Unto the Least of These

All that will do is raise taxes and give free shit to those lazy welfare people who sit around and let other people work to support them. --J. Q.

I'd like to excuse him on the basis of being sixteen and stupid. He's never had a day of hunger in his life. He's never had to work to put his Abercrombie & Fitch clothes on his back. He doesn't pay the bills for his funky little I-Phone and the I-Pod that's constantly plugged into his ears.

At least he has that excuse, if you consider it one. There are plenty of others who don't.

I don't get into political crap on my blog, generally speaking. I'm an independent, somewhat left-leaning, somewhat middle-of-the-road reluctant voter who hates conflict. I have friends spread out all over the political spectrum. Some of them would fight like cats and dogs if put in the same room. They're all good people. They all have what they believe are good reasons for their stances. Sometimes, I agree. Sometimes, I don't. Usually, I keep my mouth shut.

I do, however, believe in social justice. I believe that we are commanded by God to care for the poor and abandoned, the orphan and the widow, the persecuted, the least of these. So do most, if not all, of those friends I mentioned. How that is to be done? Ah. Well, that's where the debate begins, isn't it?

I'm not here to debate that point. I am here to speak out about the reality of poverty, a reality that far too few of those outspoken people know first hand. Today I read an amazing guest post by Mad over at Frog and Toad are Still Friends. This is the reality of poverty in America, a form of poverty that is overlooked by so many of the smug White Tower WASPS. (And yes, I know they're not all actual WASPS and and this is a generalization, but you get what I'm saying. Let's move on.)

I have been fortunate in my life. My parents were never wealthy, and apparently there were times that were lean indeed, but I never remember going hungry or without. We always had presents at Christmas and dinner on the table. I was able to go to college, although I racked up debt doing so. I earn a good wage and can provide for my own children in turn. My boys are well-dressed, well-fed, and have toys up the wazoo. I don't worry about whether they have enough; I worry about whether they have too much.

There was a year in college when I had very little money. I did not have a job, and I was getting by on macaroni and cheese, cheap frozen salisbury steak, bread, and tater tots. I became ill after a few months, and the doctor at MSU's Olin Health Center told me that I had no choice but to get some vegetables and fruits into my diet. We scrimped and sacrificed to add some canned vegetables, to add just enough nutrition that my body would not shut down.

And even then...I had a roof over my head. I had food in my belly. I was still going to school. I knew it was a temporary situation. If push came to shove, there was family that would help. I was still fortunate.

I have witnessed true poverty. My parents earned less combined than I did alone my first year of teaching. Compared to the vast majority of people where I grew up, however, we were wealthy. We were surrounded by the least of these.

About five years ago my parents received news about a small family they had taken under their wings: a widow with many health issues who had two children and no support whatsoever. No one took care of them. Her children were bright and hard-working. They wanted to get educations, but the cost of schooling was prohibitive (no "free" public education over there, you see). The mother earned a few francs here and there by picking mangoes from the trees in my parents' yard and selling them in the market. Abou, her son, who was one of my brother's best friends, and Giisongi, her daughter, would work around my parents' house. They would bake bread and cookies, clean, do odd jobs. There still often was not enough to pay the school fees, which ran around $200 a year. Nothing much to us Americans, but astronomical to a family that lived on a few dollars a week, if they were lucky. I remember doing a fund-raiser with one of my classes to raise the money to send them to school for one year. We were able to raise enough in one month, mostly through bottle returns. That's all it took.

When civil war broke out and my family was evacuated, then lived here in Michigan for three years before it was safe enough for my parents to return, that little family was left without even that much assistance. Every now and then they would hear from Abou, who would call them on a friend's cell phone. But it wasn't until a mutual friend called and talked to my father that my parents found out just how much that family was struggling.

Do you know what "chaff" is? It is the papery husk that covers certain kinds of grain, such as wheat and rice. It has no nutritional value. It is removed during the threshing of grain. Since it is worthless, it is often abandoned on the ground.

This little family no longer had money for even the most basic of foods. So they were going to the areas where women would thresh grain, and they would gather up the chaff left in piles on the ground. They then would put the chaff in a pot with water and boil it into a tasteless, gritty porridge. If they were lucky, perhaps there would be a little bit of vegetable to add.

They may have been tricking their bellies into thinking they were being fed, but the truth was that they were slowly starving to death.

Ah, but that's in a third-world country! you say. It's not that bad here!

Want a taste of reality? Go read this. Or this. The reality is that poverty is alive and well (so to speak) in America too.

This is the harsh truth, folks. As a species, we haven't been doing too well on the social justice front. The wealthier and more comfortable we are, the more distanced we become from the reality of those who are less fortunate. We sit in our ivory towers and mutter about the laziness of the poor, how only the deserving should receive.

Those weren't the commands given to us by Christ. He didn't say to do good unto the least of these--if they've shown they deserve it. And Paul didn't qualify his words in James 1 as caring for widows and orphans who have worked hard enough to be rewarded.

I think a lot of us--and yes, this includes me--need to reread Matthew 5 a few hundred more times. Because we may find that our ivory towers are no more than crumbling plaster and all our self-righteous words are no more than worthless babbling when exposed to the light of the Son.

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Because apparently I'm in a self-flagellating mood today and want to invite conflict (dear God, my stomach hurts now), I'm going to go ahead and Flog My Blog on this post of all posts. My darling Brenda over at MummyTime does Flog Yo Blog Fridays, and I've been meaning to do this, and so, whatever, I'll be brave and do it now. Click on over and check it out!

TeacherMommy 2.0

This post today...it's important enough that I created a calendar reminder for it. And now I sit and stare at this screen wondering where to begin. I texted wrote a friend about it. He tried, he really did, but it's a tricky little conundrum.

TM: i restarted my blog a year ago today. i want to write a post about it, but i'm not sure what i want to write about.

J: How far you've come and grown over the past year.

TM: yes, but HOW
not sure how to approach it
it's one of those things that's sort of massive, so i don't know where to start

J: At the beginning.

TM: oh, that helps. i'm not sure where the beginning is....

And that is the problem. Where is the beginning?

Almost exactly fifteen months ago I wrote this. And then I vanished from the blog for three months. On Tuesday, March 12, 2009, I returned with this post. Just a short one. But there are words in there that speak a great deal about what had passed during that space of time.

Twelve months ago...the time seems both massive and fleeting in retrospect. One thirty-second of my life. So very much has happened during that time: the attempt, and failure, to save my marriage; the decision to file for divorce; slow renewal of faith; the discovery and development of new friendships; the rediscovery and deepening of old friendships; renewed interest in teaching; slow growth and change in my parenting; facing and grieving and healing from a very old wound; and so very much more.

Above all else: the discovery of Myself. I spent so many years hiding my true Self from not only other people, but from myself. I hid behind walls of my own making in the belief that if I let anyone behind them, much less tore them down, I would be wounded anew. I had no faith in the love and forgiveness of others; I had no faith in God's ability to heal; I had no faith in myself.

I have so far to go, still. Life is, after all, a journey, and if I were to believe that I had nothing more to learn, well then that would mean I was once more hiding from the truth. But when I look back over this year of pain and joy, wounding and healing, learning and growing, I realize that who I am now is Beautiful. And as I learn to love myself, I learn how to love others, how to open myself up to the possibilities that life and love have to offer, and how to give myself fully rather than always holding something back in reserve.

It's time to put all my chips on the table.

I'm All In.

Birth Day

She was young, too young, and the mother of five young children who still needed her as children always need their mothers, small or no. She had been dying by inches, holding on for days and weeks through pain and vomiting and decay and her body's rejection of man's last attempts to save it. She held on by sheer will, something left undone, something left unfinished. It wasn't, somehow, her time.

Four years ago today, her husband held her hand and told her she could go. He loved her, he always would, but she could let go. It was time to go Home.

And she left us, quietly, between one breath and another, slipping from this world into the next, leaving behind parents and siblings and nieces and nephews and friends beyond count, leaving behind the five children who had also said their farewells to what extent they understood.

The news traveled. We wept. Even though I was stone, I wept. And I was angry. Death had robbed her of all the years she should have spent on this earth.

Four years later, I still weep. But now, I see that day from a new perspective. I cannot be truly angry. I do not understand why she left us too soon, but I do understand something else.

What we saw as Death was instead her Birth.

Hers were tears of joy as she stood in a new body, one that stood tall and strong, her hair thick and full again, her skin unswollen and unblemished. No pain. No anguish. She ran with sure feet, arms spread open, and gathered in the children waiting there, the precious souls she had never known as more than a momentary existence before loss had swept them away. Her face rose to the blazing glory that lay before her, and she shone in the light of the Son.

Her real life began then.

C. S. Lewis says we live in the Shadowlands, the dim, dark outline of that country that lies Further Up and Further In, where lies "the beginning of the true story, which goes on forever, and in which every chapter is better than the one before." She lives there now, and her story here with us was but the Prologue to the eternal one written by the Great Author.

chains

trust does not come easy
when it has been misplaced so often
and though i wish
and yearn
to break free of these chains of doubt

my mind and heart cannot quite agree
they battle for dominance
debate my reality
and just when i think the argument done

switch sides
and i am left adrift in the seas of uncertainty

your intuition is strong
said a woman of wisdom
not so long ago
she gazed across the table
into my troubled eyes
you secondguess yourself too much
and must learn to trust that voice
it speaks truth
and when you learn to listen
you will not go astray

but what is intuition
and what is the emotion of the moment?
they are not one and the same
not always
too often i have responded in the moment
with the emotion of the moment
and found myself down a path
i did not wish to tread

so i sit here in this moment
this chain of moments i see as Time
and listen
trying to hear the voice
wondering if
maybe if
this time i can let go

The Hourglass

They rush forward into time, always looking ahead to what's next and where they're going, so eager to be Up and Away. Year after year I see them yearn for the After of this place, believing in their ignorance that life will be easier, that the soap-opera drama of their teenage years will turn to Hollywood happily-ever-after. I look at them from the lofty heights of my two and thirty years, shaking my head at their naivete. Youth is wasted on the young and so it is. Time flits by ever faster as day after day slips through my fingers in a sandy rush, trailing behind me across hills and valleys, plains and bogs, the journey of a lifetime a mere three decades in the making.

My grandparents are all still living, leaving their eighth decades and entering or already in their ninth, the paths they've trod telling tales of hardship and joy alike. I wonder whether their days flow by even more quickly, if they blink and night has come again. What memories come to the fore after thrice my years? Which ones recede into the background? How does Time's fluid nature exist in their minds?

I find myself repeating the error of those youths. I am in the infancy of a new life, a new era. Yet I, too, yearn for the After of this time. In my own naivete I think that once certain uncertainties are made certain, that once specific events are made final, that somehow the path will become smooth. The reality of life says otherwise: there will be more mountains to climb, valleys to traverse, obstacles to block my way. Pain will come my way again, and the nature of that pain is yet unknown.

Perhaps this is the blessing of our blind futures. Perhaps if we knew what hardships lie in our path, we would live too much in fear to truly live. Instead we exist in our aging youth, always pitying those younger than we, always pitied by those who have already lived our age. For life is a series of lessons learned, and it is only when we learn to embrace the wisdom brought by pain while glorying in the joys that we live fully.

Yet...Time passes so swiftly. And each shining grain of sand that pours through the hourglass is lost if we do not live in the moment.

laugh....
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
--e. e. cummings

In Music, Memoriam

Fraught Mummy at Brits in Bosnia started a meme ages ago, and she tagged me. She instructed us to write about "a song that reminds you of something, that has a story for you. Not necessarily your favourite song or a even a song that you love, but a song that instantly takes you back to that time and place." 

It's a meme that's perfect for me in many ways, because music connects to memory for me All The Time. I have entire soundtracks for times in my life. DraftQueen is my official LifeTrack DJ, in fact, because she always seems to find the perfect song to send me when Things Happen. The problem, therefore, is not thinking of a song, but choosing just one. 

It took me a long while to get around to this post. The timing, therefore, is choosing the song for me. And because of the nature of this post, I can't tag people the normal way. So if you are inspired to carry on this meme, please do.

****************************

Four years ago my mother sent out an email asking for some help. My aunt, her only and baby sister, was nearing the end of a long fight with leukaemia. She was in hospice. The toxic side effects of chemo and the gradual failure of her body had made her restless and highly sensitive to sound. She could no longer handle being read to for any length of time. She craved music, but only certain music was bearable. My mother, who had become her main non-medical caretaker in hospice, asked us if we could find and send CDs that were soothing, instrumental only, and uplifting.

I felt helpless, much as I had been feeling for months. I had just born my first baby, the tiny DramaBoy, a couple of months earlier. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and (unknowingly) depressed. My beloved aunt, the one after whom I was named, the one who had cared for me when I was a baby, the one who had fought so hard and so long for all five of her own beloved babes, was dying, and there was nothing I could do.

I looked through the instrumental music racks at Best Buy and Borders. I found a couple of possibilities under the New Age category, but still felt uncertain about my choices. Neither felt quite right.

At that time DramaBoy was up frequently during the night, and I had taken to tuning the satellite tv to the New Age music station. The slow-moving blue title box gave just enough light to maneuvre without waking DramaBoy's father, and the music kept me company and calm. I would sit propped against the pillows to nurse my small son, dazed and halfway dozing while the mainly instrumental music would wash over me.

One night as I stared blankly at whatever was in front of me, DramaBoy suckling peacefully at my breast, I heard a lovely piano piece begin. The melody was what snapped my head up from half-mast. I knew that song. I knew the words. And something about it spoke to me.

The title box informed me that the piece was, indeed, "As The Deer"*, the artist was named David Nevue, and the album was titled Overcome. Realizing that there was no way I would remember this by morning, I grabbed a serendipitous scrap of paper and pen and jotted down the information.

When I looked up the artist and album the next day on Amazon, I discovered, to my amazement, that Nevue (a Christian pianist who specializes in lovely inspirational albums based on hymns and psalms) had composed and recorded the album as his father was dying from cancer. I listened to the progression of songs and knew that this CD was meant for my aunt. I ordered it that day.

My mother told me later that near the end, Overcome was one of only two CDs that my aunt could listen to. Again and again she would ask for it, calling it "[my] CD", using the nickname I went by as a young girl. It was playing that day in March 2006 when she peacefully passed from this world into the next.

I am crying as I write this. My aunt's death is something I have never completely worked through. I am torn between anger that someone so young and so loved, the adoring mother of five very young children, was taken from us too soon and in such a very painful way; and joy that her life AND her death were full of meaning. She and her story touched many lives. She still does.

I could not bring myself to listen to Overcome for years, even though my mother gave me my own copy, as she did many other family members. Last year, as I was working through a different grief and different loss, I finally started listening to it, often at night as I once again struggled to sleep. And finally I was able to find peace in its lovely music rather than torment and grief.

As the deer panteth for the water
So my soul longeth after Thee
You alone are my heart's desire
And I long to worship Thee

You alone are my strength, my shield
To You alone may my spirit yield
You alone are my heart's desire
And I long to worship Thee

As the deer panteth for the water
So my soul longeth after Thee
You alone are my heart's desire
And I long to worship Thee

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*From Psalm 42

Changing My Perspective

I apologize in advance for getting practically warm fuzzy in this post. I'm sure the snarkiness will return in due time. It's the whininess that needs to go.

This look? Not attractive. Another reason to knock it off.

I've been feeling quite whiny lately. Not that *ahem* you would have noticed that in my last few blog posts or anything. My juniors have been driving me nuts because they are horrified that *gasp* I'm actually requiring them to READ A BOOK (I know. The humanity.) My kidlets have been less than cooperative the last couple of days. The district is trying to destroy the honors English program AGAIN. I miss my peeps. I'll be filing divorce papers as soon as I get some time to actually finalize them. The holidays are looming and I don't know how they're going to go or be organized or anything. Almost every time I try to get together with a friend, something drastic happens or someone gets sick and plans fall through. And I sound like a frog.

And then I read about Stellan suddenly ending up in hospital again and Mom Zombie's encounter with a content counter man and Bored Mommy's very sad anniversary and heard some horror stories from other people about deaths and divorces and illnesses and whatnot and suddenly...

I had to put things in perspective.

I have a job. It pays well, I have excellent insurance, and because of my spot on the seniority list and the size of my district, I'm not in danger of being pink-slipped. And as an added bonus, it's a job I actually enjoy (for the most part), and one in which I have earned and receive a healthy measure of respect from students, coworkers, and administration. I am good at what I do.

Although my children still get the sniffles and have asthma flare-ups and whatnot, they no longer suffer from the more extreme illnesses that had DramaBoy in and out of the hospital and required special diets and required consultations with insane infectious disease specialists. Neither of them has ever been on the verge of death, even amidst all that drama. They are both bright, beautiful, (usually) adorable children.

Even though I am going through divorce, it is one marked by an absolutely mutual desire to keep things friendly and make things as peaceful and positive for the children as possible. Despite financial complications (like a house that is worth less than is owed), we do not have to argue over money issues or get lawyers involved. Neither of us hates the other. We are both good people going through a bad situation, and we are both attempting to do so with grace and patience.

I do not have to worry about having a place to put my head at night. If anything, I enjoy a plethora of options. I may live out of a suitcase much of the time, but I have clothing and fabulous shoes to put in that suitcase and a car to transport it and places to take it. I may need to be a little careful with my money, but I can afford to put gas in my car and pay my bills and even have a little fun now and then.

I have friends and family who love me and, even when they can't be with me, actually WANT to be with me. I may not know where I'll be these holidays coming up, but there is no lack of options.

I have children who adore me and want to give me hugs even when I have Lost It, who run to me with huge smiles on their faces when they see me. This afternoon I will be taking my children and meeting a wonderful friend and her children and we are going to take photo shoots in a park. And the sun has chosen to emerge from behind the clouds, so even this oft-gloomy season is deciding to cooperate.

Maybe I don't have a voice today, but I can still choose which words I will say both aloud and in my own head. I am blessed, and I'm choosing to focus on that.

After all, it's less than a month until Thanksgiving. Might as well start practicing! I don't want that Thanksgiving Turkey to decide I've been a Bad Girl and give my house a miss. That would be embarassing.

Oh wait...

Okay, so maybe I just got a little...confused, but the practicing is still a good idea. What are you thankful for?

Words to Bind or Make Us Free

Is that a double chin I see?

You really aren't very good at that, are you?

Boy, breastfeeding really does a number on your breasts, doesn't it?

I think you should stick to non-fiction writing. Your fiction just isn't very good.

Sometimes you're just so stupid. You may be smart, but you're so lacking in common sense.

It's not fair to you for us to keep dating. I just don't see you as a top priority.

I just can't love you any more. I need to find something better.

Words. That's all they are. Vowels and consonants formed on the tongue, breath pushed through vibrating vocal cords, a few simple sounds projected into the waiting ear.

Sticks and stones, they say, will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

That's a lie. Sticks and stones may bruise and break the physical body, but words can tear gaping wounds in the soul. Usually they heal, but scars remain indelibly etched, ready to break open and bleed anew. Sometimes the wounds keep bleeding, draining the soul and withering the spirit and destroying the mind until the body has no choice but to follow.

They also say, The pen is mightier than the sword.

And they're referring to words. Words that have the strength to destroy, to heal, to divide, to unite. Words that cause action. Words of power.

I do not remember where I get every bruise on my body, every cut or scrape or physical scar. I do remember words that have been spoken to me as far back as my memory will take me. The wounding words stay with me the most, the words that tore me up and broke me down and drained away my confidence, my self-respect, my sense of worth. Over the years my reaction changed. I grew accustomed to hearing them, and I no longer had a sense of affront or negation. They must be right. They said these things so often, in so many forms.

By the time the boy I dated my junior year told me that he was breaking up with me because he realized a pick-up game of soccer was more important than spending time with me, I was so accustomed to the concept of insignificance that I accepted his statement without prejudice. Well, of course he felt that way. I was, pitifully enough, grateful that at least he was being "kind" enough to be honest with me.

When another significant person continually commented on my lack of common sense and my physical flaws, always in a subtle I'm just concerned about you way, I began to believe that I simply wasn't very bright in non-academic areas; I also began to consider whether I really should look into some basic plastic surgery. Nothing major, of course. A breast lift. Perhaps a subtle face lift. Maybe some minor tummy work. Exercise and diet only go so far, you know.

When, in high school, an English teacher told me that I really should just stick to writing essays and non-fiction because I wasn't very good at creative writing, I stopped writing stories. She must be right. I knew my academic papers were almost always excellent, but I lost all confidence in my ability to craft fiction. To this day, even my poetry is founded in reality.

I'm learning to say No to the lies, and Yes to the truth.

Yes. I am worth taking time to know. I am worth more than a pick-up game of soccer. I am significant. I am lovable.

Yes. I do have common sense. I mix intuition and reason to make leaps of logic. I can take care of myself, of  my children. I am intelligent in multiple areas of life. I do not need another person to guide me through reality.

Yes. I am beautiful. Lack of physical flaws means lack of living, an absence of reality. My body reflects my experiences. I do not need to grace the cover of a magazine to know that I am lovely. It's all in the eyes that see me.

And now--Yes. I can write fiction.

When the idea for a story popped into my head on Saturday and begged me to write it, at first I recoiled.

I can't write fiction, I told the Muse.

Who says? Some teacher who didn't know how to build up instead of tear down? Who didn't know how to offer constructive criticism instead of dismissing all possibilities? It isn't that you can't. It's that you DON'T, she replied.

I should have known better than to argue with a personified supernatural concept.

So I wrote. And when I was stuck, not knowing what should happen next, I took a chance and read what I had to Joe. And he listened, and he asked simply, What happens next?

So I wrote some more. And when I was done, I typed my story and I took another chance and I emailed it to some coworkers and family and friends.

Be gentle, I begged. Please be honest, but be gentle.

And they were. And they said, What happens next?

Yes. I can write. I will keep writing. Because this story, it keeps asking me to write some more. It has not ended.

Words are powerful. They can hurt, and they can heal. And because of that power, I must use my own words wisely. I hope I never am the teacher, the mother, or the friend who tears down instead of building up, who wields words to wound rather than restore.

You are so beautiful.

I really respect what you do.

You seem to be struggling a bit. How about trying this?

You have such enormous potential.

I love you.

“If the word has the potency to revive and make us free,

it has also the power to blind, imprison, and destroy."

--Ralph Ellison

The Dance Never Ends: It Only Changes

Autumn sweeps in again, full of color and contrast, its crisp scent sharp on the air. A hint of woodsmoke rides the breeze, teasing the edge of memory with flickers of bonfire and campsong. The maple tree at the end of the road is crimsoning, always the first to burst into flame. My breath catches each time its glory fills my view.

Autumn is vivid and joyful in its celebration of death and dreams. It is Death's sister, a smaller death, a passing of minor parts and youthful creatures into the long dark sleep of Winter. The longer-lived hold sway then, a containment of life iced over in preparation for new birth. But for now, life swirls into a riotous dance of scarlet and gold, jeweled gowns glowing against the emerald green of perpetual pines. There is no dismal droop into greyness here: there is explosion and celebration of beauty, a visual paean in praise of all that has gone before and will come again.

My son knows what the colors signify this year, his third time through the full cycle. He knows that soon he will be Spiderman with the mask that somehow covers his face yet allows him to see. He knows that soon a fourth finger will join the pack when a stranger asks his age. He knows he will have a cake shaped, somehow, like a four-wheeler, white on white by special request. He knows that soon the snow will fall, and the promise of snow angels and snowmen and sledding makes his feet dance. He looks forward, always wanting what comes next.

For me, Autumn is enough. It is fleeting, too fleeting, and too soon the leaves on the maple will fall and wither, carpeting the ground in russet mounds. The geese will fly south, winging their way towards more temperate climes. I stand and watch them go, wondering what stories they would tell could they settle by the fire and speak their tiny minds. I turn and breathe deeply, moving slowly in half-time shadowing of the crimson leaves dancing in life for a few more moments.

Winter will come with its cold white death, but there can be joy and beauty then too. It's a lesson learned anew each year, how to take what comes and find the joy, find the beauty, and join the dance.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

I was talking last night with a friend, and somehow the subject of death came up. Cheerful stuff, you know? But it's real. And sometimes it's best to get it out, talk about the emotions, let someone listen and absorb and tear up in empathy.

I've been blessed with relatively few deaths in my experience. All four grandparents are still alive. My parents are well and healthy. I've lost very few people. When my great-grandmother died long ago, she had lived a long and wonderful life. I didn't truly experience the unexpected death of someone I knew well until nine years ago. Last night I realized the litany was more extensive than I thought.

Nine years ago a casual friend (a friend of my friends) was murdered, brutally. He had to be buried in a closed casket. The murderer was never caught. The general belief was that he had started dating a married woman whose husband had connections. My best friend at the time had dated him years before. It was the last straw in her already imbalanced mental state, and she went off the deep end shortly thereafter.

Seven years ago I lost my first student. He was very sickly, with a fatal condition. He simply never returned after Christmas break.

A year later another student died during the night from an undiagnosed heart problem.

Almost four years ago one of My Boys, the fringe kids with whom I somehow connect, was captured in Iraq. He was MIA for almost two years before the army found his remains. I remember when he came to see me and a few other teachers just before shipping out. He was so excited, so proud to be serving his country. The army had done for him what little else had done: given him a drive and purpose, structure for a life that had been chaotic. I worried, wondered what would happen, hoped he would return safe and sound. I'm still mourning him.

Three and a half years ago my aunt, my mother's only sister, lost her battle with leukemia. She left behind five children. I'm still working through it.

Three years ago a former student, one with whom I had become close through a Leadership Camp the school had run, died from shooting up heroin laced with fentanyl. She had been beautiful, brilliant, filled with potential. The waste of her life rocked me to the core. The other teacher and former students who had been part of our small group hugged and cried at her wake. She had gotten clean, had started dating another former student of mine who loved her and treated her well. We had hoped so much for her. The vicious embrace of that poison proved too strong for her to resist.

A year and a half ago my father's oldest brother died from a catastrophic stroke. Both my sets of grandparents have now outlived a grown child.

I know there will be more to come. My grandparents, as well as they are still doing, are in their eighties and nineties. And in my profession, the tragic deaths of the young are inevitable. Some are more senseless than others, like the student from one of the other high schools in the district who was killed when another teen hit him in the back of the head with a baseball bat. He had simply been in the area trying to get his brother to come home, away from a prearranged meet-up between hot-headed youths fighting over text message insults.

The world seems, at times, filled with the senseless deaths of those who have not lived long enough. It is broken. We are broken.

So I cling to hope and faith and friendship and love. If life is so short, if it can end in a moment's breath, then it should be lived fully.

And I'm finally learning how.

perspective

i wonder

if i reached past the moon
touched a star
ran my fingers through a comet's tail
stroked the rings of a distant planet

would i find the fingerprints of God
etched deep in every grain of dust
His breath in every vapor trail
an eternal song echoing
the ancient words of Life

would it take the infinite
stretches of starry space
to understand the wonder
and breadth of His works
the miracle of existence

or would i hear His song
in the joyous laughter
of two small boys and find
the Sonlight glowing
in the radiance of their eyes

Naught But Moving Shadows

(Originally written June 1, 2009: reposted here with minor changes due to later date)

Psalm 39 is not a cheerful one. It may be one of my favorites purely for its poetic language, however...and the lesson that is couched within its phrases. (I'm bolding the sections that struck me particularly and underlining the language that sparks the poet in me.)

1 I said to myself, “I will watch what I do
and not sin in what I say.
I will hold my tongue
when the ungodly are around me.”
2 But as I stood there in silence—
not even speaking of good things—
the turmoil within me grew worse.
3 The more I thought about it,
the hotter I got,
igniting a fire of words:
4 “Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be.
Remind me that my days are numbered—
how fleeting my life is.
5 You have made my life no longer than the width of my hand.
My entire lifetime is just a moment to you;
at best, each of us is but a breath.” Interlude

6 We are merely moving shadows,
and all our busy rushing ends in nothing.
We heap up wealth,
not knowing who will spend it.
7 And so, Lord, where do I put my hope?
My only hope is in you.
8 Rescue me from my rebellion.
Do not let fools mock me.
9 I am silent before you; I won’t say a word,
for my punishment is from you.
10 But please stop striking me!
I am exhausted by the blows from your hand.
11 When you discipline us for our sins,
you consume like a moth what is precious to us.
Each of us is but a breath. Interlude

12 Hear my prayer, O Lord!
Listen to my cries for help!
Don’t ignore my tears.
For I am your guest—
a traveler passing through,
as my ancestors were before me.
13 Leave me alone so I can smile again
before I am gone and exist no more. (Psalm 39, NLT)

At first glance it would be easy to despair over the idea that we are less than a blip on the timeline of eternity, that the agonies we experience and which seem so enormous in significance are infinitesimal in the infinitely larger view of God. And yet...isn't that the truth? And isn't there a certain measure of comfort in the idea that God is that much larger than our turmoil, that much more powerful than our despair? Pair that with Jesus's words in Matthew:

29 What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. 30 And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. 31 So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows. (Matthew 10: 29-31, NLT)

Suddenly there's a different understanding of it all. Yes, we are infinitely smaller in scope than God's existence. But this is the power of an omniscient and omnipresent and omnipotent God--He is present in all Time and all Space and sees it all as one, rather than being limited by our linear perception.

Instead, the lesson I need to pull from Psalm 39 is that all my "busy rushing ends in nothing," that so much of what I think I need and which is precious to me is actually that which God must "consume like a moth" so that I can see and experience the truth. Many times in the last few months I have said, "I can't do this any more." I'm right--I can't. There is no strength of my own that could ever stand up to what I face.

But God has more than enough strength. I haven't been turning to Him enough, haven't been placing my faith in Him and His purpose for me, because deep down I'm terrified that the path He intends for me is far more difficult than the one I would like to take. I was reminded that my path--the one I think is right--may not be so at all. I certainly haven't done that well for the last quarter century when I've followed my own path. For, as David says,

...the Lord watches over the path of the godly,but the path of the wicked leads to destruction. (Psalm 1:6, NLT)

Some time ago a friend asked me if I thought my husband's attitude towards God and faith could be an obstacle to my own faith, should it continue for years and perhaps the remainder of our lives. The answer that came out of my mouth left me startled and wondering. "No," I said, "if anything it would make me have to depend on God even more."

And suddenly it occurred to me that what seems so obvious to me--that God needs to change my husband's heart, and change it NOW--may not be obvious to God. Not that I think God does not want my husband to turn to Him, but perhaps there are crucial lessons that He wants me to learn in the barren desert where I find myself. For too long I depended on my husband to fill the emptiness within me, something he never had any chance of accomplishing. Only a relationship with God could alter that particular desolation. So if my husband were to suddenly become all that I (in my selfishness) would like him to be--how easy would it be for me to fall into old habits of turning to him to fulfill what only God can?

God's time is not my time. I am but a guest in this life, "a traveler passing through" on my way to eternity. Rather than wandering about fruitlessly on my own, I need God to be my travel guide, and I need to trust Him to know what is best for me. For ultimately His plans for me will be infinitely better, in the scope of infinity, than anything I could come up with on my own.