Adviser Advice

On the last week of school last year, I asked Lachelle, Chadwick, and Ben what advice they might give all advisers everywhere, having survived the job for three, seven, and two years, respectively. I remind myself of them today for two reasons: first, because the students will return to the residence hall in two days (after which there will be students in the residence hall non-stop for the next six months), and I want to remember these sage words as I begin the long plodding; and secondly, because I had written them in last year's planner, which can now safely be thrown away. Without further ado, here were their responses:

"If you don't know what to do, use Google." -Chad

"Get off campus at least twice four times a week." -Ben B. 

"You don't need an answer right away." "Slow down." "Unless it's time to call 911." -Chad, Lachelle, Ben

"Avoid all students on your day off." -Ben B.

"Even the students you like are going to do horrifically stupid things." -Chad

"Know your limits." -Lachelle

"You can like people and not trust them at the same time." -Chad

Five Paragraph Essay Example

Carolyn McK
Miss McK
Academic Writing
30 August 2012

Why Every Child Should Watch TV

In the 1950s, television provided a useful tool for broadcasting news bulletins and entertainment. In the 1960s, Americans had the opportunity to see news bulletins that involved real footage from the ghastly Vietnam War. But television has progressed a great deal since then. In the late 1990s, television introduced Americans to what it affectionately called “reality” with the hit show “Survivor.” Ever since, any willing mind has been able to access a wide world of “reality.” Children should be encouraged to watch as much television as possible, for it prevents cancer, discourages excessive imagination, and encourages a broad knowledge base.
If in the sun for too long, the skin is at risk of developing cancerous cells called melanoma. As the earth’s temperature increases from a lack of ozone, UV rays become ever more powerful and harmful. If melanoma is not removed promptly, it is a deadly problem. The television can help children to avoid the damage in the first place by keeping them indoors, in dimly-lit areas, where screen-viewing is optimal.

 Television can also reduce the risk of involvement in hazardous activities. For instance, before the television, and in outlying areas without access to television shows, it has been reported that children would create and enact their own games. The first real harm of this is that thinking of one’s own games and entertainment is a mental exercise: the toll is unfathomable. Playing games of one’s own (indeed, playing games at all) is taxing on the mind and often the body. By the end of the day, one who has been engaged in such play is quite worn out. The second trouble with creating one’s own games is the potential for risk to life and limb. What if an especially eager child takes it upon himself to invent a game called “birds,” and plays on the roof? He will most likely meet his demise. What if an enterprising child discovers that in order to accomplish his aim of imagination, he needs to design and build a treehouse? This is most inconvenient for the parent, who has to supply the necessary tools and support for such an endeavor. What is more, should the child endeavor to set up, say, a lemonade stand, some unfortunate adult would have to teach the child how to make lemonade, collect money, give change, wash glasses, and spend whatever profits wisely (though there most likely are none, what with the overhead). All told, this becomes an extraordinary effort on the part of the adult, not just the child, let alone the likelihood that the child is making himself a nuisance to the neighborhood.

Finally, through television, a child may gain knowledge regarding every aspect of the world. If a child wants to learn about giant squid, she may turn to Animal Planet. If a child wants to learn about indigenous swamp-dwellers of the Florida Keys, she may turn to the Discovery Channel. If a child wants to learn to bake cakes, she may go to the Food Network. The television provides a veritable buffet for the eager sponge that is the young mind. And adults certainly need no longer discuss “the birds and the bees” with their children, for that curriculum is already built into most family shows.

Owning a television should be prerequisite to having children, for all the benefits it provides. However, if one still has reservations regarding the benefits of television on young minds, one might begin with a single show (e.g. Sesame Street, or Caillou), and work one’s way up through the day’s programming, until one is able to live comfortably with merely a full fridge and a remote control.

A Prayer that is Not Very Serious

Father in Heaven,
You are the great teacher, and holy is your name.
May your classroom come, may your announcements be made, on earth, as they are in heaven.
Give us this day our daily lesson plans, and forgive us our mistakes, as we forgive those of students.
And lead us not into the temptation of giving up, but deliver us from parent emails.
For yours is the classroom, the projector, and the hall passes,
forever and ever,
Amen.

In Defense of Poetry and Weddings

A man (or woman, for that matter) would never compose an essay to tell his beloved of his affection. Or perhaps some would. But it's my sense that many have tried to write an essay on such a subject, and it has merely resulted in poetry. Poetry has arisen out of a desire to say something, just so, when it really matters, without saying any more than is absolutely necessary. As evidence of the poetic economy of words, I present E. Barrett Browning's “Sonnet of the Portuguese XLIII”: "How do I love thee?/ Let me count the ways. / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach [...]."  She would not have, could not have better displayed her deepest sentiments in an essay; these thoughts are so laden with emotion that they cannot be researched, and cannot be taught, but are worth relating nonetheless!

Artist Ibiyinka Alao believes that “art is frozen music.” He often writes a poem alongside his artwork: something that could be set to music, or that carries a rhythm of its own, to give another dimension to his work. All people know volumes untold of what good poetry is, because all socialized people have a thousand songs stored in their memories. Music and poetry overlap, intertwine, and become inseparable. But no one suggests that music is clichéd, only that there is good music and bad music, according to taste. And so it is with poetry.

I begin to sound redundant when I say that weddings have also arisen out of the very best parts of humanity, out of the peak of civilization. One may ask what is the point of a ceremony at all? One sociologist explains that "[r]ites of passage often reinforce religious principles for the individuals taking part in them and for the community members witnessing them" (Esposito). He goes on to claim that “[r]ites of passage provide members of a community with an opportunity to reflect on the meaning and purpose of life” (Esposito). Attending a wedding is a physical reminder of life’s transience and beauty.

Every civilization I have ever heard of has some sort of ceremony to unite two people, a universal acknowledgement of  union. Despite such thin evidence as that, it is clear to me that the union derives significance from this acknowledgement. Even cursory attendance at a wedding is very meaningful to the bride and groom. Who but their community of friends and family should bear witness to and affirm, thereby validating, their commitment to each other? Showing up to a wedding is saying that you have witnessed this pledge, and you'll do your own part to ensure its continuation. Though the ceremony itself differs across the globe, the one thing that remains the same is the need for witnesses, the communal aspect of a wedding.

Having said this, why make long trips or go to great inconvenience to attend weddings, when it is possible to visit with the friend(s) at a time and place when both can benefit more directly from the interaction? Firstly, visiting is quite different from witnessing. One goes with different expectations, but both interactions have a value all their own.

The stipulation of geography is notable, however, in that it begs the question of whether the bride/groom are indeed a part of my community. Secondly, then, I might travel across half the country for a family member’s wedding, for the couple will always be part of one’s community, being united by blood and law, as it were. But traveling so far for a friend is a different bag of pretzels entirely. If the friend is bound to remain in that location for an indefinite period of time, it is more possible that he or she will fade from my community, making my attendance at said wedding less important, indeed, little more than sentimental.

Works Cited

Alao, Ibiyinka. “The Music Party.” Visions of True Colors: of Art, Infinity, Eternity and our Hearts. n.d. Web. 4 Dec. 2012.

Barrett Browning, Elizabeth. “Sonnets from the Portuguese XLIII.” Cummings Study Guide. 2005.

Ed. Michael J. Cummings. Web. 1 Dec. 2012.

Esposito, John L.. "Rites and Rituals." The Islamic World: Past and Present. Dec. 1 2004: n.p.

SIRS Issues Researcher. Web. 02 Dec 2012.

How to Remove a Cricket from the Shower

One day, upon first stepping into the shower, you may notice a struggling cricket of, say, two inches diameter, making it unquestionably the largest cricket you have ever seen in your life. After identifying it as such, you may choose to loose a shriek or some other rapid exhalation before finding a towel and staggering out of the bathroom to think through the situation. Follow these steps:

1. Put on a robe or something. Tackling any insect in the buff is leaving yourself unnecessarily vulnerable.

2. Locate a window or door that opens to the outdoors. You may not enjoy sharing your shower with a cricket, but that's no reason to end his abnormally large life.

3. Find an object that is long enough to cradle the insect without using your hands to touch it. Perhaps this goes without saying, but because the insect entered your life with no warning, you are not mentally prepared to grasp it with your bare hands.
Recommendations: A magazine might work, but the best possible solution here is a toilet brush and its container. The toilet brush can serve as an extended hand to "coax" the creature into the container.

4. Wrangle the cricket.

5. Transport it to the nearest window or door, arms fully extended so as to prevent contact with the cricket.

6. Open window and dump the cricket.

7. Resume shower, now with a sense of the unexpected and the ridiculous that prevails in you, even after so many years of claiming to not be afraid of bugs.

Also, this:

Teaching Shakespeare's Othello

Confession: I am so tired of Othello that I could just... end this unit two weeks early. It has gone on way too long for me, and here's why: I have given them way too many assignments on the same act, and they are generally plugging away at them. But it's so hard to watch. And watch I must: I have trained the students to work in their groups, given them the tools to do the work (I hope), threatened them if they get off task, and it would seem that they don't need me anymore.

So now they're all preparing their renditions of separate acts of Othello, and I'm just... hanging out. I have confessed here before that wait time is the hardest thing for me in teaching. As I wait for my students to produce their acts of Shakespeare, as I wait to see whether their understanding is acceptable or irredeemable, I feel as though I must remind myself to hold steady: let them struggle and laugh and write and play and work hard together. Being available is doing something.

However, even if their productions don't suck big time, it's back to the drawing board with this crazy-awful unit.

Ruthie

When I play the two-truths-and-a-lie game, I usually tell people the following:
1. I have 5 stepsisters
2. I have a tattoo
3. I had at least 30 babysitters as a kid

I don't have a tattoo. I have had five stepsisters since age 15, when my mom remarried. And before that, my family quirk was that I had at least 30 different babysitters. Thirty is no uncommon number for single-parent families. My mom worked full time, often nights. That's how it works if you want to support your two kids, and own a little Ford Tempo that you have to get repaired every month, and pay rent, and pay for food, even with the help of food stamps and certain economical cookbooks. Amid the parade of babysitters, some were worse than others. Most were trustworthy. Some were so caught up in themselves, unsure of what to do with two youngsters who fought constantly, that they backed away. I might have, too. Shoot, we were an awful lot of work. My brother and I became pretty adept at being unimpressed with our babysitters. Until Ruthie.

She was a junior in high school and my mom was working daylight hours in the summer of 1994. The first conversation I remember having with Ruthie was about music. I was five years old, and she asked me what kind of music I liked to listen to. What a smart question for a five-year-old. I responded that I didn't like music, "it's all just old men singing together without instruments. It's so boring." My mom has always been a fan of a capella men's choirs. I guess she was listening to that a lot in those days.

"You don't like music because of that? Well, 50% of singers are women, you know. Maybe you just need to listen to more music." I was so impressed with her command of statistics, her ability to counter my conversation instead of leaving me to think something false.

She was special in lots of ways, but that conversation was the first one that I can remember where I felt that my opinion mattered. And if my opinion mattered, I was sort of a grown-up. And if I was sort of a grown-up, I could talk to other grown-ups. And if I could talk to grown-ups, then I could certainly talk to people my own age. A shoot of confidence began to grow in me, from this tiny seed, these small conversations that Ruthie couldn't have any reason to remember.

We walked everywhere. We went to the library, and to the pool. We went to her house and helped her mother in the kitchen, or played badminton in their postage-stamp backyard. She took a general hold over the chores of the house, and what was once so disorderly became livable, a safe and homey place. She was like Mrs. Doubtfire, except younger and cooler... and actually a woman, not just pretending.

One day while she was ironing, she looked out the window, and I noticed that she was cross-eyed. It had never occurred to me before. Then she burnt herself with the iron, exclaiming, "¡Dios bendiga a los niños!" And I learned that she also spoke Spanish, which she had learned from her former stepfather. Every fact about her fascinated me. I wanted to grow up to be just like her.

Ruthie made the summer good. She read The Little Princess out loud to me, then we watched the movie together. She helped Stephen and me get along by engaging us in meaningful discussions. We three sat around the kitchen table and talked about the Great Depression one day. I asked Ruthie why we needed money, why everyone couldn't just give each other what they needed? If we all agreed to it, it would work. She looked at me, and said that was one question she wouldn't answer.

For two summers, Ruthie was our all-in-all. Then she went to college. She still cared about us, still kept up with us. But way leads on to way. And geography is so important. She eventually got married and had a son. Then got divorced, I think.

How do I make this post all come together? Ruthie mattered. As I look back, I see so much of her in how I relate to others. I see a turning point in my life.

Here's to you, Ruthie.

The Joy of the Thick of It

Look down, as you hold on,
and you will see the water rushing below through a most narrow channel
called the autumn.

Let go,
and you will fall into the middle of the torrent.

Right there, so far out of your depth,

Let the scenes blur past you, diving under, and rising up,
breathing enough to live.

All the while knowing that this river evens out, then stops.
Not merely coughing you up on the shore,
it will disperse entirely
to green the landscape all around,
and having brought you this far, leave you in dead leaves
of November
to sputter and cough, and grade papers.

Hopes for Heaven

In "The Matrix," the computers created a paradise for people. But the people knew something was wrong. And many killed themselves, unable to reconcile the incongruity of their sense of inner wrongness with the rightness around them. I hear an insatiable crying out to be whole and holy.

We all cry for wholeness and holiness.

When people say heaven is going to be boring - oh, my - how deceiving such a picture can be: harps and separate clouds, and white robes. Please.

I would bet that heaven will have work: good, difficult, satisfying work. We will work together, never lonely no matter where we go. If we walk somewhere without a friend by our side, the trees themselves will be our companions, so intimate will be our connection to the world around us. We will have no fear, and no more darkness, for we know that the Lamb on the throne will be the light of the city. And when we have been tired out by our work, we will lie at the foot of pine trees, on beds of fragrant pine-needles, and take our fill of satisfying rest. And wake up again, as in the arms of a lover, attentive and quiet. And the day begins.

We will live in knowing (and every moment, knowing) where we belong and whose we are. And we will climb high mountains where the air does not thin. And we will dive to great depths where the pressure will not damage our brains, which will finally think clearly, and our eyes will finally see fully.

The difference - and it is too great not to be spoken! - is that our sense of inner wrongness: our shame, greed, pride, fear, moodiness, lust, will all be cleaned away. In its place will be a song of love to the One who gave everything he had. A song of love to the one who was shamed for love.

Study Hall Tonight

Frank exclaims, "what happened!?" as the printer spews forth many more pages than he anticipated.  Later, I approach him to lower his voice, and he gives me a self-deprecating smile, plaintively confessing, "I am going away." Suddenly, I hear a soft, high voice singing. Little, happy Vy is contentedly  reading some very thick classic while listening to an opera, which she apparently knows by heart. Now how am I gonna shut that down?

I am suddenly overcome with one of those flooded moments: these people are precious. I look over at Andy, the very big, very loud guy, who is right now hunched over his math problems, not making a sound.

I look over to see a girl furtively toss a social studies book to two others at the table next to her. It falls just short and crashes in a splayed mess on the floor. The three girls look up wide-eyed. I turn and bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Meanwhile, Frank bounces over to the three-hole punch at the circulation desk. In one swift motion, his papers and the three-hole punch are on the floor. And that is it. I burst out laughing, exactly in the manner that I go about shushing all evening, and though I try, I can't quite contain it; hiding my face in the 500s section, I wipe away tears. Some days, keeping people quiet is an impossible joke.

English 451: an abomination to sunset

I watch the window closely.
Down here in the basement,
the gray walls now hold all the light we can keep.
In the melancholy conversation of money and soul-less substitutes,
I know wishing does no good.
But the presence and delight of day has left the room;
he crept up the stairs,
and through the door.
And I must politely stay,
although I could scream
for the emptiness
he has left behind.

I Rock Your Baby Son to Sleep

When you announced that you would be married instead of going to college, I felt giddy with joy. Not, mostly, for noble reasons: it was putting together a wedding at such a young age; I must have seen a hundred movies with weddings and flowers, and rings, and kisses. Part of me was sad, too: we had planned to be college roommates; we would have made friends and histories that entwined forever.

So what would our lives look like at this distance? Occasional visits, always something shared deep down: separating histories, but a wire that kept our hearts moving in the same direction. Praise God! I have not lost you, friend. And I have gained a whole family of friends because you chose so bravely:

--------

I rock your baby son to sleep
Slanted light from the hallway
A CD plays a lullaby
Mellow-sweet, a gentle moment.

Suddenly, a pang tells me
how blessed you are among women;
that even to endure a thousand
crying, up-and-down nights,
bottle-or-no-bottle nights,
is worth his trusting, sleepy heart,
his fingers twirling his cropped, blond hair.
He snuggles into my arm and my side.

If I remain single and childless,
tonight I felt I’d miss
half the stars in the sky.

Never one for greed, I hope,
I delight in seeing your faces as
the skies unfold new grandeur before you:
the word “dog,” learning to run,
then the rock-step, snapping fingers,
sharing toys with his new brother.

From a Poet I Love

I found this poem by Ken M. M. Ecker from 2009. Go to his poem blog for more: http://poem365.wordpress.com/


Moments on Summer Nights


There are moments on lonely summer nights
When it seems that you can reach up just high enough
to grab hold of a star and pull it down
till you can hold it in your hands and show it off
And squeeze the stardust off into a potion of hope
An elixer in a glass you swirl like red wine
you sip and roll on the tongue to savor.
Damn
If only the stars could last forever.

A Beautiful Thing

Please tell me this is normal. Have you ever looked around your classroom, and thought, "I love all of these people. Just the way they are, just because they're here, I love them"? This has happened several times in the past few days. I am calling it the honeymoon stage, to which, until recently, I thought I was immune. I've noticed that it primarily happens when the students are quietly following along as we read, or when they're quietly writing. This must be how parents feel when they look in on their sleeping children, and a rush of joy, euphoria, gratitude, and love envelopes them. It's a beautiful thing.

Reflections on "Getting Old"

They don't use an alarm clock to wake up.
The sun calls their joints and ligaments awake to arrange the aching bones.
Oo! Too long in one posture.
They share the sink in the bathroom.
He has an electric razor,
She has a rubber toothpick.

Breakfast is toast and fruit
and four pills and coffee, decaf.
She checks the calendar and
they talk to-do lists and appointments.
They talk about it twice,
because he is forgetting more and more.

They are glad to be together, still.
But she knows that life will change
now that only she may drive,
only she can make out checks,
only she knows where the turns are,
who to call, when to arrive,
how to survive
alone.

----

The above is based loosely on a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, "The Bean Eaters," and my understanding of my grandparents' lives right now.

----


I have heard people tell me casually,
as they are getting up from an uncomfortable position,
or as they are squinting to adjust their eyes to the road signs,
"never get old."

But I have been planning to do just that, this whole time.
Next time, if I have the courage, I will respond,
"Would you rather I die young?"

----

In this country, it is a grave insult to call someone "old".
In this country, we don't vote for people with completely gray hair:
"What do they know? They're old."
What don't they know? They're old.

Just Writing

This year I have significant overlap between students in the residence hall and students in class. One such young man came up to me while I was on in the residence hall office to ask about a homework assignment I had given his class: we had already created outlines for the essay, and the rough draft of the essay was due the following day.

Regi: How do I do this? How do I change from outline to rough draft?

Me: That's one of the hard parts of writing.

Regi: Do I just write it?

Me: Yeah, you just write it. You have to sit down with your computer and your brain, and just begin.

Regi: So, I write sentences from the words in the outline.

Me: Yes.

Regi: So, okay, I just write it.

This conversation seems silly to some. But I think I understand the difficulty he was going through: how do I make my thoughts comfortable on paper? How do I breathe life into letters on a keyboard? It looks so impossible, so big. And my only answer as of yet is to respond with sympathy, and tell the people who ask, "Yes, it is as hard as it sounds. That is the work of writing."

Why Hugging a T-Rex is Not Funny

I wrote a joke on the whiteboard in the residence hall a while back: "Reminder: Sunday is hug a T-rex day!"

Nono and Qing walked in and saw the board. They discussed it together in Mandarin, but eventually the conversation flowed over to me:

Qing: What is a trex?

Me: It is a big dinosaur.

Qing: A dinesor? What is?

Me: With motions. You know, raaaarrrr!

Nono: Oh! She tells Qing in Mandarin what I'm talking about.

Qing: Less confused for a moment, then re-confused. Why should we hug it?

Me: Suddenly at a loss. Because, probably nobody ever hugs them.

Qing: It's dangerous.

How to Break a Legacy

The sun has set long ago,
and 11pm finds us on the back porch: starlight, yes, but mostly the neighbors' floodlight.
I wish we could talk more often: my brother, his wife, and I.

Tonight my brother and I ask, how long did they make it?
-Six years.
-No, they separated after four, divorced after six.
-So they made it six years.
-No. They didn't.

-They made it longer than my parents, his wife interjects.
-How long 'til they divorced?
-Four years, almost.

We stop talking, because we did the math.
And we all know these two have been together for eight years.
And we all stay stopped,
Because our hearts are broken.

We catch fearful gazes: paralyzed
Suddenly faced with a decision to either stop now,
before it gets worse,
or keep going into the unknown.

But we breathe again,
because we all know that quitting was never an option.

To be a Woman...

I know a woman who will not leave her husband of 50 years, despite his mental and verbal abuse, because God has asked her to love her husband, and many husbands are not half so good as hers.

I know a guy who wants to be a girl, and feels that he's in the wrong body: hormone injections start next month.

I know a book that wants to put me in a box: girls play with dolls, and girls play in the kitchen, and girls teach Sunday school; and boys play with trucks, open the door, and pay for meals.

This tells me that gender is something. But no one knows what. I don't understand what makes gender. It is more than differing sex organs. There's something fundamentally different about how we think. Yet, I don't know of one stereotype that withstands every culture. I began to ask people what it is to be a woman. I'm still puzzling over it.

What is it to be a woman?

Summer Weather: water above, water below

 On Saturday, Rachel, Joella and I went whitewater rafting. It was incredible. I felt queasy before we began, but the moment we were on the water, paddling ourselves out of the group of 21 rafts, I felt exhilarated, brand new. And it only got better and better.

After a stop for lunch, we found the clouds gathering and darkening. The rain wasn't a problem, but the lightning would be. Happily, the storm missed us, and we carried on, until the river bent, and we ran straight into it. There was no take-out area anywhere near us. So we took cover under low-hanging trees and the rain fell hard. The storm never centered over us, and it was a beautiful rain, a warm and heavy blanket. When the thunder and lightning moved on, we paddled back out to the main current, and the rain continued to pour.

As we paddled, the rain eased up, and the clouds dispersed. Sunshine instead of rain filled the air ahead of us, and we passed into daylight, thick like honey from the humidity.

After taking out, we loaded into two school buses to return to the outfitter. Soon, the rain began to pour hard and fast. The moment we disembarked, everyone was soaked anew, and this time the rain was sharp and cold, so our teeth chattered as we tried to find a space in the gift shop where we would neither ruin merchandise nor be continually moistened by leaks in the ceiling.

The weather never cleared up entirely on Saturday. We returned to a tent that had collected significant moisture (though no standing water, as I had expected), and had to use Joella's ShamWow to soak things up. Then another thing happened that I didn't expect: I slept deep and long, like a tired child.

Another water story:

Immediately following our camping trip, I joined a friend and her family for their beach trip. After two days of flawless beach weather, it was Wednesday, and we saw the clouds gathering. We knew what was coming. But it was our last day at the beach, and all my companions dearly love being in the water. I encouraged them to get in while they had the chance. I read Animal Farm. Then the drops began. I packed a few things up and read some more. Then I realized how dark it was and how impossible it would be for us to miss the storm. I packed up an umbrella and stood under the remaining umbrella, willing my friends to come join me so we might miss the thunder and lightning. At last, they were the last people in the water. They saw the solitary open umbrella, bolstered by folded chairs and sheltering one pair of legs that paced in a small track, waiting.

We loaded up faster than trained navy SEALS and headed for the street, even braving a small river that had formed where the path from the boardwalk had been. We barely made it past the sand when the thunder and lightning cracked above our heads, and we rushed for the nearest cover: an outdoor staircase at a hotel. There we unburdened ourselves of our metals chairs and metal umbrella poles, and stood under the eaves of the building. After perhaps twenty minutes, the storm seemed to have moved on sufficiently, and we ventured out of our hiding place. Another loud CRACK! Back up we all went for another ten minutes before braving the foot (or more) of water that covered the street corners. Water even covered the yellow line in the middle of the road.

We were sloshing through this foot or so of water when I saw a perfect lightning bolt at the end of the same street, and heard the thunder almost immediately. I almost ran back to the house where we were staying. My, but it's good to be soaked and alive.

Dinosaurs

Me: Dad, I wish I had gone through a dinosaur stage as a child. I was missing out. I really like dinosaurs.

Dad: Well, that's all very nice, but where were you when they were sickly?



I remember one of the most interesting conversations of my life was when Kelly taught me what it is to imagine away boredom. We were maybe 12 years old, and I am sure it was largely motivated by the movie Jurassic Park. As we were in the car headed past fields separated by tree lines, with a forest bordering the horizon, she quietly mentioned, "sometimes, when I'm bored, I picture a pack of velociraptors coming out of the trees."

Ever since, I have often imagined dinosaurs entering into my life. I  especially love the way Dinotopia makes it possible for humans to interact with dinosaurs (specifically the herbivores).

In Which My Phone Teaches Me Humility

Vacation. This time at a theme park, and we had settled in the Best Western across the way. We had spent all of Wednesday at the park, and, weary from roller coasters and sun, had all found our way to napping after dinner. When I awoke at 7pm I sent Dan a text telling he and Mom that I was heading over to the park again to ride some roller coasters. I think it failed to send or something, but Dan, Chelsea and I met outside the rooms anyway, and Dan and I had a super fun time riding rides while Chelsea made friends with people who were waiting for people in line.

When we all got back to the hotel, Chelsea and I both ended up texting Mom to let her know that we were sitting by the pool watching fireworks. Again, I think my text failed to send. So I deleted all my texts, and Mom told Chelsea that she was already mostly asleep and we'd all meet up in the morning.

Early in the morning, 7:40am, I was awakened by a text from Mom, saying "Coffeeeee." To which I responded, "huh?" To which she responded "french toast." To which I responded, "Mom, it's too early for cryptic messages.What are you getting at?"

Suddenly, I received a text from Dan, informing me that "The park opens at 10am." To which I responded, "...OK..."

Then Mom replied to my rude message, "Well, I am going to get breakfast before anything else, and I'm inviting you to come along." I was terribly annoyed.

I woke up Michelle and Chelsea and we all readied ourselves and trudged to breakfast; I confessed to Mom and Dan how it was a little earlier than I had been planning to wake up. But that I was grateful for breakfast.

Mom and Dan looked puzzled: "You texted US."

You see what happened there? My phone decided to wake everyone up with the texts at 7:40am. The most amazing thing is: neither Dan nor Mom told me to take my over-eager self back to bed. Instead, Dan graciously responded with the opening time of the park. And Mom graciously responded with an offer to eat breakfast first.

Plank in my eye.

Advice to Jess

I was recently privileged to be asked for advice from a younger friend for three areas of her life:
1. not getting along with my brother,
2. doing my devotions with God, and
3. talking when it's not my turn to speak.
I share my response here in order to, first and foremost, demonstrate to all how good I am at giving advice. (Ask me anything. I'll change your life.) And secondly, to be able find these thoughts again, for myself, in my own struggles.

To the first, dear Jess, not getting along with your brother, I have to ask: what are you afraid of? I think my sisters often don't get along because they are afraid. One is afraid that the other will ask too much of her, and that by complying with the request (to change the channel, to borrow shoes, to spend time helping with a chore), the one will be left with less for herself. Of course, it's true at first, giving and helping another person can be difficult or exhausting, leaving us with less for ourselves. But loving Christ isn't about what we can hold back for ourselves. By the way, I struggle here, too. I often think my family is an exception to serving others: they'd be so much easier to love if they weren't related to me!

Regarding your second question, doing devotions with God, I have a brief testimony. In high school I was very regimented with my devotional times. I am glad I was so disciplined. I learned much, and I relied on that strength throughout the day, the week, etc. But it became a stumbling block for me. It became a measurement by which I would judge others. Oh Jess, there have to be at least 25 passages in the Bible talking about how wrong that mindset is.

One day, my mentor/counselor friends told me to stop doing devotions indefinitely. Just. Stop. Because my heart was not burdened for others and motivated by love, but I was burdened under an expectation for myself, and obligation to DO in the presence of God. Self-righteousness.

Ever since, I believe I have drawn nearer to the heart of God. I don't mean to say that disciplined and regular time with God each day is bad. It's a wonderful way to live in the light: the structure holds even when our emotions have taken a day off. But for me, the guild of not doing it, the guilt of missing a day was clearly showing me how my devotional time had become a law. And, well, the law is fulfilled in Christ's death. By knowing Him, accepting Him, we're free from that guilt. All that to say, for me, for a while, I had to forget "daily devotion" to remember Christ.

On to your third dilemma: speaking out of turn. I have very little to tell you here. In fact, I might just as well ask you for advice. This is one of my chief difficulties. But, and perhaps this recognition alone is helpful, I think I know why I always want to speak: again, I'm afraid. I'm afraid people will think I'm not following the conversation if I'm not contributing something, or that they'll forget I'm in the room. That is all just pride and fear working together to make me obnoxious. I hope you find your answer, and then share it with me!

Thoughts on the Law and Love

I asked Patrick, "What is the purpose of the law? Is it to protect private property?" I had heard that in some movie.

He replied, "No, at its core, it is to protect from injury."

That reminded me of how Jesus is the fulfillment of the law, because he loves.

Love is patient, love is kind. It doesn't envy anyone.
Love does not boast. It isn't proud.
Love doesn't dishonor anyone; it's not self-seeking.
Love doesn't get angry very easily, and it keeps no record of when you mess up.
Love isn't glad when evil wins, but rejoices in the truth.
Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.

For now, we know in part. But when completeness comes, we will know in full. (Based on I Corinthians 13)

So, love fulfills the law. Love does not injure. Of course love does not injure. It does more than not injure: it protects. It doesn't just stand outside the gates, refusing the hurt anyone. It enters in, persevering. It slays the dragon. It finds the lost one, and it won't fail, either. 


But love can't be forced. It has to have a will behind it. So, technically, people can reject love. And if they're doing that, they're prone to injure others, and are in need of the law to minimize injury.

Until we know in full, it looks like we have the law to fill in where people reject love.

7 Bad Ways to Eat an Orange

I would like to see a video entitled "7 Bad Ways to Eat an Orange." I can think of at least that many.

BJ, for instance, eats an orange like a grapefruit (like one would eat a grapefruit, rather, not like a grapefruit would eat an orange, that's ridiculous), by cutting it in half perpendicular to the core and eating the sections with a spoon.

One might also try to eat an orange by ravenously tearing it apart. What a mess.

One might also try to use a slingshot and spatter it against a tree, and then approach its squishy bits with mouth open, no hands.

One might also try to slingshot the orange directly into another's mouth. Ouch.

One might try cutting the orange into "matchstick slices." Talk about herding cats.

One might try using a potato shooter. Another hopeless mess.

One might try removing the peel, then the white, then separating each tiny juice packet, then lining them up, and using a small straw to suck up the bits.

For proper ways to eat an orange, go here.

Fish, Cats, and Family Vacation

Sometimes, on vacation, a meal out is just another meal. You find nourishment. Maybe you pay too much. And you leave full, but empty. Then there are those special meals out. There's a spark to conversation. The food is better. Commensality.

On our family vacation to Baltimore last weekend, we had a few of those successful, special dinners together. The best was Saturday night. Meg had made the reservations, and she and I had chosen dresses to wear, and Meg and dressed my not-yet-seven-year-old niece Aida in a twirly pink skirt. When Dad saw that Stephen was wearing a collared shirt, he felt under-dressed and returned to the room to change. As we all piled into the shuttle, I wondered why "dressing for dinner" had ever gone out of fashion. It separates the work from the play. I can appreciate people better after I feel I have taken care of myself.

We walked along the piers of Inner Harbor, arriving at the restaurant just before sunset. The inside was inlaid with rich woodwork that reminded one of lavish captain's quarters. Final rays of sunlight peeked through the westward windows, illuminating specks in the air. We all attempted to sit up straight and act as though we always ate in places with multiple forks. I ordered the flounder

We chatted while Aida colored a picture of a shrimp wearing a hat and a hook. (She must have colored ten of these pictures by the end of the weekend.) When we slowed our eating, Dad remarked that we should save the fish that we don't eat so that he could feed it to the starving cat at the hotel. If you don't know my Dad, you'll appreciate that he gave me a little book called 101 Uses for a Dead Cat when I was eight years old. But you should also know that I am an avid cat-lover, and he was less than 50% joking about the book.

So when he issued a proclamation regarding the saving of scraps for a cat, one wondered how much he had had to drink. And one wondered a lot more when the honest answer was that he was not drunk; he was serious. Stephen corroborated the story: a skin-and-bones cat had been wandering about the hotel gates, meowing pathetically, clearly the victim of some tragic human.

When the waiter came by, my father asked for a small box, "So we can give the rest to a starving cat."

No. Joke. I was mortified. So was my Dad.

"The food was excellent, though," I tried to clarify, "It's just... we're all full..."

"--and this cat, it really is starving," Dad helped. The waiter seemed to understand.

Megan laughed, "This is something Princess would love to eat, right Aida?" Princess lives across the street from Meg and Stephen. She often wanders into their yard, and is more a community cat than the property of any one household. Everyone loves her as if she were their own, and my niece and nephew especially so. My brother would often come outside in the morning to find Princess on the top of his car, waiting to say good morning to him. "By the way, where is Princess? It's been a long time since she's been around. Have you seen her, Steve?"

"Yeah, she died a month ago. She got run over," Stephen said matter-of-factly. He immediately realized his mistake.

Aida looked up at him, then put her head down on the table, covering her little face in her little hands. When she looked up again, she was close to sobbing, her face streaked with tears, her nose reddening, "P-Princess," was all she could manage. Megan held her as Stephen tried to mend it.

"I'm sorry, Pickle. I meant to tell you better." Dad and I looked at each other, nearly crying ourselves. I mean, we'll all miss Princess, but my young niece experiencing the first death of a pet (suddenly, over dinner) was almost more than we could bear. She pulled it together after being promised candy from some overpriced, sassy shop in the Harbor.

The night was warm and breezy, and filled with a jazz band. The perfect night for dancing under a crescent moon hanging above the skyscrapers.

Interesting fact: The starving cat rejected everyone else's fish except for the flounder.

Destination: Cleveland

Dates: June 14-17 [well, we left at 6am on the 17th in order for me to be back in time to go to a wedding. It was beautiful.]
Purpose: to participate in Marine Week. [We were disappointed after learning that this had nothing whatsoever to do with fish or boats. Ha. No. Actual Purpose: to meet up with FRIENDS, specifically Erin and Rachel]
Mode of Transport: Christine's car
People whose presence we missed by being together: numerous

Description: Christine came on Wednesday to help me focus on the week-long, intensive class I was taking. It actually worked. It turns out I can read and write best when there's a person nearby to whom I can occasionally read a brilliant passage, or who keeps me updated on Facebook and discourages me from doing the same.

We left Thursday after class, arriving by midnight in Cleveland. Instead of recounting every single thing we did (which Christine and I did on the way home, with true narrative genius, I might add), I shall add 34 more items to my list of Favorite Things.

Quoteboards
Erin's laugh
Christine's laugh
Rachel's long-lost laugh
Carolyn's laugh
Laughter
Duct tape [we went to the duct tape festival... It's only impressive if you think of it as a small town's summer carnival + a nod to duct tape]
Cafes
Flawless weddings [we did not all attend one, Erin was the coordinator at one on Saturday]
Lavender soda
Open windows
Ponytails
Thank-you cards
Soft puppies
Powdered color
Sweat bands
No traffic
Little black dresses [Marshall's store: Christine, Rachel, and I tried on dress after dress, many of which we would never dream of actually buying. Though it's always so rewarding when those look good on.]
Bobby pins ["Are you going to bobby pin that hair into submission?"]
Headbands that fit
Background music
Ceiling fans
Invitations to go swing dancing
Friends with apartments
Funny grammar mistakes
Eating 'cause you're too lazy to stare [I have no idea what that means now]
Community naps
Dutch Blitz
Going out
Visiting nursing homes [we did not do that, we just wrote it down]
Sitting on counter tops
Sitting next to a friend in class [not that we went to class all together... I mean, since college]
Watching the old version of "Father of the Bride," (you know, the one with Elizabeth Taylor?) at Erin's house with her family and friends, and eating pizza, and drinking root beer, and all the while a little cat is determined to stay right in the center of your lap, all curled up sleeping. 
Staying up until 4am talking, expressing a devil-may-care attitude toward tomorrow's six hours of driving with an hour-and-a-half of sleep.

Fatherless Days

"Take these pieces thrown away

Put them together from night and day

Washed by the sun, dried by the rain, 

To be my father in the fatherless days."

"Always," Newsboys, 1998

I work in a place where I see many kids without parents actively involved in their lives. For the part of the parents, they believe they have done the best thing a parent could do by sending their children to a boarding school. Here they will, in theory at least, learn to speak English, the language of money, and make connections within the United States, thereby increasing the kids' chance of finding a high-paying job and living a life of ease.

In a meeting yesterday, we talked about what our job is as advisers. How much of the students' lives fall on us to care for? The truth? Well, Latin scholars, you tell me, what does in loco parentis mean to you? And how about in loco parentis omni die? Even if we weren't so outnumbered, we wouldn't be able to care for them with the holistic concern and unconditional love of a parent.

On my good days, I have to fight the urge to pity these students. I constantly remind myself that I, too, grew up with a parent in absentia, and I'm okay, aren't I? Because pity only ever reduced me to a victim, when love could have empowered me.

Regarding these lyrics, then, I have been puzzling over them for the past fourteen years. The sun does not wash. The rain does not dry. Except... if everything is backward and upside-down in this world. What's more, most potters start with soft clay, I've heard. But perhaps broken pieces are the only useful form for God to shape? I mean, he raises the dead! (He has strange past times.) He can begin with all these broken pieces, make them soft, and create a thing beautiful to behold in the final light. 

"Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day" (2 Cor. 4:16). Things begin working backward from the time we enter his kingdom at Jesus' invitation. We are becoming children to enter into the Kingdom. And such a Father we have! (I have recently added to my list of things I know about him that he is playful and exuberant, the very definition of life!)

So, I grew up without a dad much in the picture. And I'm only okay insomuch as that lack has made me seek out the true Father. And as I find him, I have plenty of pieces to offer him. I'm thinking we only ever bring pieces to the Lord. I'm hoping this will inform how I see my students: people in pieces, like me, with a Father waiting to adopt them.

Possibilities for my Anabaptist research paper:

• Prayer practices in Hutterite/Bruderhof communities

• Anabaptist eschatology (beliefs about the end times)

• the Brethren in Christ holiness movement

• Jubilee practices in today's Mennonite/BIC churches

Care to weigh in?

Update: I'm writing about peace-making in Russia. I know, it wasn't quite fair to ignore all the options and go with door #5.
All this is happening because I work at an Anabaptist high school, and needed to take a seminar called Understanding Roots of Community in Anabaptism. It's nice to be on the paper-writing end instead of the grading end. Relaxing, you know?

June

It's beautiful: being overcome
by simple exhaustion at the end of a school year.

[Breathe.]

It's beautiful.

General Education: Bird Watching

From my vantage point in the dorm office, I can see only a sliver of the front porch. Entirely filling that sliver is a square, brick column supporting the porch roof. This column also supports a large bird's nest. So far this spring, two bird families have made their homes there, first building up the tenement, then laying eggs, and incubating them.

I find myself often observing these creatures who seem to subsist so much simpler than I. Most recently was the robin family. What a cure to watch mama bird fly off, leaving the kids in silence, to snuggle and shove each other until she returned, bringing back worms and berries in her expert beak. Her squeaky, squirmy babies arched their necks and got excited. She had to make many trips to scrounge food for her hungry troop. And never did I hear her complain. Every time she returned to the nest, I wanted to applaud, so cheerfully did she extend her prizes for her young to devour. They might have applauded, too, if they were older and wiser and had hands.

Good job, mother robin! Yesterday the birdies flew off: graduation! 

_____________________________________________________________________

I wish I could take a class whose only objectives were the following:

1. careful and reverent observation

2. honest prayer

3. quiet introspection
4. further observation

I believe bird watching (executed slowly and alone) should be a required part of a liberal arts education. Because in order for it to be effective for people like me (whoever we are), it must be forced. My view must be limited to only a sliver of the porch where the bird families are perfectly framed and perfectly close enough for observation.

For other ideas for a liberal arts education, John Updike's "Hoeing" comes to mind. Perhaps all these ideas could be rolled into one required class that I am supremely unqualified to teach. For a few days, we watch birds. Another few days, we hoe a field. Another day, we make mud puddles and play in them. Another day, we learn to beat water as if it were a drum. Another day, we bake pies. It would be called "Explorations in Bio-Purpose."

A Graph, for your Edification

But Who's Counting?

I am. 14 more days of lesson plans.

So I'm relieved that the school year is ending. I have ideas with what I'll do with the intervening three months before another day-in, day-out schedule. Here are some ideas:

visit Cleveland
special week at Black Rock
visit West Virginia
climb
vacation in Baltimore with my family
swim
a few weddings
a part-time job?
kayak
attend church regularly
read books...in the sunshine at the East Lampeter park near the Mill Stream with a cherry limeade from Sonic


Other ideas?

Being Thankful and Being Sick

Three weeks ago marked an unusual event in my life: illness. I came down with something Sunday evening. Monday, I went to school and taught, bleary-eyed, the only thought on my mind was my bed. A fever started taking me over. By four o'clock, I had called off for the next day, and by six o'clock, I was calling friends to take me to the hospital. I had a fever of 102, and I couldn't think straight. I was fixating on a message I had sent to a friend the night before.

The rest of the week passed in and out of fever. I taught Wednesday through Friday, each day doing just a bit more. I haven't been sick like this since I was a child. It was strange. I forgot what it was like to take my temperature intermittently; to drink hot tea in tiny sips, then feel too tired to finish; to stay in bed, to have a box of tissues on hand; to take medication on the hour because without it, it feels as though Sousa is marching a band on my optic nerve.

A week of being sick. What have I learned? The summary came in a sermon at church that Sunday: thankfulness is a habit. As I lay in the throes of fever, wishing for water, and actually unable to orient my head and feet in order to get it, I was giving thanks to God for indoor plumbing, for daylight, for a job that could do without me in times of distress, for people all around me, for friends and family I could call, for a phone, for my hair (I recall this prayer: "God, thank you that I'm not going through chemo right now. That would be way worse."), for youth, for a million things. In the sermon, Brock was talking about Paul and Silas singing to God in their chains: their joints were probably stretched beyond the limit and swelling painfully; they were probably covered in their own dirt; they were probably bloody, thirsty, hungry, and feverish. But they prayed and sang hymns to God. You don't just live that kind of gratitude overnight. You have to practice, one trial at a time. Thank you, God, for who you are, in my sickness and in my health.

For a while after being sick, I was way more compassionate to the students who asked to be excused from school for feeling ill. In China, attendance is not a big deal. If you are present for your tests (which occur frequently and have huge bearings on your future), if you make good grades, your parents will certainly allow you a day to rest. Shoot, a day every other week to rest. No problem. But in the United States? Well, we call that truancy, kids. The real problem is that I don't know when a person is "actually" sick. Some tell-tale signs that they're not sick, however, include the following:

• no fever
• no diarrhea
• no throwing up
• no headache
• no blood
• no protruding bones
• no tears
• no cough
• student tells you he has a headache, then coughs... to make the headache more convincing
• student limps up the stairs after telling you he has a headache... to make the headache more convincing
• student refuses medicine
• student refuses to go to the doctor
• after telling the student that he will miss free time after school, he gets better
• student walks to breakfast, jokes with friends, walks back to the dorm, then limps to the office to complain of severe back pain
• student has a big test or paper due that day
• student was up all night playing video games

A Survey.

Sure, adults still do these. It's like a test of wit.


1. Who would you want to be tied to for 24 hours?
     Will Smith.

2. Who do you blame for your mood today?
     Who's blaming? I credit several people for my excellent mood: my co-workers take the prize today.

3. Have you ever seen a dead body?
     Yes. And not just at funerals, either... (?)

4. What should we do with stupid people??
     Love 'em.

5. How long do you think you will live?
     88.

6. What was the first thing you did this morning?
     Snooze button.

7. The color of carpet in your bedroom?
     Cream.

9. Last person you went out to dinner with?
     BJ, maybe?

10. Are you spoiled?
     Not compared to most people in a developed country.

11.Do you drink lots of water?
     You know I do. You think looks like this happen by accident?

12. What toothpaste do you use?
     Aquafresh.

13. How do you vent your anger?
     What ANGER!?

14. The last compliment you received?
     "Your class is interesting," a few days ago.

15. What are you doing this weekend?
     Working.

16 When was the last time you threw up?
     LAST WEEK!

17. :)

18. What theme does your room have?
     Sleeping.

19. When was the last time you were at a party?
     Shoot. All the time. So many parties. Like every second.

20. Are you a mama's child or a daddy's child?
     I'm not a child. You'd think I got this off of Myspace or something.

21. Would you ever join the military?
     No.

22. The last website you visited?
     Weather.com.

23. Who was the last person you took a picture with?
     Mermaids at Melissa's bridal shower.

25. Last person you went to the movies with?
     People from the dorm: The Hunger Games.

26. What did you do/will you do for your birthday this year?
     Kayaking? Fishing? Except, you can be the one to touch the fish.

27. Number of layers on your bed?
     Of blankets? Just the one. It is so cozy, I don't need anything else.

28. Is anything alive in your room?
     I am. I'm alive. And stinkbugs. So very alive.

29. Today, would you rather go back a week or go forward a week?
     Forward. Last week I was sick with the flu. But forward is even scarier. It's the unknown. What a great question. Still, forward, always forward.

30. What are you looking forward to right now?
      A second cup of tea. Finishing a batch of grading. Reading before bed. Sleeping. Coffee in the morning. The sunrise. The weekend. Dancing. Visiting Waynesboro. Hiking. Summer vacation. Cleveland. Baltimore. Chatting with my dad. Seeing all my family... Best list ever. 

Possibilities for the Future

My niece, Aida, and I were playing this weekend. She's six. She decided we would play "Mommy's work." My sister-in-law helps people to find suitable jobs. So Aida brought down her kids' program computer, and sat at the coffee table in a folding pink princess chair. She began with some preliminary questions:

[We shake hands]

Aida: How can I help you?

Me: Uh, I need a job right away.

Aida: No problem. I can help you. What do you like?

Me: [in character] I like... to... put things together. And take things apart. And I like the color yellow.

Aida: [typing furiously on the computer] That's fine. Good. I have something for you: a construction worker!

Me: Perfect! But what about how I like the color yellow?

Aida: No problem. All the machines are yellow. I have some forms for you to fill out. [Draws four lines on a sheet of paper] Write your name, date you were born, place, and things you like.

Me: [struggling with "place"] Done.

Aida: Great! You start on Friday. Here's your schedule. [Hands over another piece of paper.] Do you need anything else?

Me: [hesitatingly] A house would be nice.

Aida: Sure. I can help you. [Writes out a "check" for $50 million.] Is that enough?

Me: Yes. I'm sure I can find something for that much. How do you get the money to give people for houses?

Aida: Work gives it to me, and I give some of it away to people.

By the end of our session, I had a huge house filled with a few other families, I had changed careers to become a novelist/baby sitter (her idea), and I had a husband named Tyler. And we were both parrots.

The End.

RE: Reading FOR FUN

Recently, James Patterson posted this status on Facebook: "Any of you know any English teachers? Would you do me a favor? Please ask them, in their experience, what their best strategy has been for getting kids to like reading FOR FUN? Or, if they hadn’t had much luck, what they think the reasons are? Thanks."

My friend kindly forwarded this status to me, and of course I wondered, is Patterson asking me how he might sell more books? Marketing advice from an English teacher? But he got me thinking about it, then writing about it, and here we are.

First, I have to ask myself why I want kids to read more FOR FUN. I mean, why would I spend so much energy teaching someone how to have fun? "For fun" alone seems a poor reason for doing things. And I can think of a million more ways to have fun that don't involve as much work as reading; spray painting bad words on a neighbor's shed, for instance, would serve the purpose beautifully.

But I want my students to read because it will help them to think about new things. Reading will help them to live their lives better. Reading will help them to concentrate long enough to think through a problem. And lastly, I want them to read because I'm a cop-out. Reading will teach them all I cannot hope to.

Now I am ready for the "how?". But I am not an expert here. I've loved to read ever since I got the hang of it.

Right now, at the beginning of my teaching career, I can think of three things that I do to encourage readers:

1. My love for reading grew from being read to, so I read to them.

2. I never seem to have enough time to sit and read, so I make time to read in class. They can read anything they want, they just have to be reading and silent.

3. I usually only do things when I see someone else doing it, so I read near them. During our silent, sustained reading, I am reading, too. I let myself get into the book, right then, right there, instead of answering emails and grading things. Then afterward, I will sometimes share what I was reading, something that puzzled me, something I liked.

A Story I Never Tire of Hearing

Just a few days ago, Peter had done the unthinkable: he had betrayed his best friend, after years of swearing undying allegiance. In an impetuous moment, he had thrown it all away and denied even knowing the guy. Then the man was killed. And Peter would never get to say I'm sorry, never get to explain himself. And what would he say, anyway? He has no answer even for himself. He hates himself. His mind trails back to that strange encounter and his heart stirs into thumping: the Son of God was alive again. And then gone, disappeared before he could talk to him. Perhaps it was not important to the Lord, but Peter knows he cannot stand it until Jesus tells him face-to-face that he has forgiven him.

He has to find something to do with his hands, to stop the endless thinking: he tells his friends he's going out, and they all know where he's going. Peter always goes fishing when he's troubled.

They tag along: they put in a night's worth of half-hearted work, and have nothing to show for it. John looks at the sweating and straining Peter, shaking his head. He's gonna pull a muscle at that rate. But John says nothing, because when your heart is empty, and your mind directionless, your mouth is empty, too. Your hands pull at nets in mechanical motions.

The sun begins to rise.

They descry a figure on shore, tending a small fire. He yells to them, "friends, have you caught anything?"

"Nothing," John replies.

"Throw your nets to the other side of the boat!"

James chuckles, even as Peter and John tug at the net to comply. Why not? They cast the nets to the right, closer to the figure.

It seems only a moment until their net is pulling on the boat's side, alive with their catch. Had all the fish congregated to this place, to see their friend on the shore?

John looks at Peter, eyes wide with his sudden excitement, "it's the Lord," he says.

Peter bolts upright. He grabs his long garment and jumps into the water. John looks at his friend, now swimming with quick uneven strokes to Jesus: he remembers another moment, so long ago now, when Jesus had come to Peter in the boat on the lake, but by walking. Now Peter, swimming or walking, would come to the Lord.

John looks at James. With a great laugh, they take the oars and haul the fish to shore.

God's Signature: Happy Easter

"If it's beautiful and it multiplies, it must be God's work," said Pastor Josef this morning. It was a fitting comment, for the entire congregation seemed to be wriggling with new life. In a group of perhaps 320 people, babies under one and a half years constituted perhaps 20. Children under three years... oh my. That would be many more. And it would be far too awkward to try to count the children who are soon to be in our midst: pregnant women were all over the borrowed gym for today's service, taking part in the wriggling in their attempts to get comfortable.

I glanced over at J and M with their new baby. But I can never just glance. I looked. I stared. It's a wonder they haven't mentioned something about it, actually. J and M lost a baby over a year ago just before she would have been considered full term. We all mourned this loss deeply, just as we had all celebrated wholeheartedly when we first found out they were expecting.

"It's not fair," I thought repeatedly. I was just as quick to fire back at myself, "Of course it's not fair. A lot of things aren't fair. Are you gonna cry about it?"

Yes. I am going to cry about it, I hope.

But in not too much time, J and M decided they would begin to do foster care.

Just a few weeks after beginning the paperwork, a newborn girl (who looks as though she had been born of the two, seriously) was put into their arms by the foster care system. Hopefully this is a long-term thing. It sure is lovely to see them. And this morning, their little girl was in her baby carrier, fast asleep in a bright Easter dress and a little pink ribbon around her head. Of course, I gained all this by staring, like I do. And when she gave a start and awoke, M took the baby and rested her on her shoulder. Because she's her mom.

Beautiful. And despite their loss, their love is still multiplying.

So, what do I know of fair? I could easily get stuck in that place of "fair": telling God how things should work out.

Like Pastor was saying last week, some people believe that being a good person is good enough for God. But what do we even know about what is good? He expounded, saying, "God has changed my mind many times regarding the definition of good."

I like this new rule. if it's beautiful and it multiplies, it's of God.

Morning Routine

My morning actually starts the night before, when I'm setting my alarm clock. If I set it for 6:15am, I'm having a really great night, and I'm making plans to wake up and go to the gym. If I set it for 7:15am, I've had a long day, and I'm being realistic about the next morning. I have probably already made my lesson plans, and I clinically conclude that I need sleep more than exercise.

Then, the alarm goes off. And it doesn't matter how I felt last night: I reset the alarm for 7:30 and turn over. I mildly warn myself that I am choosing to settle for a lukewarm shower. (Here in the dorm, hot water is at a premium between the hours of 7-8am, and 9-11pm.)

7:30  Roll out of bed, and occasionally fall onto the floor. Where is the dexterity I practiced so expertly just moments earlier when I was resetting my alarm? Vanished.

7:31 - 7:45   I wander about the apartment a bit:

I press the power button on my ancient laptop.

I  start a pot of coffee. Drink a glass of water. Stretch. I mumble a bit to myself. I doubt I did this when I lived with other people. It's amazing how quickly one can wake up with just a little outside motivation; even the desire to appear friendly is enough for me.When one lives alone, there's no such need. (Perhaps lonely people are often grumpy all the day long because they just never wake up!)

By then, my computer is on, and I log in.

7:46 - 8:10  Shower. This may seem like a long time. And it is. It's ridiculous.

8:11 - 8:15   My computer has loaded all its applications, and I can now check the weather and my emails while sipping coffee, robed.

8:16   I realize that I still need to make copies of notes and create a vocabulary quiz for my English 9 class. I decide to hurry.

8:17 - 8:30   I make and eat breakfast (that is, I pour granola and rice milk into a bowl) while reading the poem of the day from MacDonald's Diary of an Old Soul. Look at the clock, look away, forget, look up again. I have to hurry. Sip. Sip. Sip.

8:32 - 8:40   The mania sets in: clothes, hair, makeup, keys, books, planner, out the door.

8:41   Wait. SHOES! Back in the apartment.

8:42   In my classroom.


What do we learn from this? I could eliminate serious time in the mornings if I only had a new computer.

The Unexpected

First, a police officer showed up at the dorm because some kids have had some money go missing. So, of course, after some talk, we decided there was pretty much nothing to be done.

Second, I have not touched a graphing calculator in since calculus freshmen year of college. Leo asked for help in finding intersections on his new calculator; and I helped! It all just... came back to me. Miraculous. It made me feel something about math: I miss it.

More on Hyphens

I kid you not.

Same handout, different problem. I was talking about how with certain prefixes, we add a hyphen to avoid aberrations in the appearance of the word. I used the example "un-American."  Without the hyphen, we have a capital letter mid-word—"the horror of it all!" I said, "This should never happen in English." I said this dramatically, extemporaneously, as I often do in order to wake people up. I mean, it's not like science class where one might get away with threatening immediate danger to life and limb if students do not follow instructions. Honestly, petty annoyance resulting in the loss of a point for proper mechanics is my highest threat. Still, I feel they ought to know... But I should have given my dramatic "never" some extra thought. David took no time at all to respond, "You mean, like 'McKalips'?" Burn. I feebly tried to say that it was Irish, and therefore not applicable.

The Great Loss of Normal

Cityscapes so foreign,
rise and fall against the horizon,
like an alien heartbeat.



Being a stranger once makes you a stranger forever.
I once thought that I had only to get used to a place to understand that the way of life in that place was not strange. But I fear I will never again be used to a place, having been displaced once. I cannot take anything for granted. Seeing new ways of preparing vegetables does not make the new way seem "normal." It banishes "normal" forever. No new way of preparing vegetables will ever seem stranger than the first way I learned to prepare vegetables.


Things are moving forward. This school year is ending. And I have struggled through it, here in this old Pennsylvania city, where everything was new. As a slow-adjuster, I can even look at old things and see new things. This could be an endless source of anxiety for me, if I were not careful. And as we all know, I get overwhelmed with new situations and all their new expectations, and new shapes of door handles and placements of light switches, and new faces, and new languages. As all the new builds up, so could the anxiety: you simply cannot study all those things at once.

Perhaps, when I am old, I will sit near the window, and watch the world. I will watch closely. I will feel things slowly. I will grasp the dresser handle, and let it become the very definition of a handle. I will turn off the lights, and finally think long. I will have time there, in that quiet place, to let the walls fall away, blacked out, whited out, then rebuilt into reality. And I will reclaim normal from the slowness.

But no, that's wrong. Life does not slow down to a snail's pace as we age. It speeds up. All I will have time for will be to think long about the dustiness of the windowsill. Then it will be bedtime, and I'll have to lay me down for the fatigue of that long thinking. And maybe I'll remember how, long ago, when I was perhaps just in high school, normal left forever. Who knows when it fell away? When did the floorboards rock and splinter, and finally give way?

C.S. Lewis said, in Surprised by Joy, "it was all sea and islands now, the great continent had sunk like Atlantis." He was speaking of the death of his mother. I suppose my great loss of normal must either be my brother leaving, or my mother remarrying, or going abroad for six months. Whenever it was, whatever shook my normal, I'm grateful. In place of the normal, I can have anxiety about the new, or faith in the God of all. To Him, we are not strangers.

February Forgotten

I just read a journal entry from camp last summer. I was expressing my frustration with a camper in my cabin. Mara had an appointment and had to leave camp for a few hours on Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday is always the hardest day, because it's the middle of the week, and we have the most activities that day, including camp-out. She had been homesick all week, crying at intervals, trying to participate occasionally, but she simply couldn't rise above it for more than an hour or two.

She left with her mother for the appointment on Wednesday afternoon. Just as I anticipated, in the evening her mother came back to pick up her things, announcing that Mara was finished for the week. Mara stayed in the car while her mother collected her sleeping bag and toothbrush and bathing suit. I was so frustrated with her mother: this is a classic case of enabling. She was giving her an out instead of telling her how strong she was, that she could certainly do this. Now the girl would have to wait until later to discover her own strength.

Let me bring this together: February of this year was my Wednesday. If I had had an out, I would have taken it: a different job, a vacation to Luxembourg. I found myself telling God that he needed to DO something. I felt so hopeless, purposeless, and TIRED. I wrote this poem then:

We forget

The end of February:
the slack damp girds our hearts;
we forget why we came.

We wait
with bated breath.
If your grace does not provide,
We shall have no recourse but to dive out, very far, for hope.

Today, we're undeniably into March. The sun is shining, and I placed a hyacinth in the open window of the office. There it is. February seems like a lifetime away. I know it is God who does this. He doesn't usually pick us up and take us home mid-week, despite our tears and threats. Perhaps merely "February" is a sissy example. Let me assure you, I've been through harder times... But it's not about the superlative nature of a trial. It's about Thursday, after camp-out, when you get a midday nap, and realize how lovely the woods are today, and you're ready to run hard during the evening games.

March, bring it.