I hop a little as the certificates strain to jump out of my hands. "There were so many incredible posts that I know many of you had trouble choosing, and some categories came out quite close. There were even a couple ties! Our first category was "Most Entertaining Post, and I know we all had a lot of fun reading M.'s story about getting stuck on the Space Mountain roller coaster!"
M.'s eyes widen and he sits up straight in his seat. He beams as 22 pairs of hands clap thunderously and I hand him the certificate.
"And of course, we were all laughing as we imagined little A. driving his family's car without permission!"
Giggles all around as A.'s mouth hangs open. "I won?!" His fingers brush the smooth certificate. "Thanks for getting the principal to sign them!"
His reluctance to apply writing strategies has frustrated me all year, and this story was one of his only attempts to truly incorporate a variety of techniques we've learned. I'm so glad his classmates recognized it, and I hope this gives him momentum!
"G.'s strong vocabulary and unique descriptions really helped us feeling how traveling can change our lives... We were all astounded by C's bravery and use of contrast to create strong emotions in his post about his dad... Z. constantly pushed himself to try new things, from poetry to embedding videos..." Goosebumps sprout on my skin as we relive this poignant, powerful month of growth and community.
So much to celebrate! (I forgot to take pictures of the real ones, so here are screenshots!)
Smiles, shining eyes, knowing nods, and real, enthusiastic applause.
My heart wants to float out of my body. I love this day.I love the March Challenge. I love these writers.
I tell my kids to read "just right" books.
I tell them to shoot for attainable goals.
I'm not giving up on running
just because I'll never run a marathon or a 4-minute mile.
If it pushes you,
it's a challenge.
4 days a week.
20 posts in 31 days.
Carving out every possible slice
between teaching, running, reading,
friendship, faith, love,
toddler songs, stickers, swinging, sliding, climbing,
and responding to slices of my students' incredible lives.
Widening my view and narrowing my focus,
sparking ideas and spinning words
preserving precious moments
and exploring churning thoughts.
Grounding myself in the truths I know
and reaching to rise in new ways.
Pushing the balance
without tipping too far.
If it pushes you,
it's a challenge.
4 days a week.
20 posts in 31 days:
my "just-right" challenge
for this year,
for this me,
Mucha gente en la calle. El aire pulsando con una mezcla rara de paz, claridad, y anticipación. Las rayas brillantes de un puesto del sol maravilloso convirtiéndose en un anochecer azul-gris.
Mis padres y yo, extranjeros en más que una manera. Estadounidenses en España. Protestantes en un país de católicos. Mis padres siguiendo a su hija, sin poder hablar el idioma alrededor de nosotros ni caminar por las calles estrechas y serpenteantes de mi segunda ciudad sin un mapa, dejándome interpretar las conversaciones tanto como el camino. Nosotros tres, esperando con emoción sin saber exactamente qué nos esperamos.
La Plaza de la Villa, Madrid, antes de la procesión en 2005
Con suerte, encontramos un espacio en la muchedumbre cerca de la cuerda marcando la ruta de la procesión, casi en una esquina de la plaza. Tuvimos la sensación de esperar un desfile o evento especial en los E.E.U., pero con más gravedad. Entre la gente apretada, escuchamos a varios niños riéndose y jugando, pero la mayoría de la gente eran personas de edad mayor, esperando con seriedad.
-- He visto varias películas sobre las procesiones de Semana Santa de Sevilla, pero no sé si las de Madrid van a ser iguales o no. -- comenté. -- Pero espero que podamos ver bien la procesión cruzando la plaza de este punto de vista. --
El cielo incierto del crepúsculo se convirtió en una oscuridad definida, y las lámparas del ayuntamiento madrileño crearon ángulos de luz y sombra en los ladrillos antiguos de la plaza. De repente, oímos un ruido distante de tambores y flautas solemnes. Cesaron las voces que resonaban por la plaza, y la anticipación aumentó.
Primero, aparecieron los nazarenos, un espectáculo bastante escalofriante para cualquier estadounidense con conocimiento de la KKK, aunque ya sabía que los capirotes de los penitentes no tiene nada que ver con este grupo desagradable.
Detrás de los penitentes marcharon lo más impresionante: La Guardia Real acompañando a los costaleros. Encima de sus hombros, la imagen del Santísimo Cristo de la Fé osciló ligeramente con el ritmo de sus pasos sombríos.
"Era ya como la hora sexta, cuando descendieron tinieblas sobre la tierra hasta la hora novena al eclipsarse el sol. El velo del templo se rasgó en dos. Y Jesús, clamando a gran voz, dijo: -- Padre, en tus manos encomiendo mi espiritu. -- Y habiendo dicho esto, expiró." (Lucas 23:44-46)
Y detrás de ellos, las flautas y tambores de la Guardia Real seguidos por varias mujeres en mantillas y ropa de luto tradicional, para recordarnos que el tema principal del Viernes Santo es, después de todo, la muerte de Jesús.
No hay mejor manera de contemplar el Viernes Santo que una procesión española. Ese día de 2005, no sabía qué me esperaba, pero agradezco que hice el intento. Cada Viernes Santo, los recuerdos de mi experiencia me conmuevan otra vez más, aunque ya han pasado 13 años.
Part of the beauty and necessity of writing when you are a teacher of writers is grappling with that feeling and realizing what it means to overcome it. I love writing. I may struggle with other parts of my identity, but I'm undoubtably a writer.
And if I, a writer, sometimes don't feel like writing, how much stronger and more frequent must that feeling be for students who don't see themselves as writers? If I, a writer, must sometimes dig deep, battle the voice that just wants to read or watch tv, and drag myself onto the blank screen to wrestle with writing as work (instead of joyful word play or an inspired flow of ideas), how much deeper must they have to dig? How much harder is their battle? How much more like work does it seem to them?
In my class, we do so much work with reflection and goal-setting. At this point in the year, my students have set goals, imagined outcomes, anticipated obstacles, made plans to overcome them, and reflected on their progress so often that those routines practically run themselves, especially with the help of my squad leaders. (In fact, we could be in danger of losing meaningfulness to monotony, but I hope those ideas become habits they internalize and use throughout their lives.) But that emotional battle of choosingdiscipline over default, of making yourself do the work even especially when you don't feel like it, of taking the conscious step to stare your obstacles in the face and force yourself to use one of your plans... that's the real key. There's nothing that I could possibly teach them that could be more important than how to chase their dreams with the relentless ferocity required to beat back the voice in each of our heads that tempts us to give up, give in, or just take the easy way out.
Usually, when I don't feel like writing, it's because I'm overly tired or "out of ideas". Tonight, I'm worn out but I have plenty of ideas... I just don't feel like writing about any of them! Squads in my class? I have 3 separate drafts already started about that, but I don't feel like diving into that on Spring Break.Running?I've been writing about that a lot lately.Sweetie? Ditto. Way too much.The hard stories?Nope. Not those. Not ready yet. Maybe not ever. Certainly not on Spring Break.Friendship?Two drafts sitting about that too, but I'm just not feeling the one, and the other is for farther down the road, if ever.
Increasingly discouraged, I scroll through my list of slicing ideas.Everyday moments, special memories, a post based on a mentor post I've saved?Ehhhhhh. I could write about not wanting to write... Been there, done that. But it could be fun... But I've done it. More than once! But I could put a different twist on it! And really, it's so good to reflect on that feeling for my kids! Maybe. It IS the biggest thing I'm feeling right now... I start to go through my blogging routine: open a draft, go to the call for slices, drop the image in, add the tags I know I'm going to use. These familiar motions are like stretches before running. My brain is warming up to the idea of writing. I could focus on the teacher perspective. Ooh, and I could tie it into R-Factor! I could link to those old posts about this feeling...
I dive into my "writing" tag, looking for a couple of old posts I know I wrote a few years ago. My brain snaps awake as I realize there are more than I thought: an inner battle from not being prepared, a reflection on persistence, my two conflicting voices, and writing even when it's tough. And sprinkled in between, so many joy-filled posts celebrating the power of writing and how much I love it. Aw, I forgot about that! I almost get lost down a wormhole of rediscovering pieces of myself that I'd forgotten, and end up just closing the tab with the tag before I end up past bedtime with a half-finished post.
Over an hour later, I realize that I've somehow found my way to the writing zone: adding and revising sections, using the thesaurus, playing with formatting, body tense and eyebrows furrowed as my fingers try to keep up with my flying thoughts. How did I get here? By talking myself into sitting down to write. By reminding myself what I'd gain if I did. By choosing not to listen to the easy way out. By starting to go through the motions that would lead to writing. By doing the work.
I want my students to wrestle and win, too. With writing, with schoolwork, with life. This is why I write, why I teach, and why I open myself up as an example to them.
Over the weekend, I went to see Paul, Apostle of Christ with a group of colleagues. For me, right now, just getting out there was an act of courage and joy, but the movie itself was even better than I'd hoped. It was an incredibly well-done, inspiring story that left us all doing plenty of reflecting, talking, and hugging afterwards.
As Paul suffers in a Roman prison, Luke keeps risking his life to visit him (so often that the Roman in charge of the prison wryly asks why he is so bent on sneaking IN when everyone else wants to escape!), hoping to preserve his life story to share with the floundering new church. At first, Paul doesn't believe he has any more to share, and Luke has to convince him of the difference his letters (which have always been my favorite books of the Bible!) have made already. My writer's heart loved how throughout the action, the movie interspersed moments of Luke writing down the story that would become "Acts", culminating with others in the community painstakingly copying it to share, rejoicing that they got up to 100 copies.
But my favorite thing about the movie was its overarching message of the power of love. Intentional, difficult, relentless love. Love in the face of evil and hatred. Love when you don't feel like loving. Love, even especially when it's hardest to love.
As the early Christian community faces appalling persecution and unspeakable suffering, frustration causes division that threatens to tear them apart. Luke advises the dissenters who want to fight back against the Romans that "Love is the only way," but in the midst of such horror, he barely believes his own words. Paul challenges him by describing the qualities of true love from 1 Corinthians 13:
Throughout the movie, this is the constant challenge: in order to stand out and spread their message, the early Christians must live it. They must choose love. Always. Love that perseveres through hardship, suffering, and cruelty. Love that does not retaliate, but keeps showing up with kindness, patience, and hope.
When I saw Luke's anguish, I was struck by how similar their world was to ours, even though we are thousands of years apart. Suffering, grief, dissent, betrayal, frustration, discouragement: we are never alone in those feelings, but the challenge is set for us to keep choosing love. At one point, Paul looks at Luke and proclaims, "They will know us by our love."
Immediately, I thought of situations where I need to do a better job choosing love when it's hard. I've read all those verses so many times, reflected and written about them, worked hard to intentionally cultivate relationships of all kinds, and even chosen OLWs to help myself focus on lovinganyway. However, I can do better, especially in the face of hurt and disappointment, and seeing that idea come to life over the course of the movie was just what my heart needed.
In my most challenging situations, I want to be known for choosing love.
"I'm gonna make a craft for the Easter Bunny!" Carrying her bunny stickers from last week's egg hunt, Sweetie scampers over to her craft table. "I'm gonna make him a card!"
With the precision of a surgeon, she painstakingly selects the perfect position for each sticker on a piece of orange construction paper. "I'm making him a card because I love him!" She folds up both sides (ripping one in the process), then carefully seals it with another sticker (an innovation she came up with all by herself a few weeks ago). "I love him so much!" she declares in her most sugary voice.
"That's very nice! Do you want to set it by the door so we can take it to the egg hunt after your nap?" Husband gestures towards the garage door.
"Yeah!" she scampers down the hallway, clutching her card, and sets it beside her fuzzy bunny Easter basket. "I love the Easter Bunny! He's gonna be so happy for my card!"
Later, as soon as the community center barn is in sight, she starts asking, "Where's the Easter Bunny?" We clamber out of the car, adjusting her pink bunny "bee-boppers", pulling a fleece jacket over her bunny shirt as she skips and wiggles in her gray bunny pants and sparkly bunny shoes. "I don't see him! Where is he?"
"Remember, last time he came just as the hunt was getting ready to start. He's probably resting a little from hiding all those eggs!" We mill around in the dazzling sunshine, peering out at the vibrant dots of hundreds of eggs nestled in the grass. Suddenly, the much-awaited figure steps out the barn door. "Look, Sweetie! Who's that?"
"Easter Bunny!" She shrieks and bolts towards him, waving her card in an outstretched hand. "I made a card for you!!!" she proudly proclaims, thrusting it towards him.
"Look, Easter Bunny! She made you a card!" We have to direct his attention to this presumably rare development happening at his waist level. He notices, takes the card, and gives her a thumbs-up.
"Do you want to give him a hug?" He crouches down, and she throws himself into his arms as he holds her card.
We hunt for eggs, jump on a trampoline, and climb on fire trucks, but the rest of the day, she keeps chattering about how happy she made the bunny. "He never got a card before! I made him so happy! I love the Easter Bunny!"
"Can I snuggle you?" Little Sweetie twists sideways in her booster seat and puts her little hands on my arms as I get ready to lift her out after lunch. Crinkling her bright blue eyes, she leans forward and beams at me.
"Of course! I love your snuggles!" I lift her warm, wriggly body on top of me, wrap her in a hug, and lean back. Letting my chair rock a little, I nuzzle her soft blonde hair, breathing in watermelon shampoo and pure sweetness.
"Rockabye, don't you cry, Daddy's gone a-hunting..." Her pure, gentle voice starts murmuring a lullaby that my mom passed to me from deep in Appalachian Ohio. "... Upon the mill [it's supposed to be "hill"], beside the mill, to get his baby's bunting."
"Aw, thank you, Sweetie! I love that song!" I cuddle her closer, remembering how that was sometimes the only song that would settle her down when she was a baby.
"Yeah, I love that one too! Will you sing that one to me, too?" I pat her fuzzy Hello Kitty robe.
"Um, I don't 'member how it starts..."
"You're the end..." I only get out a few words before she jumps in.
"...of the rainbow, the star on the tree, the Easter Bunny to your Mommy and me. You're sugar and spice, and everything nice. You're your Meemaw's..." she stumbles, realizing that how my mom sings it to her doesn't make sense right now, then forges ahead "... Mommy's...Daddy's biiiiiiig girlllllllllllll!"
I cover her delicate, silky face in kisses. "Thank you! Meemaw and Granddaddy used to sing that to me when I was a little girl!" There's so much love in our family! Squeezing her tighter, I wish I could freeze this moment in time. Then, I realize I almost can. "If Daddy takes a video, will you sing that to me again?"
"Yeah!" She sits up, switching immediately from snuggly to perky, with a dash of imperial. "Daddy! Get your phone out of your pocket!"
He does, and she settles back in to me for round 2. Alternately gazing at me and grinning at Daddy and his phone, she croons the whole song again, sweetly patting my back with those tender hands. "You're the end of the rainbow..."