Currently I’ve landed, a bit shellshocked, in a place where I’m under the delusion that EVERYTHING needs my attention. EVERYTHING needs an answer, and it is absolutely imperative that all of the everythings happen right. now.
I don’t know if it’s because over the last month I’ve sorted through some major changes in a few areas of my life or if it’s just one of those fleeting seasons where everything it just happening all at once and it doesn’t seem like life is ever going to relent. Whatever is going on, it can get overwhelming. But, as I sit in stillness to sort of all of the pieces in what will probably prove to be a vain attempt to adequately assemble them; I realize that I have also landed directly in the center of one of the only things I’ve felt called to my entire life. Now, by landed, I mean wrestled, fought, doubted but finally followed God headfirst into where I am right now. Then proceeded to wrestle, fight, and doubt some more - as expected. For as long as I can remember I’ve always wanted to be two things: a teacher, and a mom. Right now, I am one of those things - and then some. I am a teacher, a coach, counselor, mentor. By His unmerited grace alone, God has allowed me to have far more influence than I ever even asked for or wanted. I have been nowhere near perfect in any of those roles but He knew that from the start and yet, He drew me to every one of those endeavors with a pull that I couldn’t, and still can’t, deny. Every person he has entrusted to my influence makes me believe in the goodness of our God, the vast, undeserved trust He has in me, and the part I play within the greater web of humanity. Yet, lately I’ve found myself forgetting about all of those things I just wrote and instead I’ve been wanting more. More recognition, different parts to play, different - I don’t know, just a change from where I am. I’m not sure if ungratefulness, doubt, discontent, or a lack of belief in what I’ve been currently called to has settled in my heart. Maybe a combination of all of those. On top of change, and feeling overwhelmed by #allofthethings, my faith has also been stuck in the worst desert-like place for months. When reading Ephesians 1 a few nights ago in a desperate attempt to get back to the kind of faith I once had, my heart stopped and embraced verses 17-19 like I’ve never set eyes on these words before. Which honestly, maybe I hadn’t. In this portion of his letter, Paul wrote to the people of Ephasus, “I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better. I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in his holy people, and his incomparably great power for us who believe.” Check. Mate. In the midst of this season that I was/am in, what I needed and still need most was wisdom and revelation through the Spirit. More than that I needed my heart to be softened, and opened again, reminded of the hope that I have been called to. I needed to believe again that I have a glorious inheritance through my belief in Christ. More than even all of that, I needed to know God again, and I needed to know Him better than I ever have before. Moreover, I needed to believe again in myself and the place that God has me in right now. Beyond that I needed to believe again that He made me, that He has and will continue to sustain me and carry me and rescue me - when I invite him to. Those verses turned into my only prayer that night. A day later, I found my eyes open to the goodness of what I’ve been entrusted with in my life right now, and confident in the hope I have of my days beyond this one. I am done believing the lie that there’s something missing in my life, or that what God has given me right now is not nearly enough. Because this week, God has shown me that in the midst of the great uncertainty I’m facing over various aspects of my life, He has already come through in other parts of that very same life to show me that I can be trusted, that I am able to make wise decisions, and that hope renders me capable of doing so with grace, patience, and peace. Scripture is powerful. God answers prayer. He does not delay.
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My class is a little rough around the edges. They don’t mesh well socially and their level of maturity leaves a lot to be desired, but they have made progress. Some days it doesn’t seem as if that statement is true, but when I sit back and look at the big picture, it becomes clear as water from a hose in mid-July heat. They’re not bad, they just have bad days. But then again, don’t we all?
There’s something about the smell of art supplies. The sweet enticement to see just how much of a mess you can make while trying to arrive at the final product of beauty you’ve envisioned. You’re lost in a charcoal haze cut only by the colors in oil designing your hands. With sleeves rolled up, you’re too far in to turn back now. Or ever. The most beautiful thing is that you don’t even have to be a master artist to feel the draw of this practice. This abandon, this fearlessness that comes in creating is as natural as breathing. This artist’s metaphor for life has reminded me recently that there cannot be beauty without there first being a mess. We cannot have new created marvels to behold with first deciding to dive in, inhibitionless. You make the dive with ease, emboldened by the draw of the promise of a glorious end. You may have to fend off a few sharks; dart around, climb over, or squeeze through a reef, or even disentangle yourself from some constricting, clingy seaweed but through and through; this is freedom. Some added insight to the original post below. That's the thing I love about writing. It's such a human thing. Our words and thus are influence and insight are often changing as we continue to live, learn, grow, and try our best to thrive. There is no end to it, and it can always be added to, changed, redeemed, and recycled.
1/3/16 The unshakable thought has come to mind that we perhaps oftentimes give anxiety far too much power. We think it can never go away, As I wrote below about a month ago. There are times I experience complete and total freedom and other times I feel like something is trying to run me over, or bury me alive. This week has beea run-me-over week for me. So I've thought and prayed and reflected and talked with people about this quite about over the past few days. I had resolved that this is always something I'll have to live with and just learn to manage. BUT, if I believe the power of Christ in me than that means my anxiety can be gone for good - but I will have to fight for that nonetheless. Also, as I mentioned first below, what it is that we're really afraid of? A new friend told me that in an episode of Brain Games, they talked about how at one point in time people had real, rational anxieties. Like getting attacked by a bear if they are in the woods, drowning when swimming, or getting into a car accident, etc. Their anxiety was over real threats that could actually harm them. But what are my anxieties about? I don't fear (probably unwisely) getting attacked by a bear if I'm in the woods, or drowning, or getting into a car accident.... But I harbor fear over what my job will be and where I'm going in life, even when I'm in love with and have confidence in my current job because I followed God straight to it? I sometimes have fear over every decision I've ever made in my life? Over what the future holds for me relationally? None of these things post any sort of imminent harmful threat. They are simply things of this life that yes, okay, can be difficult. But no unmanageable, and certainly not things to cause soul-crushing, rapid-fire heartbeat anxiety. So why do I give them so much power? Currently working on realizing that it may not necessarily be "anxiety" that pulls me under, but the unreasonable power I give to these things that I fear that should never have been sources of anxiety to begin with. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 12/6/15 I've been realizing lately just how sneaky anxiety can be. Sometimes it runs you down like a tractor in a cornfield and honestly, that's the easy part. For me, at least, it's easy to weep in a darkened room, taking deep breaths in between repetitions of "Jesus, please take this" and know that within minutes it'll all be over. That's easy. Scary, but easy. Easy compared to spending 30 minutes trying to get out bed in the morning struggling not because you're tired or because your bed is simply too comfortable to leave, but because of a thousand fears that have already run through your head - fears that you can barely even name. Easy compared to realizing you’re starting to let yourself go bit by bit each day because your self-care has unwittingly fallen second to just making it out the door in one piece - to fighting to make sure each step you take is not in fear. That's the sneaky part. These daily fears that I can't even name. You're probably wondering how I don't even know what I'm anxious about. How can I not even name the things I fear daily? I don't know. I don't know because I have no idea what I'm afraid of. There's just fear. Fear that hides itself so well that I don't even know it's there but it affects me nonetheless. Actually, it just dawned on me as I’m now writing this that I probably can't name my fears because they're not actually real. That's what anxiety is. What you feel isn't reality, even though it feels more real than anything. So, basically, you're trying to fight something that doesn't even exist. While I sing the greater reality that, "I'm no longer a slave to fear, for I am a Child of God", I know in my inmost being that it's true. That I've been set free. That Jesus has loosed the chains of the oppressions of fear, but I'm also realizing that the reality of living in a broken world is that sometimes the chains try to come back. Like a slithering, ruthless boa constrictor who, by the time it strikes its prey, the creature is rendered helpless with no time to react or escape. But it was Jesus who made the greatest escape of all time. The one from death into life eternal and so I know that although the fear comes knocking, it can never fully get back in. Which is why, I’m learning, that daily dependence on Jesus to banish those sneaky, unnamable fears is essential. CS Lewis posited, “Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done.” Jesus, please come set me free anew each day. No matter the severity, mental health issues are real and scary for the person dealing with them. But they shouldn’t be scary for you. My challenge to you is that if you love or come across someone struggling with an issue of mental health, you first acknowledge their humanity by simply being there, then by listening, and then by encouraging them to get help. For the love of all things good and Holy please do not tell them to, "Just get over it", "You've gotta move past it," or "What you're feeling isn't real." Because yes, what they're feeling isn't the reality of who they are but to them is the realest thing in their life right now. To the person not yet strong enough to separate their anxiety or other mental health related oppression from what is actually real, you are invalidating their existence and that is in no way helpful. So whether it’s from a counselor, or from getting connected to a small group at church, a mentor, or some other type of support group, let them know that there are people who are there for them. That while their struggle is real, and not uncommon, they don't have to brave it alone. We weren’t made to live life alone and we certainly are not called to be exclusionary. Let’s be welcoming, and listen more than we try to fix. Two new students joined my class today, one of whom speaks no English.
My natural reaction when I first found this out last week was that I needed this like I need a hole in the head. Yet, as soon as the thought passed through my mind it was stopped by another; This is a blessing. I tell my students almost everyday that there is no whining in my classroom. Ever. We are going to always be grateful and look at challenges as ways to help us grow and get better rather than whine about it. Actually, I apparently reinforce this so much that now my kids have now started to keep one another in line without any prompting from me. It's adorable and terrifying all at the same time as I begin to see just how much influence I have in their lives. This attitude of gratitude is so important to me, yet why was I so quick to label something as a burden that was inevitably going to make my job harder? I've been trying to think about how this change is a blessing and although I can't predict exactly what's going to come of it since obviously I can't see into the future, I am thrilled for this chance to grow into a better teacher and for my students to become even more inclusive, patient, and understanding. We talk a lot about these situations as "blessings in disguise". Now I'm wondering where that even came from. A blessing is simply that. A blessing. They don't come disguised. We are just the ones who disfigure them with our cynical and dismal outlooks. Where you set your mind really does make a difference. I feel like I always forget this so easily, but I'm thankful for situations that always re-convict me of this truth. I'm frustrated today - about the way I was educated and the fact that our collective educational values have not changed. I read and discussed the children's book, Encounter by Jane Yolen with my 4th graders today. Encounter is a powerfully written realistic fiction narrative about Columbus' arrival on the shores of our beloved country. It's powerful because it is dramatically different from the story my kids have ever learned in the past. For the first time today, they heard about this impactful political and social event from the perspective of a young Native American boy rather than the perspective of the European Explorers. As I read, I watched their faces turn from enjoyment over a nicely written story, to confusion from new information, to shock about what they just heard. Their beloved Columbus' narrative was turned upside down as one insightful student remarked, "This is sad, and unfair. That boy was probably so scared because he didn't know who these people were. And then they just took him from his home on their boats? They changed their whole life. The Native Americans were here first. This is not fair at all. Columbus was a terrible person. Did this really happen?" They couldn't seem to reconcile this new perspective with the fun, light-hearted rhymes of blue oceans in 1492 and the over-glued crafts of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria of their past. We discussed perspective and how there are two sides to every story. We thought about how the story changes based on who's telling it, and likened this concept to having a disagreement with a sibling or friend. They both retell the same story but it sounds different based on who's telling it. What I don't understand is why I was never taught this perspective in elementary school. Why do we sanitize our history for children as if they can't handle it? Then we grow up and wonder why people are so ignorant. I have so much more to say about this but I'm not quite sure how to say it well just yet so, until next time... It has been far too long since I've last written. Long enough that I find myself asking if it's genuinely something that I care about.
All the while, those words circle around me, a haunting of sorts, an ever-persisting thorn in my side whose prickles I thought I had long ago dislodged. But I gather that's why it is my thorn, I want you to write. And I want you to trust me. So I write and I trust and I surrender in simple obedience. When I begin to see why, it suspends me in a state of startled awe and Holy fear. I never know where my words will go, who will read them, who will breathe them in and let them settle in their soul as I do with the words of my new and long-time favorite trusted authors. We write to tell a story yet sometimes mine feels feigned as I don't even know what story I am telling or what story He wants me to tell. That is how this post started. Directionless. Yet here my words go, somehow expanding this page one letter at a time. In spite of myself, I write. And I trust. Because soon enough the curtain will be drawn back to reveal the "whys" of this odd beckoning to fearlessly toil in my present investments, entrusted giftings, and precious little ones. I loathe this daily trusting but the promises are just too strong. Just too settled in some deep place of my heart that I cannot quite seem to fully reach yet I somehow indubitably know is so, so very real. To my 4th graders,
In 35 hours you will be lined up outside of our classroom door waiting for me to give you directions about your very first task of 4th grade. You are at a new school, with all new teachers, a new principal, and some new kids too. I met some of you on Thursday and you told me that you aren't nervous. Well, please give me some of your bravery because - will you let me be completely honest with you for a minute? - I am so, so nervous. I've been doubling up on prayer and Excedrin Tension Headache since Thursday as my to-do list for you persists in its waxing and waning. I have been preparing to teach for the past two years and I have been preparing to teach you specifically for the past 4 weeks. There is not one detail of our classroom or my instruction that I did not think and rethink trying to decide if that detail served your best interest. But there are 21 of you and, holy crap, there is so much at stake. It's those days of summer, they found, that can either leave you more radiant than the sun at high noon or dangle you in anxious, heavy limbo like three full days of humidity after a heavy rain.
It was times such as these of which she dreamed of one day telling her grandchildren about.. Times in which she cried to God every night about, well, everything. Her career, her relationships, her body, her money. She longed to tell them of how she emerged from those days because already she knew that if there was anything to pass on through the generations of her family, it would be that no adversity is stronger than the hopeful resiliency of the human spirit powered by the Holy Spirit. It was of those same days that she wanted so speak of abounding joy. Joy and restoration found in do-nothing days at summer festivals. Joy and restoration tangibly experienced through sun-soaked, exfoliated skin from smiling sunbeams and floating in low tide. Joy and restoration shared from hours of conversation with people who loved her; people who were responsible for the person she grew to be and was still becoming. Joy and restoration from hard work that made the body she was given proud and strong. Joy and restoration from the hope of the goodness of life that was still yet to come. Joy and restoration created in daily evening prayers and Sunday morning songs. Joy and restoration that made anxiety and prayers of perceived anguish vanish like some sort of magic. Or maybe more like the perfect crime. As my group of eight beautiful middle school girls scattered behind the blue curtains of the shoebox-sized dressing rooms in the pool locker room, I posted myself at the exit door as I waited for them to change. "Ugh, I'm so fat," came a voice from behind one of the curtains. "You are not fat," I retorted. "I used to be so skinny." "You look healthy. Which is exactly what you should be working for. Don't think about trying to be skinny," I suggested. "Make your goal to be healthy and strong." "Isn't skinny the same thing as healthy?" another girl asked. "Not always," I answered. More of the girls started to chime in about how their weight has changed, about what they eat, about the way their stomach looks, about how they hate the way their hair looks after they swim. My gosh, they are only 11-13 years old, I thought. Did I obsess that much about the way I looked when I was their age? I remembered that, yes, I definitely started to care about the way I looked around the time I was in middle school. In 7th grade I started straightening my hair, dabbled in the overwhelming world that is make-up and actually paid attention to what stores my clothes were coming from. I'm not sure if I so boldly verbalized my insecurities as these girls but I absolutely felt them internally, and so started the process of intentionally forming my self-identity. A process that did not end in a positive self-identity until probably only two years ago. In response to an incident a few days before, I only had one rule prior to that day in the locker room: Be kind or be quiet. But after the girls' heart-breaking chatter I added another: No more negative self-talk. I made that rule not only because it was upsetting that they so clearly saw their own flaws when all I saw were capable, talented, and beautifully unique young women; but because my own negative self-talk and thoughts throughout my pre-teen years, teenage years, and early-twenties because of what I thought I was "supposed" to be, landed me in a giant, messy, sticky web of insecurity, doubt, and feelings of "I'll never be good enough" that was so, so incredibly hard to break free from. I only really got rid of that mess and started to love my body when I learned to judge it based on what it could do, not on what it looked like. Although I grew up playing sports and always trying to find a way to be active, I still saw my body as something that should look a certain way as opposed to something that was made to function in a certain way. When I finally understood that, and changed the words I ascribed to myself from negative to positive - from words focused on self-doubt to words focused on my capabilities - it made all the difference. Because we can't always control what we look like, and we really shouldn't try to. But we can control how well our bodies function. We can control how strong we are and we can control the goals we set for ourselves to make our bodies better than they were yesterday - not because we hate our bodies but because we love our bodies. Because we want to be the next better, stronger, faster, healthier version of ourselves. I've been obsessed with Rachel Platten's "Fight Song". Not only because it's the best running song for those moments when I'm on the brink of defeat, but because it's basically every girl's life anthem. In Always' latest #likeagirl campaign video, they found that 72% of girls feel that society limits them in some way. Somewhere along the way we learn what we can and can't do, what we should and shouldn't look or act like because we are women. It's upsetting because sometimes I feel like we've finally almost broken all gender stereotypes but then you listen to the young women around us today and realize that we're still pretty much drowning in the same stereotypes and gender discrimination as when we were that age. So, this one's for my girls. For my camp girls, and for every girl I've coached and taught. Maybe you'll finally be the ones to change the game. Let's hear those fight songs. Those take back your life songs. Those take back our identity songs <3 |
Author4th grade teacher. Writer. Justice-seeker. Encourager. CrossFitter. John 11:40. Archives
July 2017
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