A Prayer for the New Year

Everyone has or will have a story. When you are in the middle of yours, you wonder...has the world always been like this? It is not until you are personally affected that you finally glimpse the depths of tragedy present in our world. When tragedy's black, gnarly fingers reach out and scratch your own, perfect piece of the world, you only then begin to notice the mark it has left on others. As I look back over the years, I see how far my family has come and how strong we've grown to be. The moment the world stops spinning for you and your mind forgets how to breathe and time stands still and tragedy introduces itself to your life with a hard knock, there is a domino effect. My family and I have advanced through stages of grief and are now in the healing process. On many days, I can tell my story without crying. I can recall memories and smile.  I believe that a huge part of our story, part of the domino affect, is how my family has grown in our walk with Christ.

I can only speak for me, but I can say that I now see, think about, and consider other people's stories. One of the most profound things that I have came to realize is that there is a whole, entire planet of hurting people. Many with stories far worse than mine. I've spent a lot of quiet time devoted to thinking about how big our world is and how small I am. I believe that this is important. It had a direct affect on my prayer life in that I realized I am only a small piece of a very big puzzle. And in the same instance that I can revel at the magnitude of humanity, I can also know without a shadow of a doubt that Christ was thinking of me on Calvary. That fact astounds me.

We are not puppets. Often, as a little girl, I wondered why God let Eve take fruit from that tree when I knew He had the power to stop her. I can remember the day that I came to my own realization: if we (Adam & Eve) had never chosen to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, than we (Adam generation) would have never had free will. That historical moment established the choice of "good or evil" to be posed to every individual of the Adam generation. What glory would God get, if we did not have to consciously choose Him? And because of the free will that He gave us, we make our own choices. Choices that have consequences and effects and ripples. Disease, suffering, pain, sorrow and death are plentiful and powerful and no amount of prayer is going to erase that in the carnal sense. However, and this is a big however, believing in the life of Jesus Christ -our Savior who was born of a virgin, murdered for our sins, and resurrected for our hope- can and will put an end to sin's destruction in your spiritual life. When you believe in Him and submit to Him as Lord of your life, you will be made new and the promise and hope of Heaven will be yours.

So, the prayer for salvation is the single most important and precious prayer ever uttered. It is the only prayer a sinner is capable of praying. It causes the angels to rejoice. And after that prayer, well prayer becomes our gateway for conversation with our Creator. The fact that we are even given the opportunity and the promise that He -the Almighty- hears us, humbles me speechless.


Here's my personal prayer for the new year:

Heavenly Father, 

It is my prayer as we enter another year of life on this Earth that continues to grow further and further away from You, that You grant me the grace to remember that though Christians may lose battles, You have already won the war. Remind me to choose joy daily and let my light shine so that others will see You in me. Let me run my race with endurance. Have mercy on me and mine, that we may continue to grow our faith in our walk with You and seek Your face. Let our lives be a testimony of Your Love. Give us a passion for Your Word and the strength to apply it to our lives.  Forgive us for our shortcomings and our pride of life. Remember we are but flesh. Continue to strengthen my marriage so that the enemy has no room to come between us. Help us seek Your will in everything we do so that You may direct our paths. May we glorify You with our choices. Each day of 2016, help me strive to become Christ-like, put on my armor, take up my cross, and follow You. Though I desire Your favor and hand of mercy, when the bad days and trials come, help us remember that the God of the day is also God of the night. Though the events of the new year are uncertain, Your unconditional and unchanging love for us is not. I thank you for another year of life lived and lessons learned. Thank you for all the blessings we do not deserve. Thank you for both answered and unanswered prayers. I pray, Father, that you continue to work on me and my husband and use us in a powerful way to further Your Kingdom. Help us keep You as the center of our lives and marriage. Humble us so that You may be exalted. Help us praise You in our storms and know that it is well with our soul. 

It is in Jesus' precious name that I pray, 

Amen. 

Seasons

My typical Saturday afternoon involves lesson planning, TPT surfing, checking emails, doing laundry, changing sheets, doing dishes, catching up on my DVR, and picking out my clothes for the week (yes, the entire week), and just generally trying to get things in order for another go at it.

I've always struggled with anxiety; always. Granted, it was much, much worse before I began walking with Christ. Though my faith helps, I am still "me" in that I am an over analyzing, worry-wart, type A, planner. 

Even now, chilling in my yoga pants, clickin' on my Mac, binge watching Teen Mom & Chrisly Knows Best to the sound of clothes tumbling in the dryer, I feel a little anxious about the way the leaves on the trees looked so different this weekend....mostly yellow slipping in, but I know orange and deep red come next...before they all fall to the ground.  

One of the things I worry about, even though I know it does no good, is time slipping away.

The saying goes, if you don't like the weather in Kentucky just wait a few minutes...

The changing seasons keep me in check. 

It's not that I am afraid of the end of my time on this earth. I've done my meditating on death and I'm at peace with the concept. I know everyday is a gift and no one is promised a tomorrow.

I just worry that I'm not being present enough in life's daily routines. I know how nothing seems to change and then you look around one day and everything is different. It's too easy to spend time missing the way things were or wishing they'd be better in the future. And I'm worried that I'll spend too much time doing that. I see the gray in my Momma's hair and the white in my Dad's beard. My niece and nephew just keep getting taller. And although, I know I was only born in the 90's, I've still lived to see a lot of change.

My parents, sister, niece and nephew, and I spent Saturday at Camden Park. On the way to the park, Mom told stories of trips made in earlier years. I love hearing stories about the high school sweet hearts. While my sister and I held the kids tightly as the log climbed its way up the water bed, we noticed Mom and Dad sitting on a bench below...snapping their first selfie on my mom's new iPhone, which is the first cellphone she's ever had that hasn't qualified as ancient.  I took my own mental pictures all day. I snapped a pic of my dad with his hat on backwards on the tilt-a-whirl smiling so big he looked like a boy. I snapped a pic of Mom riding a horse on the carousel going up and down and around and around; a lot like life. I snapped a pic of Lexi and Colton holding ice cream cones trying to remember their sticky smiles marked by tiny and missing teeth.

The chipped, fading paint made it evident that the park wasn't what it use to be. But it still serves its purpose of allowing families to roam around and laugh together. And though no one else at the park knew, nor did we mention it ourselves, but the four us were accomplishing a big feat. A feat is something that requires strength and courage. Spending a day together at a park, laughing, playing, enjoying each other, and being happy is a feat. Allowing the happiness and the laughter and the joy does takes courage and strength...when you're doing it with one less. When you're missing someone.

I'm proud of my parents and how brave they are. They are so strong. And I know their strength comes from the Lord. It is the same strength that will get me through the time I live on this earth without them one day, if the Lord blesses me to live long enough.

I hear my husband and his new buddies from Physical Therapy school shout from the living room and it brings me back to reality. They are watching the Kentucky Wildcats play football and my husband's hope for that team is one thing that will never change.

It's scary and exciting to think about how Andrew and I are really at the beginning of our own adventure of for better or for worse. And who knows what will unravel, how God will use us, and what storms we will weather.  I guess the not knowing is the exciting and the scary part.

At any rate, we have one more summer under our belt. This past week saw the first official day of Fall. I have pumpkin patch dates, fall festivals, and pumpkin painting marked in my October.

I pray that with each day I chase Christ, choose joy, relish the moment, and go to bed with a thankful heart.

I Teach, What's Your Superpower?

I am one of the few that get to wake up in the mornings and head to a job that also happens to truly be my hobby, passion, and calling. 

Now I know, just as well as any other teacher in America, that our job is hard work. I'm talking wear a cape save the world kind of hard work. 

I think you can compare teachers to doctors in a lot of ways... 

• We are NEVER truly off the clock. 
• We can't help but to bring our work home with us. 
• What we do truly does have the potential to change lives. 
• We have to fear getting sued and are constantly trying to keep everyone happy. 
• During the work day we must walk fast and talk fast. Never mind bathroom breaks-those are novelties our schedules do not include. 
• It's impossible to go a day without getting stains on our clothes. 
• The food our facility serves is terrible, but it's not like we have time to sit down and eat it anyways. 
• We spent tons of time and money getting through school and taking exams, we're professionals, yet when it comes right down to the big things- our opinion doesn't really matter; ultimately, it's up to the parents. 
• We're on our feet all day, must remain professional, and are consequently under a lot of stress. 

And it would honestly just be insulting your intelligence if I felt it necessary to point out the big difference, right? Because everyone knows that doctors...get more CREDIT. That's right. That's what I'd choose to harp about. Not the fact that they live well above middle class and can afford the finer things of life while many teachers become masters at budgeting and clearance-scouting and live pay check to pay check. (Ok, I had to harp on that a little.) But seriously, that's the least of my complaints. What gets me-- what really ruffles my feathers-- is the fact that doctors receive a lot more appreciation. It's not that they get it that bothers me, because they deserve it. It's just that we don't get it so much. 


Teaching is seriously so h-a-r-d. 

It's not the lesson planning or the faculty meetings or the mounds of papers or the extracurricular activities we must participate in outside of our "8 hour" day. No, those things are easy, peasy. It's not the sore feet or the stretched bladders.(I actually think bladder holding becomes one of our super powers.)It's not the fact that we become the focus of many observations and are subject to constant constructive criticism. And ya know what, it's not even the parents that make our job so hard.  

That's right. I can even look past the fact that parents expect us to work miracles with a child that is receiving no schedule, structure, help, or support of any kind at home. Or the fact that parents expect us to remember that little Johnny is getting picked up by Aunt June whose visiting from Florida (and is in fact NOT on the pick up list) and that Sally Sue has to be allowed to go to the bathroom 248 times a day because she has never been told no in her life has a Dr.'s note and that it's Billy Bob's Birthday so his mom will be bringing in cupcakes...except she's one short, no make that two, because I just remembered that Sally Sue can't eat foods that contain gluten. I'm alright with the fact that we must become sticky note queens and accommodate all at the drop of a hat.  

There's so much pressure that comes from knowing you are the sole adult responsible for educating twenty-five 7-8 year olds for 180 days. (Unless you have been the only adult in a room with twenty-five 7-8 year olds for more than 10 minutes, you can't begin to even guess what 180 days feels like.)On top of teaching them how to read and write and compute and to think logically, we also must nurture their souls, feed their confidence, and prepare them to be upstanding citizens. 

There's so much talent involved in finding the balance between teaching the mind and teaching the heart. And to me, that's it- that's the hardest part. 

"The powers that be" constantly change programs and techniques and resources and insist that we keep up to speed and implement appropriately. We have the ever looming standards that we teach like crazy in attempts to "cover" them all and the end-of-the-year test that we are constantly prepping our kids for along with the fundamental challenge of ensuring that all students can be successful in the succeeding grade. But at the very same time, right in the middle of all those challenges, we have the other side of the coin. We must remember the kids in our room that come from broken homes, that face problems we may never fully know about. We must remember that just as much as we're there to teach kids how to skip count, we're needed to feed the hungry child, hug the smelly child, protect the abused child, and contact help for the lice infested head... We must remember to be patient, encouraging, calm, and did I mention patient? So while we are in the middle of an observation and are trying to teach our kiddos to subtract two digit numbers with regrouping (even though we are using a "new" method that parents won't understand), we have to remember not to raise our voice or become impatient when Little Johnny keeps looking at the clock (because he's anxious to see his aunt) and Billy Bob keeps raising his hand to ask if it's snack time (because he's excited his mom made cupcakes) and Sally Sue keeps going to the bathroom (because, well, maybe she really does have an issue). You must remain patient and speak sweetly even though all those incidents mean that your principal is now scoring you low in the category of student engagement and you'll probably have to set through Professional Development in attempts to help you have more engaging lessons. 

Yes, we must dress ourself in our daily costume of smiley-patience and use our loud, perky teacher-voice. Our classroom truly is our stage and every minute children are in it we must perform. The eyes of our audience are constantly on us..and ya know what? They adore us. The children, though they can be mischievous, messy, and noisy, almost always adore their teacher. Even if their teacher isn't very adore-able. That's just one of the many awesome things about children. And about our career. 

I hope you did not get the impression that I don't love my job. I do. It's the most fun I've ever had. I truly enjoy and feel blessed to be able to get to do it. It's where I'm supposed to be at this point in my life. 

It's just that I wish we received a little more credit. Because in those moments, when we truly feel appreciated, it's not so hard. 

Have you ever thought about what it would be like if the tables were turned? What if teachers got to request the students they wanted to teach? That would go over O.K with parents, right? Seeing as how they have no problem requesting us. Or what about if, upon graduating college, our professors were held accountable for our final grades and our success in the "real world"?... you see what I'm saying? 

I'm not asking for those things. I know they are not practical. However, I am asking for you to thank a teacher. I mean, genuinely, honestly, say thank you. I had a parent call me my first week of teaching just to tell me that she appreciated me. That was all. It touched me deeply. 

I'm very lucky to work for a principal that understands the value of a pat on the back. He's pretty generous in dishing them out. It makes all the difference. 

Society often makes jabs at our profession presenting it as a "pie" job. A "cop-out" job. As "settling". Heck, I know plenty of teachers who are openly in it for the summers or practically wear a sign on their back that says "Don't Become a Teacher". 

But that's not me. I take pride in what I do. I enjoy what I do. And   I know that in the course of my lifetime something that goes on in my classroom will positively affect a child. And what's more, that's enough for me- whether I ever get thanked again or not. But hey, it sure wouldn't hurt. 

Awestruck

I am currently procrastinating unpacking. There are piles of sandy clothes heaped in the hallway. Our swimsuits have been washed and are hanging to dry. I've managed to shelve beach towels and sunscreen. The feeling reminds me of packing up Christmas decorations and taking down the tree. Sigh.

We still have a few more weeks of summer bliss, but I feel the unscheduled days slipping through my fingers. One of the biggest perks of being a teacher is getting to experience the childlike magic of a schedule-lacking summer.

I love the beach. I find the ocean so utterly peaceful and soothing. It never fails to awestruck me. I love the fact that I feel so tiny with it lapping around my ankles looking at an endless horizon as I feel the sand slipping underneath my feet. It amazes me that although salt is plentiful in its waves, the rain pours fresh. That all Earth's water runs into the ocean, yet the ocean never fills up. And no matter how many times the shore sends it away, the waves keep coming back. The ocean offers so many metaphors and is a component of many biblical stories.

My favorite part of vacation was walking along the shoreline in the packed, wet sand waiting for the ocean to jump up and greet our feet. I find it most beautiful in the mornings and in in the evenings, when the shade is over and the tide comes in, the waves bringing in foam almost up to the dunes. In the mornings, the red sun ball would rise in the east and the ocean would slowly begin to recede exposing an array of half buried shells. I know that my hubby is not quite as talented as I when it comes to being able to just sunbathe without moving or talking very much. I find it easy to just listen to the waves and keep my sunscreen lathered nose buried in a book. (I read Jodi Picoult's Change of Heart and recommend it, BTW.) Although Andrew loves to be outdoors, he also loves to be active. So, I mentioned to him that I would love for him to collect me some seashells if he needed something to do. That was all I had to say. If we were on the beach, that's what he was doing.

I had my beach chair pulled up just close enough that the water would sometimes surprise me but not overtake me. My feet outstretched waiting patiently. I had a floppy white hat on that offered shade to my face and shoulders. I was enjoying the combination of the relentless sun and the just as committed breeze. I love the smell of salt and sunscreen that mixes in the heavy air. I juggled reading my book and staring people watching.

I don't know what it is that is so enticing about people watching, but I etched some of my observations into memory. There was a young, quite plump boy who looked to be about 6 or 7. His mom had led him about ankle deep when he dug his heels into the sand. She pulled on his arm and sighed heavily while exclaiming, "You will be fine." I couldn't help but laugh out loud as he genuinely, fervently protested, "They will eat me. I'm tellin' ya, THEY WILL EAT ME! I ain't gonna be ate by no shark!"

There were two girls, around 9 or 10, that ran from the dunes to the waves holding hands in such a way that it was evident they were best friends. They jumped into the waves, throwing their heads back with laughter and shrieks.

I noticed a mother, young, probably around my age holding a bald-headed, pale child in her arms. She ran into the water in the same way a 5 year old would and swooped him down to meet the water. She swirled him around and moved in all the ways that he seemingly couldn't.

You see chubby people, obese people, "perfect" bikini-model-body people. You see that the very young and the very old have the most clothes on. You see families and couples and a few loners. You see some modest and some obscene. You see mom-suits and speedos. Some people lay right down on the sand, giving over every inch of their body to those grains. While others try painstakingly to avoid the inevitable. You see sunscreen and sunburns, the active and the lazy.

I noticed a sky add flying over the strip of beach that read, "Christina, will you marry me? Heart, Kyle". Though I searched for this Romeo down on one knee, I couldn't find him in the sea of people closest to me. But I smiled and hoped she said yes.

And then I noticed my own Romeo approaching me with a proud smile and an armful of shells. When I think of seashells that I want to put in a vase on the edge of my garden tub or in the center of the patio table, I think of light colored, white or tan shells-- complete shells without cracks or chips. I think of pieces of coral, smooth stones, or sea glass. I was hoping to find a star fish, a conch, or a sand dollar, though I wasn't holding my breath. I had picked up any that  I had seen that resembled the most common perception of your typical seashell.

My husband began to line up his finds on the arm of my beach chair. Gray, black, broken, chunky fragments. I wouldn't have called them seashells, but I suppose in essence they were. My first instinct was to toss them back out and let the waves suck them under to be spit back out on another day. To tell Hubs those were ugly and most definitely not what I had in mind. But as he began to tell me that he thought they were cool and to look at the ridges on this one and the way that one was jagged like a tooth, I realized something profound.

 My first reaction was to explain what I wanted, what I needed, me, me, me. But my perspective shifted. I commented on his finds and scooped them up to be corralled with our keepers.

 He later asked me what kind I was interested in specifically and began to collect only ones that measured up. (Actually, yesterday evening he tossed the black clunkers over the hillside. It was just shells, not a big deal.) But in that moment, I had realized that he just wanted to show them to me. That I needed to take a moment to appreciate what he saw. Because it's easy to forget to do that.

Tomorrow marks our 2 year anniversary. We're babies in the marriage world. But then again, our 2 year marriage has outlived a handful of our friends' and acquaintances' marriages. Over the past two years we've been shocked to hear of sudden divorces and grieved for numerous marriages that ended before they really had the chance to begin. Every failed marriage has had a different story, a different scenario, but of course the public only gets his side and her side and who knows about the truth.

I don't know what the answer is or how to pinpoint the exact problem (except that we live in a fallen world). But I do feel like the way our generation has been raised has a huge effect on failed marriages. Whether the breaking point was an affair or video game addiction, I believe it stems from self-centeredness. And believe you me, I'm preaching to the choir.

I think I can speak for the majority when I say we were given a big portion of what we wanted when we wanted it growing up. I know I had my own bedroom, my own things. It's common to see kids in the backseat each holding their own expensive tablet, because Lord forbid they share.

In my classroom, I like to play a spelling game that has a component of chance in it so that even the best classroom speller can still get out. I explained this to the students, that the game would help us practice our spelling words but would not identify who was the best speller, because it was a game of chance. I even pointed out to them that there were 24 kids in the classroom and only one kid could win. I told them that if they lost they needed to think about all the other kids in the classroom that had also lost. And that it was okay. We would congratulation the winner, be happy for him or her, and play again the next day. My first year playing this game I had a 6 year old boy shake a fist at another boy while threatening to punch him in the face. He claimed the child was laughing at him, though he wasn't, I had been watching. The angered boy just didn't know how to lose. Last year, playing with 2nd graders was no better. I had a 7 year old boy lay down on the floor, kicking, screaming and crying. I had some kids that refused to play, because they were afraid they wouldn't win. When a child did win, and picked a treasure from the box, other children would snub up their noses and tell the winner that they chose a dumb toy that no one wanted to see.

I kid not. Very, very few times has a child genuinely been happy for another child, say even a best friend, to win a trip to the treasure box if it wasn't them.

Parents want and demand that their child be made to feel special. I do not believe teachers should show favoritism. I do think all children should be treasured and valued for who they are as individuals. I also try my darnest to create an environment that fosters self confidence and victory for all....But it can all be very tiresome, because like I said, parents demand that that their child be made to feel special. In reality, that means they want their child to be the best. Not as in the best that they can be, but better than everyone else kind of best. (I'm speaking in general here, I know not all parents have these motives, but gathering from my own experiences and stories from my colleagues, a lot of them do.)

I show my students a picture of two kids that are standing behind a fence trying to see over it. One of the kids is tall enough to see while the other is too short. I ask them if that is fair, and they of course say no. I then show them another picture this time with the shorter kid standing on a crate. Now both kids can see over the fence. I ask them if that's fair and you'd be surprised at how many kids still say no. It doesn't matter to them that the tall enough child can see without assistance, in their eyes that kid should have a crate too. It's the principle of the matter to them. There's really no hope for explaining to them that "fair" isn't everyone getting the same thing, rather everyone getting what he or she needs.

Kids in the classroom show more and more signs of selfishness, a sense of entitlement, the inability to share or lose, and the determination to oppose authority. They absolutely take these traits into their marriage. I know I did.

Marriage is hard. You have to share. Everything. All the time. The money, the bed, the CLOSET, the food, the bathroom, the REMOTE, relatives, and lots of time, among other things. Sharing can become a huge issue.  Mainly, because we never practiced that much and certainly not enough to get good at it.

Marriage is hard. You aren't number one. You aren't the best. It isn't all about you. You don't always win a trip to the treasure box. You have to learn to sacrifice. To put someone else's needs above your own. I can't list the things I do for my husband without it looking like I'm tooting my own horn, but I'll be the first to tell you that I don't always enjoy doing them and that I also don't do nearly enough.

Within the first year of our marriage I noticed a huge problem. A huge fault. And it was mine. I had spent the day letting my anger fester, at what I can't even remember, but I had created a mental list of all the (silly, petty) things  Andrew had done to offend me or upset me. I was laying on the bed going over how he was the problem in our argument and what all his faults were. I was listing all the areas that he fell short in and what he should do or say to be better. Then I noticed the canvas that hung on our bedroom wall. It was an engagement picture with a scripture from Genesis painted near the bottom that said "and the two shall become one". Through my tears, my eyes glued to the word one.
One. Not two, but one. And I realized that I was wrong. I couldn't condemn Andrew and look for his faults without looking at my own. We were in this together, as one.

It is our human nature to want to fix a problem by starting with "correcting" someone else. This is magnified in a marriage. Even after that realization, I would still trip up on my selfishness. I would identify my own faults but insist to myself that I didn't have it in me to do better if he wasn't going to put for the effort. Even though I knew what I needed to fix within myself, I wasn't willing to do it if he didn't. I didn't think I should be the one to give in, didn't want to give in. Why should I apologize if he doesn't? Why should I go out of my way to be sweet to him if he isn't? Wrong, wrong, wrong. That may be easier, but it isn't marriage.

Marriage calls us to be selfless and in a world that just created the "selfie stick", that's a dang hard thing to be. (Not that I have anything against the ingenious invention; I own one, but you get what I'm saying.) I know Andrew and I have a lot of learning, growing left to do. I pray that we continue to grow in our individual walks with Christ, because I know that this will consequently bring us closer to each other.


In light of our anniversary, I want to say thanks to my hubs for a few things, because just like I am awestruck by the ocean, I am awestruck by him. Yes, he is stubborn, hates to lose, or be wrong. Did I mention that he hates to lose? But there is a whole lot of good in that heart of his, and I am so glad that it is linked to mine.

Thanks for killing the spiders, sharpening tons of pencils, bringing pizza to my students, and sitting through multiple foster parenting classes. Thanks for the massages that come so regularly and telling me every single time I get dressed that I look pretty. Thanks for respecting my parents, letting my niece and nephew crawl all over you, and asking me about my sister you never knew. Thank you for pumping my gas, looking forward to church, and trusting me when I go out with my friends. Thank you for going grocery shopping with me, doing all the heavy lifting, and asking me about the books I read. Thank you for taking turns picking movies, always trying what I cook, and wanting to be in whatever room I am in.

I feel so secure and safe in our relationship. You are my best friend and my biggest supporter. And I am so thankful that God gave me you.