No Choice but to Love

Image from "Rain Room"
at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
http://darkroom.baltimoresun.com/

I moved into school administration this year-moving out of the classroom into this new role is fodder for at least five posts alone. I now have 542 students instead of 120. This morning, I was reflecting on spiritual gifts, and worrying about a few students, wondering how their current situation is playing out over their weekends. I now see I will be doing this on a larger scale as an administrator, because I know more.

My spiritual gift is love. I have finally come to see and embrace it for what it is and what it means. This gift can be hell in my own love life because when I meet someone, I immediately want to shower them with the full arsenal of my intuitive powers, meet their needs, serve them--just love them in the purest sense of the word, and this makes men panic and flee. I've joked with my friends that I'm a man repellent. More on that in a separate post; insert much laughter and head-nodding here. I'm still learning how to rein that in. Hopefully one day I won't have to.

With students, though, this spiritual gift has a much different result. It doesn't repel them, it draws them in closer. It's magnetic. They soak it up. I can't give out too much or give it fast enough.  "Students who are loved at home come to school to learn, and students who aren't, come to school to be loved." Nicholas Ferroni.  And because it's a spiritual gift that comes from God, I never seem to run out; it doesn't exhaust me, in fact, it energizes me, and I become a conduit of an endless supply that flows through me. What a strange and upside down concept, but that's how God works.

When we love, we risk having our heart broken. I will be dealing with Family Services, the police, other various agencies; and my heart will be shattered in a hundred ways. I can't save them all, dammit, and I can't take them home with me. Sometimes things happen to them that's out of their control. Sometimes they make choices outside of school or my presence that land them in jail or the morgue. It's happened. This week there were many cries for help and for love: the one who told me he was homeless, the self-harmer, the thief, the bullied one, the fight that I'm sure will be taken up again with more damaging consequences, the vandal, and dozens more.

And then there is mijo. I call him "my son" affectionately, which I do with most of my boys, but there is a different tone in my voice when I say it to him. He is a tough one for others to love, and he tries my patience as well. I overheard him refer to me as his "auntie" to his friends. When he is stressed out or escalating, he gravitates to my office. He has been held at gunpoint-twice, seen death firsthand, and lived way too much life for anyone. He trusts very few people, but he trusts me. We love each other, but this is, of course, unspoken. He held back the tears when I put my hand on his shoulder the other day. One of these days, I will be able to hug that boy, but we're not there yet. My mission is to keep him in school and alive, but so much is out of my control. He's 13.

 I can't choose anything else but to love and to keep on loving. My job as an educator begins and ends with love, but higher than that, it's why I'm here. To not love would be to deny God's purpose for my life. I only get what seems like minutes a day to make a difference. I know my heart will break again someday when I read the newspaper or turn on the TV. It's my greatest fear. I have those few minutes every day, and I will seize them. And pray it's enough.

Spiritual Posture: Letting Go of Control

Some of the most powerful life lessons are the simplest, and they come to us in the most humble ways. I was on a walk with my daughter the other day, and she happened to notice that I was looking down in front of my feet as I walked. Being a young woman who speaks her mind, she pointed out that my shoulders were hunched-I was not walking with good posture.  I explained to her that ever since my ACL and meniscus repair surgery a year ago, I found myself watching the ground in front of my feet for unevenness, cracks, water-anything that might cause me to trip or stumble. That was my second ACL repair on that knee, third one in all, so I'm a little gun shy of certain movements. "So it's self-preservation."  And then she added, "Well, your posture is terrible."  She was right. I had become aware not long ago of my tendency to do this, and was working on it, but her insights caused me to think deeper about the implications of this habit. There's simply no way to explain to someone who's never had a similar surgery how unnerving it can be to lose your footing, or trip on a stupid crack in the sidewalk.

On my walk today, I caught myself doing it again, but this time, I was alone, and I was working through some personal issues in my head, specifically, several uncertainties that have arisen in my life.  My Christian music Matt Redman Pandora station was pumping through my ear buds, and I was in deep thought with things, most of which are out of my control. Not a place I like to find myself. So when I realized I was looking down again, I stopped, and that's when truth hit me, and the still, small voice of the Lord broke through my clouded vision. For the rest of that hour, He and I did business together. Here's what we came up with. It was a simple lesson in the physical realm that had deep emotional and spiritual implications and applications.

• Look up. When I look down, I'm focusing on the wrong thing. I'm missing out. We attract what we focus on. Just like my physical posture is affected when I focus on the ground, so too is my spiritual posture when I focus on my problems instead of the problem solver. Not only am I missing out on what's going on around me, I become too self-focused. And hunched--and that's downright unattractive. Keep my eyes on the Lord, not on myself or my problems.  

Trust the surgeon.  He really did know what he was doing. Walk with care, but trust that the surgery was successful. I have no reason to believe otherwise. Trust the physical therapist. Trust all those dang exercises he made you do! Relax, rest, and trust God. The Lord has never let me down. All my uncertainties, fear, and anxieties can be laid at His feet. 

When I trained in martial arts, which was how I tore my ACLs in the first place, I learned a trick that originated with dancers. When doing a spin kick, we were taught to find a spot on the wall and fix our eyes on that.  This serves two purposes: one, it keeps you in line and centered; secondly, it keeps you from getting dizzy when you spin around. When I learned how to break boards, I was taught to focus not on the board, but what is on the other side. If you fix your eyes on the board, all your body's energy goes into that board, and it stops at the board. Boards will not break that way, but when your focus is beyond the board, your energy doesn't stop at the board, it keeps going through the board, and it will break. Spend some time pondering the life application with that one! How many times have you focused on that one thing and failed to look beyond it? Goals, challenges, obstacles--whatever it may be; when we focus on IT instead of what's beyond it, we lose momentum, energy, passion. We limit ourselves.

After the weight of all this life stuff hit me and I soaked it in, I decided to take myself to the next level. I don't believe in testing God, but I was testing my own dedication and belief. I needed to break through the thoughts that were limiting me physically, but the ramifications went way beyond. My eyes focused on the trail ahead, shoulders back, with a deep breath, I began to run. Well, I should clarify. I don't run. I don't really like to run, and what I did could hardly be classified as running, more like a slow trot. I was never a "runner" by today's standards, but years ago I would occasionally go out and jog a couple miles. I have friends who are runners, and I certainly don't belong in their category. After three knee surgeries, I have not had the confidence, but I needed to know that if I wanted to run, I could. What happened exceeded my expectations. Not only did I run, excuse me, trot, for almost half a mile, I did so without pain or discomfort, and with confidence. You won't see me out running any 5K's anytime soon, but who knows.

Such big life truths from something like my dumb ACL injuries, but that's often how God breaks through our stubborn, heard-headed selves, using our own crap, limitations, challenges, and wounds. My uncertainties are still there, hanging out in space somewhere, waiting for answers. I can't change or control the outcome, but I can choose not to focus on them but on something far more reliable. So here's my challenge to you: what are your eyes fixed on? Are you staring at the board and not beyond it? In what area of your life do you need to look up, fix your eyes, trust, and break through? Peace and big grace to you.

Teachers at the Prom

I teach teenagers, and because they cause me gray hair, it's only fair that I get to mess with their minds whenever I can. Our school's prom is tonight. My assistant principal, who is a dear man and a good friend, asked if I was coming to the prom and when I made a face that said "probably not", said, "Oh, I was hoping to dance with you." Of course this was all said to make the students gathered around my desk feel awkward, because let's face it, teenagers do not like to see their teachers dance, least of all with each other. On top of that, they know I'm single. If there's one thing teenagers dislike more than seeing their teachers dance is thinking of them as people who actually date. I am not dating my assistant principal, just to be clear. I turned to one boy and said, "If I came to the prom tonight, "J," would you dance with me?"
"Uh, Miss, I have a girlfriend." The 'laughter-in-check' meter within me started to rise.
  "Not that kind of dancing, "J."
Laughter broke out around the desk and in the room.
    "You wouldn't dance one dance with your teacher?"
       "She might not let me."
          "Does she let you dance with your mother?"
             "Well, yeah,"
                "So what's the difference, "J?" Are you embarrassed to dance with your teacher?"  Poor boy. I decided to release him from the suspended animation. I turned to another boy on the other side of the desk. "R", would you dance with me if I came to the prom?"
   "Yes, Ms. B., I'd dance with you."

Never a dull day. Today, that same student somehow managed to lock the computer cart's padlock around his backpack strap. Did I mention I teach senior English? These are 18 year-olds. He looks at me with hopeful eyes. "You know the combination, right, Miss?" Because the lock needed some resistance in order to open- it works fine on a heavy cart but not on a backpack-I had no clue how to get it off his backpack. We tried for three or four minutes. In one swift motion, he grabbed the scissors off my desk and cut his backpack strap, setting the lock free to clank on my desk.  "Cool, hahaha," "J" said, grabbed my stapler and proceeded to connect his straps with a couple dozen staples.

I crazy mad love teenagers. I surely do.

A Writer's Treasure

I have always been a collector of quotes. I find myself in them, lose myself, get reaffirmed, encouraged, comforted, and sometimes, assured that I'm not crazy, like this one from F. Scott Fitzgerald: "Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person." If the fabulous Mr. F. felt that way, then maybe I'm not so weird. If you've ever lived with a writer, then you know what I'm talking about. We're a unique breed. I find comfort in the knowledge that I'm not the only one who struggles with focusing on one project, sticking to a deadline, finishing that manuscript before seeing another shiny project just waiting to pull me off task and write it, instead, and of course--the piles of paper. Back in the day, I kept file folders and spiral notebooks and would fill them with my story ideas, observations, catchy dialogues, and character notes. Now I use a cool app on my phone when I remember I have it. Going back and looking at them months or years later is hilarious-and puzzling. What in the world did I mean by, "Antique tractor. Whiskey. Labrador"? Is there some blockbuster lurking in those cryptic notes? Did F. Scott look back on his "idea journals" later in life and wonder what he meant by some chicken scratch note he made? I'd like to think so. 

The other day, my students became so intrigued with the idea that I have a black belt in taekwondo. That always sparks conversation. Suddenly I'm a ninja to them, and they afford me a new level of respect I didn't have before. This crew took it to a new creative level and came up with a story line for a movie about me, the English teacher by day who moonlights as a contract hit man; it stars them in various roles. It was actually quite good--good enough that I've tucked it away in my cool phone app for later. I may even get to it this summer if I don't finish the project I'm on and get distracted, that is. At my request, they even gave me a love interest, the father of one of the boys, our student body president, who is intent on playing himself in the movie as soon as he gets buff. Hey, I might as well have at least a fictional love life, right? One brilliant student suggested Gerard Butler's name for the role. How did he know? That student is getting an "A" this semester. Priorities. 

When I die, my children inherit at least six large boxes of spiral and composition notebooks, torn napkins, loose papers, and a cool phone app full of my weird story ideas, poems, diaries, character sketches, dialogues, and observations on life. I've thought of compiling them more neatly into something cohesive, but I fear losing the context in which they were created. That scrawled poem from the forlorn fourteen-year-old whose crush went unrequited takes me back every time; all I have to do is see those words and I am transported to junior high, and I wonder what the hell I was thinking. Laughing at or having compassion on my younger self is good therapy. To throw them away or digitize them might reduce their value, somehow, either sentimentally or perhaps realistically in some Christie's auction after one of my novels becomes the next Hunger Games or Twilight. I wouldn't want to deprive my children of that inheritance, now would I?

Teaching in the Trenches

   

Another good but emotionally-challenging day in the trenches of teaching at-risk youth. I overheard a student tell another teacher that his mother was an addict and used to put cocaine in his baby bottle.
On my planning period, I read through some pages of their autobiographies and took in an account of a drive-by shooting. The sweet, quiet girl in the back of the room has witnessed more bloodshed and bodies scattered on the floor than some cops I know. 
I did a writing blitz day where I kept my class writing, in various activities, for 90 minutes, and in one of the activities, I had these stations with writing prompts on them. The kids rotated and wrote for three minutes on each poster. The one about fighting was twice as full as the one about kissing. I commented on that, and a student said, "Guess there's a lot more violence than love." 

   One of the comments on the "Learning to Kiss" poster said, "Ask a whore." I said, "Did any of you learn to kiss by watching movies?" And one responded, "You mean like porn?" Uh.. no that's not what I meant. One student asked, "Which fight should I write about, the one yesterday or the one last week?" 

     Before class, I stopped "R," who I adore but who is extremely sarcastic and delights in trying to get me off task or rattle me. Yesterday, it was, "Miss! What'd you do to your hair? Have you lost weight? You look skinny. What's different about you? You look really pretty today--do you have a date after school?"  I looked him in the eyes and I said, "R", maybe you and I should start today's class with a hug. Whaddya think?" And he leaned in and said, "I think we should start EVERY class with a hug." I melted, threw my arm around that boy and hugged him. Class went smooth as glass. Now I know. Hug "R" every-single-day. 

For many high risk students, spring is a semester full of anxiety. They leave the security of a structured school day with mentors who pour into their lives and hold them accountable, two hot meals, friends, and support, and they have to live through an entire summer without some of those things. No structure, no schedule; for many of them, it's the law of the street. It's especially frightening for seniors. Graduation should be a time of liberation and independence, but for some kids, it's a sentence.  

If only a hug took care of all of them. I think of that starfish the boy in the story threw back. "It matters to that one," and I know that a hug, while it may not be much, mattered to that one, and for today, that's what I can do. Tomorrow is another day.