The Good Life

I don't say this often, but I have a pretty perfect 6th period.

Okay, I've only said this once.  My 6th periods are usually pretty hyper - and understandably so.  In the past, a regimen of calming and wrangling was essential for all of my 6th period classes.

This year it just never happened.  I've never even had to raise my voice.

The "natives" always get restless and even a tad bit whiny after the CRCT, so I usually have to work to get them to calm down and work like they did before.  The last two weeks of school, as a general rule, are almost impossible to keep students on task.  All of my kids are pretty good, but they're getting tired and ready for summer.

Wednesday, I gave 6th period their assignment, which was to write a letter to their local legislator about an issue that concerned them.  I put on music, and they began working like it was the third day of school. 

I looked around the room.  My precious student who waves at me every single time he sees me turned around, smiled and waved.  Their hands were writing furiously - they were full of great ideas and were writing great and meaningful letters.  I walked around, helped a couple of kids, and basically just stood back.  It was one of the last days of school, it was sixth period, and my students were being downright amazing.

One Republic's "Good Life" came on my Pandora I play for the kids.  It is just a fantastic song (I didn't realize there is profanity in the lyrics - Pandora played the clean version).

But as the song came on, I just had to look at those sweet kids and think about how blessed I am to work this job.  How many of us get to go to work happy?  Thankful?

Tears filled my eyes a little.

I'm going to miss these kids so much. I thought.  

And I am.  I'm always ready for summer, but the end of the year is always bittersweet.

I'm going to miss that sweet wave that comes to me every day.  I'm going to miss my girls who say, "do you need help with that?  I will help you."  I'm going to miss the girl who notices my water cup is empty and asks to run and refill it.  I'm going to miss my quirky boys full of personality and life - they've kept me laughing all year.

I love all of my students, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that some students are just special, and that some just win my heart.

And that's my 6th period.  They've won my heart.

The good life?

Yes, the good life indeed. 

Where I've Been

Well, Christmas came around...

Then Jeremy's birthday...

Then my birthday...

 
 Then Spring Break...

Now it's May.  One day before my sister's wedding.

And I've barely stopped to draw breath.

Things got busy.  Incredibly fast.

Ever since Christmas I've been pretty swamped.  There's the normal teacher business, with grading papers and the like. Spring is a busy time for teachers with CRCT prep, but it has been pretty much as busy as it has always been.

I just finished obtaining my Gifted Endorsement, which was a time suck of epic proportions.  Pretty much any kind of creative energy I had was exhausted on writing papers for this gifted class.  Since my last blog, I've written four papers (a couple that were around fifteen pages), did ten lesson plans, planned a pretty extensive unit that was differentiated for three levels of learners, and read and researched for my papers.  When I'm writing other papers it is difficult for my brain to concentrate on other forms of writing that enjoy, like vignette writing or blogging for fun.  Amelia tripped over our computer charger and left us without our personal laptop, so that's also left me without an outlet to write (I only use my school laptop for personal business, yo).  I've missed words of my choosing.

Soccer season started in late January this year, which basically made me a single parent for a couple of months.  I don't mind the time with just me and Amelia, but I had to arrange my schedule and grade papers at night when she goes to sleep, or work on projects during nap times.

Amelia has had three stomach viruses this school year, and two since January.  It was gut-wrenchingly awful.  One of those viruses landed us in the Emergency Room with fear of Appendicitis.  I've missed more days of school this year than I've missed since maternity leave.  Not. Fun.

Then, of course, there's the big wedding that's happening in one day, and that's kept me busy, too.  I've planned showers, cleaned my house lots of times (it needs some major work this summer), and had lots of fun getting ready for my sister's wedding.

My calendar looked insane for March, April, and May.  I've never had to be one of those people who penciled in time for others, but for the past few months I found myself looking at my calendar to see when I could schedule time. 

I need summer this year!

As the end of the school year is winding down along with other events, I can only look back on the busyness and be thankful for it (well, not the stomach virus part). There have definitely been some fun and wonderful things happen these past few months.  I've had fun celebrating my sister and other friends celebrating milestones.  I know that this Gifted Endorsement will eventually pay off (although it's pretty much shown me that won't be able to handle a Specialist degree load for a long, long time). 

I'm thankful for Amelia's growth - she (for the most part) has crossed the hurdle into being fully potty trained and has shown improvements.  She can write her name (it's pretty messy, but she can do it), and she's drawing lots of cute pictures instead of scribbling.  She's saying all kinds of crazy and funny things.  She also talks to herself quite often, a trait she inherited, unfortunately, from me.  I'm hoping this summer will be a lot of fun with my little family.

Home

When Bing Crosby released his album “Merry Christmas” in 1945, it was a collection of Christmas songs written for an era unlike any the United States had ever seen.  World War II and the Great Depression had just ransacked the populace, and Bing used his voice, smoother than chocolately satin, to offer comfort. “White Christmas” and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” are two very familiar songs of his, and their message is painstakingly simple. They offer dreams of family, presents – home.  

There is an element of melancholy to the Christmas songs of this era, simply because one knows Bing’s voice radiated over foxholes - and spoke of the comfort of home to boys who were far, far away from loved ones.  

Even today, something about Christmas evokes something in each of us of home.  We decorate our houses.  We invite friends and family to see us.  We buy little porcelain neighborhoods full of snugly houses covered in perfect snow.   We visit loved ones and family and sit around a tree opening presents and eating food.  And for a moment, things can often feel perfect.  

To think of home – even briefly - brings comfort.

Yet, despite the Christmas-inspired comfort some of us feel at this time of year, social media and its interconnected ways have us looking at friends who do not get to come home.  As the years grow on my face, I see more heartache – precious people who will never see their loved ones come home for Christmas.

And to those who will not be home for Christmas, or to those whose Christmases may feel lonelier than ever this year, I offer home.  A real home.

This picture may look like an Instagrammed picture of my Nativity scene (and you would be correct), but to me, this picture reminds me of home.

Sometimes the little manger scene can look foreign and decidedly different.  In a world of iPods and iThings, a little barn 2000 years ago seems old and outdated.  Despite this, there is comfort in that manger. 

Emmanuel.  God with us.  Christ our King, risen savior, our atonement. 

He is the key to our true home.

See, sometimes it is hard to remember between the tinsel and lights that we’ve got another thing coming.  Sometimes we’re so blindsided by the comfort around us this time of year that we forget that the true comfort resides within us.  It leads and guides us here – until one day we go home.

So the next time you see that nativity in all its robed décor, think of home.  Remember that He came to redeem, restore, renew.  Christ in us, the hope of glory.

He came.  And because He did, He will one day bring us home.

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”  - C.S. Lewis

Skills I Lack

There are things I'm good at.

There are things I am okay at.

There are things I'm terrible at.

And then, there's parenting, which never gives me a definite, tangible answer.  Parenting gives me a myriad of responses, most telling me that I'm "not enough."  Most days, I feel like a mediocre parent.  There are some days I feel like a decent parent.  Of course, there are the days (and months) where I feel like a pretty rotten parent.

I've experienced those feelings this past month or so, all thanks to that big white potty.  Sometimes I feel like that lid laughs at my troubles.

If you haven't figured it out, Amelia and I have had to face our toughest challenge yet - potty training.  Potty training has taken the mythical cake - teething, bed-moving, going to school- nothing has been this difficult.

I didn't think it would be that tough.  According to mothers on facebook and ones that I actually know, it would just fall in to place.  My child would just "get it." She would just wake up in her "big girl pammies," get her marshmallow rewards, and use the potty like no one's business.

But that didn't happen.

I don't want to gross the readers of this blog out, but I'll just be honest with you.  Amelia deals with chronic, painful constipation.  I believe it is pretty psychological, but I have very few answers to it.  We've tried lots of remedies - homeopathic as well as medical - and few things worked.  I sat over Thanksgiving break with a nurse on the United Healthcare nurse line about to cry my eyes out because I thought my child had a blockage that finally, finally passed.

We've had accidents at school, at church, at Pammy's, at Chick-fil-a, at home - do I need to go on?

We've been in "big girl" mode for a month, and we're still not accident-free.  We're much, much better...but I'm still have that little tug in my heart when I leave her.  

My patience hasn't been the best (let's be honest, when is my patience ever the best?).   When it is coupled with these seemingly perfect mothers who hold their practices (and mine) to a high standard of perfection, it has just shattered.  I think about the facts:  my kid is well past three and just now potty training...and there are kids who are a year younger than her who potty trained with few problems.

I get caught up in game of comparison, which is a dangerous, dangerous game to play.

This past month, I've just let the pressure get to me, and I've been a foolish, foolish woman.

Children are not the same.  My daughter is gorgeous, intelligent, polite and kind.  Every day, when I prayed for her in my womb, I prayed that God would use her and that she would shake nations for Him.  That He give her a servant's heart.  I didn't sit around and say, "God, please let my kid use the potty right."

She's had issues with it...and I've had issues teaching her...but heavens, don't we all have issues?  Shouldn't I be thankful for what a wonderful child I've been given?


Last Wednesday, I left Amelia with her teacher at Wednesday night church.  I went through the talk I've been giving lately, "she's had trouble lately..."

"It's okay!" responded the teacher.  "My son has been there - we'll watch her real close.  I promise, I understand, I really do.  She will do great."

And I left with tears in my eyes.  It was such a simple little thing - this "I understand" - but it was just what my heart needed at that moment.  That understanding came with no judgement.

I wish - oh, how I wish - that mothers were a little easier on each other. I with stay-at-home mothers, working mothers, single mothers, and married mothers would all just realize that no matter how many kids we have, how much we have to do, or who we have to sacrifice for - life is difficult for everyone.

We all sacrifice.

No one's journey is the same, and no one's journey is easy. And that includes everyone - single, married, parents or hopeful parents.

I hope that I'll remember that as I do my next facebook scroll of pictures.  I hope that I can turn to another woman who's struggling soon and say, "It's okay - I understand.  I've been there."

I hope that God will continue to open my heart to those mothers around me who hurt - for so many of us just sit and hurt in silence with the wounds of self-judgement.

When the skills I lack become evident, I pray that the skills I have will bubble to the surface. I pray my weaknesses, no matter how large, will illuminate my dependence on the One who loves me despite my deficiencies. 

Why I Do What I Do

His voice still resonates in my ears.  It sounded to me like wood, sanded and polished.  Distinguished with an edge.  I recorded his voice that day and I still can't bring myself to listen to his tape.

I sat down with Grandpaw one time -only once -  to ask him about China, Burma, and India.  He was getting older, but his voice was unwavering - still that polished wood.  He remembered.  And when he spoke, when he described - his words took him back to the lines of war.  He was there, and so was I.

He told me the anti-aircraft weapons, of jungle trails through mountains, of flying over the Himalayas.  He told me of the hunger, the awful rations, the malaria.  He told me of the four years he spent just thinking of his mother - his home.

He watched the boys kiss the ground when the train brought them home.  He fought for four years in a jungle. 

I do this for him.



When I talk to him about his experiences, the door only opens occasionally.  I didn't really find out about his experiences in Vietnam until I was grown.

He was on a river boat.  Sometimes, I wonder how he made it in such a war zone.

I see this picture, with this little bit of boyish charm, and it makes me laugh.  This was my Dad!  And yet, this picture makes me sad.  I know that boy saw blood-stained jungles. I know that boy was far, far away from home for a long, long time.

Boys go to war - boys.  And they come back radically changed.

For my father, coming back from Vietnam also meant coming home to the jeers of those who opposed the war.  His father came back a hero - he came back to be shunned.

He internalizes much of his service.  I very rarely hear him mention anything of that year he spent on that boat.   I remembered his stories and remembered how he said one hour of combat feels like a day.  I think about those hours that felt like days and how awful that must have been.  I'm an empathetic creature, but my brain cannot fully encompass the depth of those days.

I do this for him.




The picture hung on her wall for years.  As a little girl, playing hide and seek, I always looked at his crooked smile and his handsome face and wondered who he was.

"That's my brother," Memama told me.  "His name was Ray Dean."

As I got older, I found out that Ray Dean went to Korea.  Ray Dean fought in a battle.  Ray Dean was never, ever found. 

He was just another military boy smiling in a picture to me - but to my grandmother, his loss still penetrates her heart.

To this day, I still hear the glint of sadness in her voice when she speaks of her brother.  The loss still resonates - the loss never left.

There was never an answer - never a resolution.

I do this for him.  And for her.



Each Veterans Day, I try to think of some way to teach my students the meaning of its significance.  I started a slideshow a couple of years ago as a tribute to the veterans who served, and it worked out really well.

Last year, I thought that a veterans panel might be a good way to illuminate to my students the concept that freedom is indeed not quite free.  This year, I decided to try it again.  I planned, organized, and did what I could to prepare for the day.


But nothing could have prepared me for Kenneth McElreath.

He was a slight man, and came in for the day with his medals.  He grabbed my arm and held on to me as I escorted him into the media center.

"What would my wife say if she knew this blonde had my arm?" he joked.

"Careful - my husband teaches down the hall!" I joked back.

As my first group of students came in to hear his story, they were animated - excited.  They play "war video games" all of the time, so naturally, they would be prepared for war stories.  I could feel the excitement in the air as I led them through the pledge and the introduction of our veterans.

Then, we had our band teacher play "Taps."

We watched as Mr. McElreath shed tears.

Then I surveyed as eyes in the audience widened - and teared up.

He told his story.  Honestly, as cliched as it sounds, his story could make grown men cry.  Students cried silently in their seats as Mr. McElreath talked about his responsibilities as a Sargent - how he tried to save as many men as he could - and how several, several (around fifteen) said their last words in his arms.

His face was etched in sorrow as he described his wounds.  The gash on his neck, the bullets in his legs, the teeth long gone due to the butt of an AK-47.

He talked about war - and how awful and terrible it truly, truly was.  He talked about the nightmares and the cold sweats.  He had a terrible nightmare the night before the panel.

And he talked about when he came home to Atlanta - after the horrors of war - to find the spit of an antagonizer in his face.

After he told his story, I watched my students - by beloved, precious East Hall Middle School students - line up one by one.  They went to shake his hand, to give him a hug, to have their pictures made with him, and to tell him "thank you for your service."

I didn't have to tell that first group.  They just knew - instinctively - what needed to be done.

And I watched as that sweet, quiet little man stood a little straighter.  I watched him deliver his story three more times, each time feeling a little more confident.

No one (excluding the military) thanked him for his service.  That day, at least one hundred kids told him how much they cared - how much they appreciated his sacrifice.

His story changed their lives and their perspective.  Amazingly, their love and perspective changed his life, too.  He was finally told "thank you," for those dark, dark days.  And for him, it seemed to serve as a release.  He slept that night.

I do this for him.



I was told "thank you" for organizing a veterans panel - but I want to deflect this.  You should know the birth of my motivation.

I only gave a few hours.  Veterans gave the true sacrifice.

So if you ask me why I devote time to this cause, I do this for my Grandpaw, who will always be my hero.  I do this for my Dad, whose silence still speaks volumes about those days abroad.  I even do this for my Memama, the wife of a veteran, the sister of a lost soldier, and the mother of two Vietnam soldiers. 

And I do this for Mr. McElreath.  The man who walked in with a cane walked out of our school on his own two legs.  He finally got his welcome home.  He finally got his welcome home.

For all of our soldiers - those who no longer fight, for those who are still fighting, and for those who never returned home, my small acts of gratitude will never amount to your sacrifice.

Thank you.

When the Road is Closed

The rain came.

It fell in sweeping patterns, stretching across the sky in waves of gray-tinged white.  It fell consistently, drumming upon the ground to match the rhythm of Earth's very heart.

It dwindled down homes, pooled into tiny, newly-formed lakes, and ebbed and gnawed at the soil relentlessly.

The day after the rain came,  the earth on my little country road groaned and gave way.  It collapsed, forfeiting its duty to uphold the weight of oncoming cars.

My road closed.

The closing of my road had and continues to have a slightly annoying effect on my life.  Luckily, the road closed just below my house and "family land," so I am able to travel safely to and from my house.  However, the mail runs incredibly late, the bus no longer brings my nephew home, and the future date of being able to travel my road again seems to be a mystery. 

Here lately, I've found that my own life to be intertwined with the fate of my simple little road.  I cannot help but think of my spiritual battles when I see the "Road Closed" sign every day - and where I should go next.

In an attempt to be intentionally vague, there's a burden heavy on my heart right now, and I do not have the answer to the dilemma that I desire.  I feel like my road is closed.

This week, as I drove by that sign on my road, I felt shut down - I felt my access blocked.  I do not, in my tiny state of being, begin to understand why God says no.  I know that He can say yes - that He is capable of miracles - and yet He can choose not to perform them.

It is in these moments where I feel blockage - in this crux of crisis - where my faith meets action.  I am not the first person who has stalled, the first person to wonder why, the first person to feel saddened by a no.
I know this because I have the stories of those God loved.  In a pattern as meticulous as the rain, my God has painted the portraits of those who lived before me - and how they handled crises.  They are my guideline.

Ruth has been my companion over the past few weeks.  Throughout my Bible study, I've read consistently about how Ruth and Naomi went to their next destination while weeping.

They mourned, they were saddened - yet they kept moving.

And so it must be with me.  I must find my way around this stop sign that I've conjured in my heart.  I must find a way to keep going.  I must not allow the burdens of this life to enslave me with their captive desires, for, as C.S. Lewis so profoundly put it, "there are far better things ahead than those we leave behind."

I may need a detour.  I may need to claw and scrape my way out of the sinkhole created by the onslaught of rains.  I may need to find a way to rebuild what is broken, but I must mourn and move.  I must step out with faith and love, little by little, believing in the promises of God.

"Even when the rain falls,
Even when the flood starts rising/
Even when the storm comes,
I am washed by the water"
 - NeedtoBreathe

My Harry Summer

Last summer was definitely my Summer of Harry, My Harry Summer, or the Summer I Officially Read All of the Harry Potter Books and Watched All the Harry Potter Films.  I haven't quite decided on a title.

Harry Potter wasn't something that necessarily appealed to me when it was released.  I readily admit that I prefer books where little British women sit around and say words like "propriety" and "amiable."  I had several friends read the books, watch the movies, and go to release parties, but I never caught up with the Harry mania. 

As I grew older, however, the appealing truth of these books started to resonate with me - the fact that these books weren't necessarily a fad - that they were made the stuff of classic literature and the appeal would never fade.  I decided I would use Amelia's nap time to my advantage and read the books this summer.

I joined the Pottermore community so I could read the books on my Nook (I was sorted into Hufflepuff - no surprise there), and started with the first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.  I loved it.

One of the first things I admired about these books was Rowling's style - the way you can almost see her wink at you as you read that first book.  Her style is just so delightfully tongue-in-cheek.  I love how her writing progresses and matures as the series itself matures - as Harry grows up.

I love that Rowling has the talent to pick your brain up and transport it to a place that she created.  Her universe is so vivid, real - and it's all hers (although you're welcome to visit).  I pictured Hogwarts before I saw any of the movies because of her wonderfully intricate descriptions.  When you read her books, all the amazing details of the wizarding world flood into your head like a dam breaking.  Some moments made me physically cringe (one of the reasons I avoided the series to begin with - I shiver at snakes!), but the overall story far outweighed the scary moments.

I really appreciated the characterizations.  After seven books, I felt like I actually knew some of the characters she created (and some of the characters, just like real life, surprised me!).  I love the arrogance of Harry, the neurotic tendencies of Hermione, the goofiness of Ron, the courage of Neville, the complexities of Dumbledore, the goodness of McGonagall, the humor of the Weasley family, and the sneakiness of Snape.  I literally sobbed at some of the moments in the book.  I am a softie when it comes to sad or emotionally moving moments in movies and books, but I was inconsolable at some moments in this series...to the point I had to put the book down and come back later.  I love books that make me empathize.

I love that Harry is my age - a child of the 90s.  (I didn't realize this until Harry's cousin Dudley got a VCR for Christmas.) I see parallels to this character who grew up when I grew up.  The shades of innocence and change that echo throughout adolescence are there - and they bring back my own memories of a childhood long gone.

The movies are truly fantastic, too.  I never find movies as good as their literary counterparts, but the Harry Potter movies are particularly well done.  The final few movies, especially, are downright brilliant.  The movies pick up on Rowling's progressive tone and do a great job with it.  The fact that the same three actors managed to do eight movies is quite remarkable, too.  I loved them.

I'm always a little sad when a good book series ends, and it was no different this time.  Most books consist of a handful of books, but after a seven-book and eight-movie investment, I definitely felt a little sad that my journey with Harry was over.  In the future, I'll look forward to some Harry Potter Weekends on ABC Family, a coupled with looking at some cute memes on Pinterest.  I highly recommend the series to anyone who wants a good read.  Harry Potter totally kicks the tail of any ultra-trendy series about vampires or post-apocalyptic society. 

I love books that feel like friends, and I feel like I've just found a whole new group of them who welcomed me with open arms.