Better Things Are Ahead

My Grandpa Gesch died this summer. My dad's dad. I haven't been able to write about it or talk about it much, because it hurts to think about it for too long. I know that avoidance is not the best way to deal with death, but it's unfortunately the method to which I'm drawn. Those two, Grandma and Grandpa Gesch, are pillars in my life. Protectors and leaders and spiritual giants that raised me right along with my parents. Carpool drivers and babysitters, devotional readers and scrabble game players, they are forever a part of who I am and who I want to be.

One of the most routine memories of my grandparents is one of the sweetest for me. I played soccer all through my childhood for my town's team. I was the only girl on my team for my fourth grade year, and loved meeting all the neighborhood kids that I didn't get to play with at school. Being somewhat of the odd one out who attended Christian school a town away in Oostburg, I had to take the bus home and get a ride to soccer practice each week while my parents were working. I'd hop off the bus, bike or walk a few blocks to Grandma and Grandpa's house, and sit down at the table where a stack of oreos, a glass of milk, and my two-person fan club awaited me. They'd ask about my day, update me on their walk to the post office, and generally just chat about life. I'd often lose focus and forget that an oreo was soaking in the glass of milk while we talked, so Grandma would go fetch me an extra cookie to dip in and save the other that had floated to the bottom on a rescue mission. After that, I'd change into my cleats and Grandpa would drive me to practice, with a hearty "Go get 'em!" yelled out the window as I sprinted out to join my team on the field.

I think of all they went through and all they accomplished, all the people they had in their lives, and here they were interested in a chat with me, a regular old 10-year-old kid, over a stack of oreos and a glass of milk. That's why I loved our weekly rituals so much; to them, I was worthy of stopping the day for their full attention. They helped me learn how to make people feel important.

When I think of my grandparents I think of puzzles, board games, a never-ending-scrabble tournament (Grandpa always quick to point out that Grandma was way ahead in the standings), and a two-a-day program of reading the Bible together. I think of kindness toward one another and a marriage based on true friendship and simple joy. I think of five brilliant boys that turned out to be my dad and uncles, how they raised the perfect guy to be my dad one day.

I think of being friendly to everyone because it's the right thing to do, and taking the higher road even if others choose to dwell in mires of gossip and judgment. I think of correspondence and encouragement, support and involvement. I think of musical talent, appreciation of nature, time spent in the workshop, and praying in German before lots and lots of meals spent together. I think of interest in other cultures, languages, and just a pure love of people. I think about a love of learning that never stops for an entire long lifetime.

I think about positivity and gumption and constant joking around. I think about that unending energy paired along with a slant towards understanding sadness and loss, too. My grandparents taught me that it's okay to have both sides of that coin very much alive in your life. I learned that it's okay to be a walking contradiction sometimes in that way. They were the first to teach me the lesson that as a follower of God you don't need to have it all together. They taught me one of my favorite truths in my life: that it's okay to not be okay. You don't need to be flawless on your own. God's grace is enough for it all.

I think about daily faithfulness and love and prayer and hard work and discipline and joy and family. All those good things.

I am such a blessed person, to have these themes as a part of the legacy I inherit. I consider myself to be so rich in all the best things: people, heritage, and faith. This is what I owe to my Grandpa and Grandma.

I don't know what heaven will really be like, but one of the cheesy things that I like to imagine is a kitchen table on linoleum flooring where my two grandparents are back at their rounds of scrabble, shared meals, and daily devotionals. When I'm extra cheesy, I like to imagine a spot saved for me with a stack of oreos and a glass of milk.

I don't know if God created heaven to be like that.

I do know this: If it isn't like what I imagine, He will have designed it to be something even 
better.
  

The Problem We All Live With

Friends, can I share something with you? Something very near and dear to my heart? On my drive home today I finished up listening to this podcast and it just completely undid me.

It addresses one of our big issues: the problem of what we are all going to do (or not do) about that achievement gap in America's schools. Children of color are disproportionately losing out on a quality education in America. At grossly high rates. The title of the podcast, The Problem We All Live With, is appropriately borrowed from Norman Rockwell's painting of Ruby Bridges, bravely walking to her first grade classroom despite the hate, slurs, and violence in her way.

Here's my thing about this topic, really quickly, before you write this whole social-justice-nerd's case completely off.  Ira Glass (bless him), together with a guest reporter, tells the story of this age old problem. During the podcast, they play a recording of a town meeting in 2013, hosted by a school board, that is addressing one (predominantly white) community's outrage against students from a nearby poor, black district being allowed into their school. At one point, a white parent takes the microphone and uses her time addressing the school board to say something like: "THIS ISN'T ABOUT RACE. THIS IS ABOUT VALUING EDUCATION." And there's my thing.

Have you noticed that? Have you noticed that the mantra THIS ISN'T ABOUT RACE always happens to come from a white person? I've heard this time and time again in my own life, in my own circles. Hey, before I knew better, I would say that! But now I know better, so I can't leave it at that. I hear the response over and over: "Oh, stop making this all about race. It's just perpetuating the problem if you talk about it. Let's get past it for once and stop pulling that card."And just like that, centuries of hurt are brushed aside as if they don't exist.

You know what I hear when I hear someone tell me that a public education equality issue has nothing to do with race? I have a vivid flashback to a certain movie called Mean Girls (you may have heard of it). Regina George, the ultimate queen bee, the recipient of all her high school's social privilege, stands up in the middle of a crowded auditorium of her fellow female classmates and says, "Can I just say that we don't have a clique problem at this school? And some of us shouldn't have to take this workshop, because some of us are just victims in this situation." And everyone in attendance rolled their eyes at her ignorance. She didn't see the issue. Why should she? She had only benefitted from those messed up social systems. My hope is that we can expect better from ourselves. My hope is that we can listen our way out of ignorance.

I don't want to be that person who says "Not me! Not my issue! Not my problem!" Let's not be blinded by privilege. I know I was for a long time. It was only when I set my pride aside, stopped getting defensive, and started listening that I could start to get a grasp on what is going on in this country of ours, particularly in our schools. After I listened, my eyes were opened to the truth that so many of our brothers and sisters live out every day.

Will you give it a chance? Take about 45 minutes in the next week or so and try it out. The link is below.

Let's not settle for not knowing. Let's not live in ignorance. Let's know better.

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/562/the-problem-we-all-live-with

An Easter Life

Today is one of the most exciting days. It's a day when we remember the best thing ever: the victory we have in Jesus because He is alive. It's Easter! I get goosebumps when I think about how exciting it is to be loved by a living God.

I think of so many wonderful things on days like today. I think of overwhelming hope in the face of what used to be overwhelming despair, special church services, favorite hymns, and ridiculous-but-delicious Cadbury eggs. I think of time with family. I think of happy Facebook statuses that take a one-day break from opinions, debates, and arguments for the sake of rejoicing in the good. I think of grace and gratitude and warm sunshine in my soul. I think of everything being new. Easter is great, is it not? 

The hard part, for me, though, is to transport the meaning of Easter to the rest of things. To the rest of the days of the year, even the very Monday that comes after it. If everything that I love about Easter is true today, then I must ask myself: Will Easter still be true tomorrow?

See, I've been weary lately. Not of my life, or the (kind, thoughtful, handsome, wonderful) husband, or the job, but of this world we Christians construct around ourselves sometimes. I've been weary of those debates and arguments we've all been having, in the name of protecting what we have. To be honest, I'm kind of sick of working through who is right and who is wrong and who is in and who is out. That is definitely a naive thing to say, because, I know...discourse! ...righteousness! ...principles! 

Of course it is easier to skip the tough discussions, hard questions, and honest dialogue. There is truly a place for those things. I believe that place happens to be face to face with some relationship-buliding behind it, but hard questions and tough discussions is where growth happens. I am such a sucker, though, for seeing the world in variations of gray rather than black and white, which makes it fun for my black-and-white-minded husband to try to figure out my weird brain. Poor guy.

And yet, I've felt this freedom, today, on Easter, from all of those hard discussions. He has risen. He is alive. Everything can be new again.

I've been tired of being so defensive. Do we really have to argue down every issue or political stance or debate that comes up against us? See, when I think of Easter and how it is so true, I feel this incredible weight off my shoulders that tells me Easter doesn't need fighting for; it speaks for itself. It just needs sharing. If we spent half as much of our time living out the redemptive meaning of Easter as we do typing up snarky rants against those who disagree with it, I think our message of grace would hit much more deeply. This is me preaching to myself as much as anyone: there is something pretty powerful about living a life of love rather than rationalizing a life of rhetoric. Maybe that's silly to you, but as a compulsive over-analyzer, it sounds heavenly to me.

I think about myself and see all the things that God can take and make brand new in me: my confidence, my wanderlust, my self-image, my insecurities, and my doubts. I have an overwhelming hope when I think about Easter intersecting with those things. The same power that allowed Jesus to live again is the power that can come into my life to work in all of those dark corners. He can make everything in me new again.

Do you think we could all be new again? Could the way we address each other, the way we judge one another, the things we assume of one another, all change and be made new, like it's Easter every day? Could we live an Easter life at work, at home, at church? Could we live an Easter life online with one another, too? Even when we're commenting on articles or pictures or blog posts? I really think we can.

As I head into the day after Easter, I'm going to try and see what it's like to spill a little of today's clarity and freedom into the rest of the week. Easter will still be true tomorrow, and every day after that. Hallelujah!

The Best Intentions

I was thinking to myself of how I had the itch to write something, then checked my blog and realized it's been two weeks since I've sat down to write anything with any kind of intention! No wonder the itch. No wonder the messy brain. No wonder the lack of focus. That's what you get for slacking, Anna. Do you have that one thing that you need to do in order to think clearly? Is it running? Or perhaps cooking? Maybe reading? Mine happens to be writing, even in silly little spurts like I am now.

I wouldn't dream of calling this post a piece of writing with intention, but it is a piece of writing nonetheless and it is mine. Even if it's unintentional. It's just going to blurt out however it comes. I have a random mess of jumbled thoughts in my brain that can only start with that very word: intentional.

Intentional is the favorite label that Christian-college-students use to describe everything. An intentional spiritual life. An intentional dating relationship. An intentional dorm life culture. Once, after I was out of college, I came into contact with this kind of thinking. I went on a few dates with a guy who said he wanted to "date me intentionally." I thought, "Well, that's nice! I'm not sure what that means. I would hope that you're dating me on purpose, but it sounds very respectful!" It turns out, in that case, that it was a weird reason to make dating kind of like what I would imagine "courting" to be and it was all too Duggar for my tastes. (No diss to the Duggars. I just can't weather the floor-length denim skirts. I like wearing pants! And tank tops! And I don't want 26 children!) All in all, "dating intentionally" felt a little weird...sort of like I was supposed to never cut my hair again and get really into quilting. It was over pretty quickly. Six months later, a guy named Brian asked me out. I suppose he did call me intentionally, but it wasn't all weird, and I liked how that worked out much better.

Unintentional food bliss at Dimo's in Wicker

I am trying, though, in my life, to be more intentional about things, so that stuff doesn't just happen for no reason, or by default, but rather by choice. My teaching, when I first started out, was not intentional. It was haphazard. Things just happened because they happened and there wasn't a lot of design going into the interworkings of my day. Now, my classroom is a place I absolutely love to be. My kids love it and I love it. I think through most of where I want everyone to be and how I want things to go. I'm clear with my kids about those intentions and we work hard on it together to follow through. This third year in the classroom has been like a breath of fresh air for me: I've realized that with just a few explicitly agreed upon intentions, my entire classroom culture can be successful both in academic growth and in the ways we treat each other.

Here's the two problems I'm finding, though, about being intentional. First, a lot of unintentional things are so fun! (See: random pizza place we tried in Wicker Park last weekend. Not in the plan, but definitely the best thing that could've happened.) Although I don't think that living with intention means that you can't embrace spontaneity. The second, and biggest problem? It takes so much work! I'm finding that this year's intentions with my teaching have been a success. Of course I have a million things yet to learn about teaching, but I feel really good about what I've put together and what I'm trying to do every day at work. Now ask me about my devotional life this year. Or the pile of unfolded laundry that's been growing into different shapes over the past few weeks. There are tons of great intentions for those areas of my life, too, but I just don't have the mental real estate available to manage them right now. I've been wanting to write more often, but the intentions there can't happen when my mind is swirling with guided reading plans, our solar system unit, and how to teach prepositional phrases to seven-year-olds. I'm in the middle of all of that and my overwhelmed mind just can't take the freaking 15 minutes or whatever it takes to fold the dumb laundry.

I don't think it's a surprise that so many wandering souls and hipster English majors are drawn to Thoreau's concept of living deliberately. There is something so captivating about the concept of knowing that you lived a life, and that the life didn't live you.

I'm hoping, that with time, God can start to work through my intentions to expand that mental real estate so that every movement of my day, from the laundry to the lessons to the letters I type, can be on purpose. Can be deliberate. Can be intentional. Maybe a big part of being in your twenties means excavating different spheres of life to make them closer and closer to being intentional. I'd like everything I do, my relationships, my work, my joy, my movements, my words, my breathing, to all be deliberate. Maybe that's not something I'll master by the time I'm out of my twenties, either. Perhaps it's more of a lifelong kind of thing.

I think it is a worthy endeavor.

Sunday Morning Epiphanies...on Monday Night

These are the words to one of my absolute favorite songs we sing at Covenant Presbyterian. Come to Chicago and check it out if you want a morning of meaningful, beautiful worship.

I love it, and hope you would too. Check out the lyrics, they speak to my life in so many ways:

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As a deer in want of water, so I long for you, O Lord.
All my heart and being falter, thirsting for your living word.
When shall I behold your face? When shall I receive your grace?
When shall I, your praises voicing, come before you with rejoicing?

Bitter tears of lamentation are my food by night and day. 
In my deep humiliation "Where is now your God?" they say.
When my sorrows weigh on me, then I bring to memory
how with throngs I would assemble, shouting praises in your temple.

O my soul, why are you grieving why disquieted in me?
Put your hope in God, believing he will still your refuge be. 
I again shall praise his grace for the comfort of his face;
he will show his help and favor for he is my God and Savior.

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Aren't they amazing words? I feel like this is the inner dialogue in my heart most of the time when it comes to my spiritual life. It seems not very brave or sure of myself at all, because, well, that is kind of what I am: not all that brave or sure of myself. I think that's why this one resonates so deeply with me. Here's the cycle I follow fairly perpetually:

I go from waiting impatiently: When shall I behold your face? When shall I receive your grace? Basically I get sick of being a faithful follower of Jesus and want to take shortcuts. Why can't I have a payoff? Where's my blessing? Why is this life so hard? Why can't these choices be easier? 

To despair and doubts: In my deep humiliation "where is now your God?" they say. Is God even there? Does He even still speak to us? Where is he? 

To snapping out of it: O my soul why are you grieving, why disquieted in me? Wait, Anna, you know this. God is here, and he is working. Just open your eyes. 

To being a little bit braver than before: He will show his help and favor for he is my God and Savior.  I can face today. If He's really in charge, I can do today. 

Rinse, and repeat. 

Anybody have the illusion that Christians have it all together? Or are any more confident in themselves than anyone else? Or know what to do when they feel tired, weary, unsure, and worried?

Nope.

I am just as confused, weak, and scared as anyone. I know better than to hope in myself. That's not going to do any good.

My hope is in God, my only refuge. He is the song I can sing. 

Good Dads

I was thinking about my first year of teaching. On one of my first days ever as a teacher, one of my little girls, T, was crying at dismissal. I bent down and asked her what happened. Another teacher came up to me and said, "Oh, Gesch, don't worry about it, she always cries at dismissal because one day last year nobody came to pick her up after school," kind of in a nonchalant, it-is-what-it-is type of way. I was kind of shocked that someone thought it was no big deal that a 7-year-old was crying for this traumatic reason, but it's an attitude I came across often: brushing off the real emotions of children. I don't say this as an offense to the heart of my coworkers; on the contrary, many of my coworkers in East Garfield Park were some of the most amazing individuals with the biggest hearts for kids I've ever met. More so, it's a comment on the intensity of life in my old school's neighborhood: if you got worked up every time a kid got a little worked up, you'd be burned out by Thursday. And you have to last all year. A few people didn't even last all year. But there was T anyway, tears streaming down her (beautiful - and I mean that - she really is a beautiful kid) face. And I started to think about that.

As it turns out, she was supposed to be picked up by her dad that night. Perhaps it was a miscommunication, maybe it was an innocent mistake between her mother and father in a game of phone tag about who was picking up T that night. I don't think her parents were terrible people, just people who had a lot on their plate and were capable of making mistakes, just like I am. I don't know all the details of why, exactly, she was forgotten. Being left at school was a watershed experience for T, as she continued to cry at dismissal every single day after school for the first few months of school. We would get into the routine of me hugging her for basically the whole time until someone picked her up. She wasn't forgotten today, whew. She could wipe her tears. Crisis averted.

It made me think of our world, and how mistakes, large or small, may be seemingly insignificant to us adults, but how deeply real they are to kids. It makes me think of kids like T, who was picked up at the end of a long 4 hours at a police station, 8:00 pm on a school night instead of the usual 4:00 pm, horrified that nobody was coming to get her, so uncertain of what was going to happen to her, defenseless against anything.

My dad. 

As I go on through this third year of teaching, I am, ever so slowly, sussing out what the last two years of my life have really meant. I'm just now starting to process the impact that my experience with Teach For America left on my heart. A lot of it, to be honest, is depressing to rehash and think through in hindsight. I think of T and how she buried her wet cheeks into my leg while I stood on the lookout for her car. I think of how she was afraid that her dad forgot about her. I think of dads in general and how rare it is to have a Good Dad in our world, to have a dad of character, who is there for you, who always comes through. I think of my dad and of Brian's dad, and how good they are, and how lucky we are to have them. It makes me despair a little bit that dads like ours are so rare, that so many in this world go without a Good Dad. It all gives me a shot of pessimism toward our world's future.

Then, I zoom out and get a little historical perspective on how my own dad came to be the person he is. He also came from a Good Dad, my Grandpa Gesch. A hardworking, strict, hilarious, intelligent, kind, principled, faithful man of integrity. An example. A Christian leader. That's who my Grandpa is. Where did my Grandpa learn to be all of those things? By watching his own father? Actually, not at all. I never met him, but I hear that his dad was a little bit of a tough dude. In an effort to avoid slandering my own ancestors, let me just say that my great-grandfather, my Grandpa's dad, was not setting forth a loving Christian example and leave it at that. And yet, God intervened anyway, and he grew up little Wilfred Gesch to be a leader, a teacher, a believer, a father, and the patriarch of a large faithful family of Christ-followers. It's amazing how good of a dad he has become. He didn't learn it through an earthly example. He learned to be a Good Dad through following the person of Jesus Christ, setting forth a chain of events leading to an immense impact on his (massive) family. I know that my Good Dad wouldn't be who he is without the influence of his own father. It is a beautiful cycle of God's love sent down through generations by the means of  Providence and Faithfulness and the mysterious work of the Holy Spirit. It is a beautiful testimony, my family.

So what does some German guy have to do with T, crying on the sidewalk, waiting for her dad to pick her up? These intersecting stories in my life give me a small dose of optimism; they point me to a larger picture of what is possible and the Hope we have in this dark world for progress, love, and redemption. My Grandpa Gesch didn't need a Good Dad on earth to understand how to be one himself. T doesn't need to wait for a Good Dad to come around. She doesn't need to have a perfect earthly example in her life to make the choice to begin something new in her own life, in her own family.

The truth is that T already has a Good Dad. He is of the heavenly sort, who already shows up and comes through when he says He will and will be faithful to His word. We all, T included, have access to this dad who will be consistent to His promises, true to what He says He will do, even if the earth gives way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea. This heavenly father is the kind of Good Dad who comes down to fill in the voids that human parents tend to leave conspicuously wide open. In a world full of imperfect dads and moms, it is beautiful to think of that.

So whether you have a bad dad, a mediocre dad, a good dad, or maybe even a dad who is gone from this earth, I'm sure you will be confronting that situation soon over the holidays. Family gatherings have a way of making us come to terms with our own dad and mom situation. Maybe it will be a happy time, but perhaps it will be difficult or even sad for you to think about the impact (or lack thereof) your dad has had on your life. Whatever that situation may be, perhaps it might help to think of T, and to know that you are not alone in shedding a tear or two. I hope that you and I can remember the Good Dad we all share who is faithful to us: a refuge, a strength, and an always-present help in trouble. 

On Choosing the Good

A lot of life is a choice.

I didn't always understand that. I came to believe, as I grew up as my late-teens/early-twenties self, that things happened in the world and things happened in your life and there was only one way to look at it: sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad, and there isn't much choice in the matter on my part. That, I acknowledge, was an incredibly passive, sad, view of the world (and of providence, for that matter). This view developed over my last few years of college and first year or so in the real world. Before then, I was always this hopeful, naive, idealist: brimming with optimism and wanting everything to have a shiny bow tied around it so we could all feel good about each other and everything.

And then, of course, I lived my life. Friends left me out. People let me down. Money didn't grow on trees. My faith was on and off, at best. My job was so stinking complicated and hard. I couldn't understand the disappointment, the fears, the hard stuff that came at me, and I saw it all in a very passive manner. How could I control it if someone wanted to be just plain mean to me? What choice did I have in that matter? A lot of stuff ended up being imperfect and un-tie-up-able-in-a-shiny-bow and it was a whiny, icky, mindset to have.

But what I'm coming to feel, and know, more and more, is that those things weren't and aren't totally hopeless, I would just refuse to see the hope. I had a choice: the good or the bad. Most of my adult life has been a jumbled up mess of those two things (this broken and beautiful world almost usually is) and I always, always, always have had that choice. Which side was I going to see?

Instead of seeing hurt feelings and broken friendship as the end-all-be-all to a season of my college life, I could have leaned into that and found a deeper sense of gratitude for the friends that loved me for who I was, who didn't make me jump through hoops to feel like I belonged, who didn't make me defend who I was at every turn. I could have chosen the good, and lived in hope, even if that was a hard choice to make.

Instead of crying in despair at lunch time (way too often) during that first year of teaching, I could have focused on the student who told me that she felt so smart when I talked to her, remembering that to that one girl, my year of struggling was worth it. I could have chosen the good, and lived in hope, even if that was a hard choice to make.

Looking back, there are many moments where I passively felt despair, when I instead could have actively made a better choice, a harder one, to see the good. To see the growth, and to feel the remaking of new things. Now, letsbereal, it is way easier to wallow in the all too common routine of gossiping, finger-pointing, and the throwing-up-of-hands at the injustice and wrongdoing that comes in our direction. It's easier to whine, choose to see the bad, choose to settle on the thing that makes us afraid, and call it a day. Looking back, though, I'm seeing that it was during those hard times when I was actually growing up, being prepared for the good and hard and real things that exist in this world. Those hard times, in hindsight, have not squandered my hope, they have built it up, and I'm starting to see small moments of that old optimist coming out again. I'm no fool to think that the happenings of this world are random. These days I'm starting to see the hand of Providence intertwining itself into my life in small and big ways all along. It makes me think of that one line, the line I can always say in those times of choice:

"What that person meant for evil against me, God meant it for good."

I think I want to be better at looking past the evil and choosing the good instead.

Lost Soul

This morning I was feeling a little off. A little lost. A little all over the place. I suppose I feel this way all the time and then not this way all the time, rotating back and forth between belonging and longing in some weird dance, but I was feeling off nonetheless. I often say to Brian, "Why am I in a funk?" only to snap back into reality and the present moment and fully living as myself a few days or hours later. Such is the life of a girl with a racing mind.

Maybe it was my 5:15 alarm, an hour earlier than I'm used to. Or the two bowls, four forks, and one spoon that I have in my apartment. Or my clothes in suitcases and boxes and bags and on the floor. Or the stop-and-go game my foot was playing with the breaks, joining the slow, irregular heartbeat of humanity flowing toward the heart of the city. Or the sense of odd stillness when I paced up Francisco Avenue to the front door of my school. 

Whatever the reason, today I'm feeling a little off, a little displaced. 

A little uncentered, or whatever the word that I'm looking for but can't seem to find is. Some things are in sync, and others are just not, and I guess that's okay and I guess that's what happens in this adult-world-where-there-is-no-prescribed-next-steps. I left my little home of Pilsen last weekend and I think that's what started spinning me off my center. I've found my thoughts taking random highways left and right. Last year, upon moving to the city, I missed the suburbs of my college life. I wanted so badly for a safely lit walk into my apartment, for a mall within a few minutes' distance, and free parking everywhere I went. Last week, in the city, I missed the country. I would've given anything to spend four days exploring by the river, walking on the beach, sitting around a fire, and staring up at a sky of stars. This week, back in the suburbs for the first time in two years, I missed the city. I wanted so badly to run by the lake, view the skyline, sit at my bar, and eat tacos bought from a food truck. My soul is confused because it doesn't know what and where to miss, and why. 

It's all due to this growing-up-thing, that I'm not very sure ever ends, in the end. I am all of these things swirling in my head, and I belong in all of these places, yet I don't know where to find my footing. Some people have that perfectly right idea of the future in 20-20 vision. I, in my very nearsighted fashion, must clumsily squint into the future, only to see a blur of colors and angles, no big picture coming into sight. I don't have a sense of place, yet. Is that something that eventually comes? 

In these next 36 days before that wedding day happens, I'll sort of be in this swirling cyclone. When Brian moves in after our honeymoon, maybe I'll start to see where this thing is going and maybe that picture, or at least corners and pieces of it, might start to come into focus after a small while. 

And yet, and yet, and yet...there is a small feeling that I get addicted to in these moments. I want this feeling, I long for it. Is that weird? Maybe so. Maybe there is something exciting about feeling a little lost; perhaps the very act of shaking it all up puts a thrill in my heart, like starting something new always does. It's a vicious cycle, but I tend to go back to feeling lost and displaced and seasons of feeling "off" over and over and over because it makes me question, makes me think, and makes me do things like stare into that future and wonder about what's coming around the corner. The fact that the object of my vision is a little fuzzy brings this uneasiness, yes, but it brings an excitement and challenge and freshness that I can't seem to live without. 

So I'm feeling a little off; I'm feeling a little lost. I'm waiting to see what comes into focus around the bend. 

The Elderly and Easter

The elderly and Easter saved my day today.

I have a lot on my mind right now. I guess this is more of a ranting-journal-entry-meaningless-nothing post than I usually write, but I guess that's just it: I have a lot on my mind. I have to make some life decisions as I grow up in my twenties, and I don't know what to do with all the stuff that's on my mind.

I have a lot of those things on my mind like salaries and how to make a living all while doing work that matters and helps people and allows you to sleep at night with a life lived well. "Is that too much to ask?" I say.

My mom recently told me that I'm ridiculously talented. I then responded by saying that she was my mom and so she of course had to say that and also then mom may I ask why none of my ridiculous talents will be making me tons and tons of money?

Why is it that passionate devotion to educational equality doesn't buy you a penthouse apartment in the loop? Why is it that spunk and an odd conviction to work yourself into the ground doesn't fund trips to Europe each year? Why is it that I sometimes feel that the work that matters the most gets paid the least? Why can't I be content to stare at stock market updates and spreadsheets, make predictions and investments with other people's money, and roll around in my piles of income at the end of each pay period?  Here I am, asking why why why, and then realize that I am acting like a whiny petulant child. Maybe it's a youngest-child syndrome, but I am that whiny child far too often. Asking all of those questions, I may as well have been stomping my foot in the ground with every word.

I'm better off than 99% of the world population, and yet why am I such an ungrateful human that the fact that I won't be grossing mass amounts of money in my life matters to me?  It shouldn't matter! But I guess that's what we are and guess that's what I am: an ungrateful human. And in our ungrateful, human nature, we start to cross our arms, stomp our feet, stick out the lower lip. and ask why why why we can't have more more more.  In the middle of one of these tantrums, I started to avoid real responsibilities of my life and scroll mindlessly through Facebook. And then I see a picture  posted by my uncle that snapped me out of my funk.

It was a picture of my Grandpa Gesch and my Great Aunt Nelda, both in the early stages of their 10th decade of life. I think, maybe, that they are perhaps two of the best people living on this planet at the present moment. Two people who never rolled in the piles of their income. Two people who didn't avoid heartbreak and hard times and tough decisions, but made choices based on what was the right thing to do as far as they could tell. Two people who know who made them and why they are here. Two people who even got to go to Europe once in awhile because they saved for it in advance. I doubt they ever threw egotistical, materialistic, selfish tantrums.

And then almost immediately afterward I see a reminder pop up on my calendar I set for myself on Easter, a quote about what wondrous love laid down itself for me. And how all I need to do, in a small token of gratitude in return, is accept this love and be happy and thankful and joyful for it. I saw another quote I had saved, about how the weary and heavy laden of this world should give up their burdens, because there is freedom from drowning deep down in the pressures of life. Easter happened, and that is the best thing ever. We live after this awesome Easter; we live in the truth of knowing that darkness is defeated and light is reigning and that piles of income, although fabulous as they can sound sometimes, are not the end goal in this thing.

So for me, for the whiny child that I am, I need a reminder every. single. day. about the truth of the Elderly and of Easter. I need reminders about the heritage of faith I have and the Easter-people that came before me. I need a reminder of where my roots are and how beautiful it is to have roots like that, grounded in knowledge of this after-Easter life, life lived in the light, so that I can grow forward and up and out.

Already

A friend told me a wonderful phrase on Monday. I had just finished a very open-ended question about why my children go through such intense and sad things; I was wondering how such unfairness and ugliness and meanness could happen to kids all while Jesus is supposed to be reigning in heaven right now. I know it's a bold question to ask, and one that I have no right to bring to the feet of someone in charge of the universe, and yet here I am and that's what I ask: How could you? Why does this happen to kids? Why can't I help them? Why are some things so difficult, evil, and sad?!?

That's when she said the phrase. She said, "Well, you know, it's kind of like that old saying that God is "Already But Not Yet." She asked if I had heard it before, and I had not. Already But Not Yet means that God is already working in this world, his goodness and providence is already hard at work holding it all together and sustaining its every moment, but that ultimate good that will one day descend just is not here yet. So we live in the middle. We live after already, but wait as we say "but not yet." It's not perfect yet. It's not complete.
I laughed and said that I think her phrase helps describe, more than any other word or expression I can possibly fathom, how I deeply, truly, and completely feel on most every common day.

Already. I feel God so much in the already. I am in awe at how he has directed my life and guided my footsteps. I am blown away by the blessings He brings into my life, both in my lifelong friends and new acquaintances along the way. It is hard to really believe that God has made a human being so wonderful as Brian Whartnaby, and that this wonderful person has decided to see and bring out wonderful things in me too. God is already working in my life, sustaining its every moment. I already see God in my kids' smiles and their small victories on a math worksheet. I already see God in my family and heritage of faith. I already see God in this crazy world where the human spirit triumphs over immense darkness over and over and over and over again.

But.

But not yet. I don't feel as close to God like I thought I would, not yet at least, through this intense two years of employment. The streets are not yet safe for kids to play. I do not yet see or feel harmony between races, churches, friendships, and relationships all around me. Our world is not yet joyful or kind or compassionate. I do not yet feel like a joyful, kind, compassionate person myself from time to time. I do not yet feel like I'm a good teacher, continually getting knocked down by one aspect of this crazy job after another. There is, in fact, an immense darkness in our world, cities, neighborhoods, and streets that has not yet been eradicated from our presence. We live it and breathe it, but it has not yet been sent away.

I told my friend that sometimes I feel the but not yet so, so, so deeply. I am disturbed by the but not yet in our world and sometimes even cry over the but not yet in my own life. I must be much too sensitive, I think, because the but not yet occupies my dreams, thoughts, and heart. I told her that it's rough to live here in the middle, to live here in the tension, of where Already meets But Not Yet.

I suppose, though, that most of our life is lived in the tension. The place between. The space in the middle.

We plod forward through every day, leaving those but not yet things in our wake, a mess of sadness and darkness and destruction, just keeping our eyes on the already, on what we know to be true, on the good news that God Reigns and holds us together and will see his work through to completion. We move forward, looking to the first word, Already, to take over the clause completely. We work and live and hope for the already day to come. Where we can say that the darkness has already been evicted and our sickness has already been cured. So here we are.

Let's keep going, because God is here. He is Already.

Row Your Boat

On Friday night this weekend Reese, Thomas, Brian, and I went to see Divergent in theaters for its opening night. (First off, I LOVED IT. I read a few reviews that complained about timing, but I thought they pulled it off perfectly. Tris and Four were awesome.) Besides the great movie, I got to sit next to Thomas, a great friend, and had a quick conversation that had me thinking about it long afterward. Thomas is one of those people from my college years who has the gift and talent of friendship. This kid will always be a good friend to people, and that is truly a cool kind of person. He asked me, "How's it going?" And I said, "It's fine, you know." And he said, "But yeah, how are you really doing?" And that of course, was the question that got us into the conversation. The one that always comes up when you ask one another, after college, how are you really doing?

We laughed about that question and came up with this kind of funny metaphor for our lives, and somehow Titanic seemed to fit. We spent four years in college, living fun lives, going to parties, making plans, sleeping in, and wasting time. We were on the big boat, without a care in the world. Then graduation hit, the boat sank, the party was over, and off we went into the dark, deep unknown. Each on our own little lifeboat. The friends we had aren't living next door or in the bunk below you, the workload has quintupled or sometimes septupled, and the schedule of working more-than-full-time is overwhelming. You stay in touch with your friends as best you can, by the little ways, but those little ways often include the social media methods, giving you the idea that other people are glamorously, beautifully, joyously, richly, living their lives to the fullest as free, happy, young twentysomethings. It's easy to look at all that from your little lifeboat and feel like you're the only one in a big, scary ocean.

 But then, Thomas pointed out that, from his perspective, he saw me doing things like moving to the city alone, working in a crazy career, all while going to grad school, which made it seem to him like I was being brave and living an exciting life. It made me remember two things. First, it made me remember that not everyone sees the piles of unfinished laundry, the empty refrigerator, and dark circles under my eyes like I do. Second, it made me remember to give myself a break, to remember that sometimes I am brave, and to keep on keeping on. My life's not perfect, but it's happening! It's going! Things are moving along, I'm learning, I'm working, I'm serving, and I'm making small little accomplishments along the way. Don't let yourself forget that, Anna.

I think we can all give one another a break. Not everyone is always glamorous, happy, or in a room full of friends. Everyone has a bad day and everyone is figuring out this whole working world thing. Everyone's rowing along in their own little lifeboat, just like you. I also think we can give ourselves a break. Unfinished laundry can mean making up new outfits, empty refrigerators can mean some fantastic Thai takeout, and there's always concealer for those under-eye dark circles from the lack of sleep. Give grace to one another and give grace to yourself. 

Because we aren't on the big boat anymore. We aren't living in the illusion that next weekend or the next party is all that there is. We're in our little lifeboats now, but it's better this way. I'd rather live this life out in the deep dark unknown, rowing along, not because it's always glamorous, but because it's real. It's no longer a frivolous life, and it's no longer boringly superficial. Finally, out on this lifeboat, life has become a little more significant.

We have to keep on rowing our boat. And I suppose even if we fall overboard from time to time, then we'll have to just keep swimming. Off into the waters, moving forward and making waves.

The Great Debates

Sometimes I look around and see the things people argue about. The things that matter most to people. The important things. I was moved to think about these things when I happened upon a status of someone that I know from back home. It was a debate, of course, as they stage in small towns often.

Except this debate WAS ABOUT CHICKENS. And I'm not kidding.

The small town adjacent to the minuscule town from which I come is considering a proposal to allow homes in the town to have a coop of 6 or fewer chickens if they so choose. Some people take the "it's organic and healthy and whyshouldntpeoplebeallowedtodowhattheywantaslongasitdoesntbotherotherpeople" side, while others take the "it's smelly and weird and iliveintownsowhydontyougobacktothecountrywhereyoucamefrom" side.

So that's happening. And the debates are still raging.

And then I scrolled a little further down my news feed, where I saw a status from someone who lives in Chicago, who couldn't get down her block thanks to a police barricade because it was the first day of the year with moderately warm weather, which is wonderful and a long time coming for most of us. But of course around here warm weather means that it's extremely dangerous, because the warmer the weather, the more violent the streets become. And there's debates there, too. Big ones. About who is at fault for all of this and how to make it better or at least how to help. And there are more than just two sides to that great debate.

But the violence is still happening and the debates are still raging.

Oh this life of ours. And this world of ours.

I kind of maybe believe that everything is important, or at least I definitely believe that most things, big and small, are important, and if they don't seem important to you well damn it that doesn't mean it's not important to somebody. Every perspective matters, from main street to wall street to the street-you-avoid-if-you're-being-honest-with-yourself. People care about their lives and they should care! I hope those in the great Chicken Debate of 2014 understand that I actually believe it is a valid thing to discuss chicken coops. Let the debates rage, I suppose. But. But. (I have that dastardly conjunction after every complete thought I've ever had. It's a curse.)

How do we go about these great debates? Whether they be about chicken coops or crime rates?  Do we put the needs of others above our own? Do we look to the interest of others? Do we, in humility, value others above ourselves? Do we love one another?

I'm, of course, asking these questions to myself. Just when I'm tempted to type a comment on a heated status or respond to a misjudgment spewed hatefully in the labyrinths of crime watch blogs, I try to ask myself this stuff. Usually it results in me refraining from the comment I intended to write. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the process of these questions prompts me to go write a silly little blog post like the one you happen to be reading. Because when people come to a consensus or at least agree to disagree concerning the chicken coops or the crime rates, at the end of the day, we're still neighbors down the hall, down the street, and down the block; we are still members of this crazy world and live and work and love together in the middle of it.

I guess the important things, underneath all that chicken wire, in the end, are the people after all.

Hungry

Here is an excerpt from Shauna Niequist's book, Bread and Wine, an amazing read. I borrowed it from a friend and was immediately addicted; she writes directly to me, or at least it feels that way. This part of the book is from her chapter entitled "Hungry." It resonated with me, and, if this topic is something that you've had in your life, I hope it touches you too. 

Lynne Rossetto Kasper, the host of The Splendid Table, says there are two kinds of people in the world: people who wake up thinking about what to have for supper and people who don't. I am in the first camp, certainly. But it took me about twenty years to say that out loud. 

I've always been hungry. Always. I remember being hungry as a small child, as an adolescent girl, as an adult, and just after I locate those feelings and memories of hunger, in my peripheral vision another thing buzzes up, like a flash of heat or pain: shame. Hunger, then shame. Hunger, then shame. Always hungry, always ashamed.

I have always been on the round side of average, sometimes the very round side and sometimes just a little round. I was a round-faced, chubby baby, a little girl with soft, puffy cheeks, a teenager who longed to be skinny and never was, who routinely threw all her pants on the floor and glared at them like enemies. A woman who still longs to be skinny and never is, and who still, from time to time, throws all her pants on the floor and glares at them like enemies. After all these years, the heaviest thing isn't the number on the scale but the weight of the shame I've carried all these years - too big, too big, too big. 

I've always wanted to be thinner, and I've always loved to eat, and I felt betrayed by my appetites. Why couldn't I be one of those people who forgets to eat? Or who can't eat a bite when she's stressed or sad? When I'm stressed or sad, I eat like a truffle pig, hoping that great mouthfuls of food will make me feel tethered to something, grounded, safe. And I eat when I'm happy too - when the table is full of people I love, when we're celebrating.

My appetite is strong, powerful, precise, but for years and years, I tried to pretend I couldn't hear it screaming in my ears. It wasn't ladylike. It wasn't proper. So I pretended I wasn't hungry, pretended I'd already eaten, murmured something about not caring one way or the other, because I was afraid that my appetites would get the best of me, that they would expose my wild and powerful hunger. 

….

Part of being a Christian means practicing grace in all sorts of big and small daily ways, and my body gives me the opportunity to demonstrate grace, or to make peace with imperfection every time I see myself in the mirror. On my best days, I practice grace and patience with myself, knowing that I can't extend grace and patience if I haven't tasted it. 

I used to think the goal was to get over things - to deal with them once and for all, to snap an issue closed like slamming a locker door, washing my hands of it forever and always. What I know now after all these years is that there are some things you don't get over, some things you just make friends with at a certain point, because they've been following you around like a stray dog for years. That's how this is for me. I've been catastrophizing about my weight since I was six. I've lost the pounds and gained them, made and abandoned plans and promises, cried tears of frustration, pinched the backs of my upper arms with a hatred that scares me. 

And through all that, I've made friends and fallen in love, gotten married and become a mother. I've written and traveled and stayed up late with people I love. I've walked on the beach and on glittering city city streets. I've kissed my baby's cheeks and danced with my husband and laughed till I cried with my best friends, and through all that it didn't really matter that I was heavier than I wanted to be.

The extra pounds didn't matter, as I look back, but the shame that came with those extra pounds was like an infectious disease. That's what I remember. And so these days, my mind and heart are focused less on the pounds and more on what it means to live without shame, to exchange that heavy and corrosive self-loathing for courage and freedom and gratitude. Some days I do just that, and some days I don't, and that seems to be just exactly how life is. 

Back to Lynne Rossetto Kasper. I wake up in the morning and I think about dinner. I think about the food and th epeople and the things we might discover about life and about each other. I think about the sizzle of oil in a pan and the smell of rosemary released with a knife cut. And it could be that that's how God made me the moment I was born, and it could be that that's how God made me along the way as I've given up years of secrecy and denial and embarrassment. It doesn't matter at this point. What matters is that one of the ways we grow up is by declaring what we love.

I love the table. I love food and what it means and what it does and how it feels in my hands. And that might be healthy, and it might be a reaction to a world that would love me more if I starved myself, and it's probably always going to be a mix of the two. In any case, it's morning and I'm hungry. Which is not the same as weak or addicted or shameful. I'm hungry. And I'm thinking about dinner, not just tonight, but the next night and the next. There are two kinds of people, and I'm tired of pretending I'm the other. 

The Fountain

I have hardly read such a beautiful thing in my life. From Sunday morning:


If we seek redemption, it lies in his passion; if acquittal, in his condemnation; if remission of the curse, in his cross; if satisfaction, in his sacrifice; if purification, in his blood; if reconciliation, in his descent into hell; if mortification of the flesh, in his tomb; if newness of life, in his resurrection; if immortality, in the same; if inheritance of the Heavenly Kingdom, in his entrance into heaven; if protection, if security, if abundant supply of all blessings, in his Kingdom; if untroubled expectation of judgment, in the power given to him to judge.

In short, since rich store of every kind of good abounds in him, let us drink our fill from the fountain, and from no other.

- John Calvin

Sunday Morning Epiphanies

Sometimes I am so moved by something in church that it takes over my brain for the rest of the day, maybe even the following week. We sang this poem in church this morning as a Confession and it was incredible. It is one of those things that struck me, and, although it is admittedly long, I hope you don't think of me as some church weirdo, but rather that it's something you can identify with as well. I took the liberty of highlighting my favorite verses. I love finding those moments of awe on what should, by all accounts, just be a regular Sunday morning. 

----------

The Grieved Soul

By: Joseph Hart

Come, my soul and let us try, For a little season,

Ev'ry burden to lay by, Come and let us reason.

What is this that cast you down, Who are those that grieve you?

Speak and  let the worst be known; Speak and God will hear you.

O, I sink beneath the load of my nature's evil!

Full of emnity to God; Captived by the devil.

Restless as the troubled seas, feeble, faint, and fearful'

Plauged with ev'ry sore disease, How can I be cheerful?

Think on what thy Saviour bore in the gloomy garden.

Sweating blood at every pore to procure thy pardon!

See him stretched upon the wood, bleeding grieving crying,

Suffering all the wrath of God, groaning, gasping, dying!

This by faith I sometimes view and those view relieve me;

But my sins return anew, these are they that grieve me.

Nothing good within me dwells; E'en God's love rejected,

Have not I, if any soul, cause to be dejected?

Think how loud thy dying Lord cried out, "It is finished!"

Treasure up that sacred word, whole and undiminished;

Doubt not he will carry on, To its full perfection,

That good work he has begun; Why, then, this dejection?

Faith when void of works is dead; This the Scripture's witness;

And what works have I to plead, who am all unfitness?

All my powers are full of greed, blind to truth, unholy;

If from death I'm fully saved, Why am I not healthy?

Pour not on thyself too long, lest it sink thee lower;

Look to Jesus, kind and strong, mercy joined with power;

Every work that thou must do, will thy gracious Saviour

For thee work, and in thee too, for his laud and honor.

Jesus' precious blood, once spilt, I depend on solely,

To release and clear my guilt, This then makes me holy.

He that bought me on the cross, can control my nature;

Fully purge away my dross; Make me a new creature.

----------

Amen. 

Advent

Yesterday was Christmas. It finally got here.

It wasn't the usual explosion of cheer that December 25th brings. I'm 24 now, and so it was a chill and happy day at home. My brother, Heidi, parents, and I opened a few presents. We ate a steak dinner at home, then we all took naps. We talked about the coming year and made a few plans. We watched a movie. I never actually left the house. It was a long and peaceful day. But I'm still waiting for something.

This year, the Christmas season has been characterized not by the day of December 25th, but by the waiting. The leading up to something. The patience. The Advent season. For good things to come (more on one especially wonderful thing soon), some necessary things to come, and some other things that I'm not sure if they're coming at all.

My church really follows a cool tradition during Advent, with reverent readings and candle lightings and the whole shebang. Sometimes, in times like those, I feel the wait for what's to come to be an exciting and almost magical thing. But for the most part, in the day-to-day, I'm weary in the waiting. The term Advent, in itself, means the arrival. So I suppose I'm waiting on another arrival.

Let me tell you what I mean. As much as I am a teacher on Christmas break who does not want to even think about school, this whole waiting thing actually happens to be all about my life at school.

This year, much more than last year at least, I am aware of the challenges and home lives that make up the realities for my kids every day. I'm asking more questions and am overwhelmed at what six and seven-year-olds are accepting as normal, not because they want to, but because they have to, because they don't know anything different.

Parents in jail, parents with cancer, parents who aren't around, 

parents who are, parents who were shot last week.

Food that isn't there, gas tanks and bank accounts that aren't getting filled, 

presents that weren't wrapped.

Missed rent checks, missed job interviews, missed bus rides. 

Missed payments and the cold that kicks in when the heat is shut off.

Shootings down the street, sirens up the block, 

and bed bugs on the floor where he sleeps.

Cuss words and candy bars for dinner.

And this is the world we have for our kids? This what they wait for? 

And I know I should be positive, not thinking about only the struggles and challenges when there are so many good things to see and be thankful for, but at times waiting for this Advent can be overwhelming. I'm longing for it to be resolved, but here I sit, patiently looking ahead. I feel like Lucy when she was told that it's always winter and never Christmas.

Of course, in my own stupidity, I get stretches of time where I think I can fix things. Where I can patch it up. Where I can speed up the Advent, hurry along the arrival of The Way Things Are Supposed To Be. It's hard for a girl who was brought up as a Dutch Reformed kid to realize that even diligent work towards a redeeming cause might not produce the results that you want. So here I still wait. In one week and a half I'll go back to school and walk past the litter on the street right back up to my classroom. And I'll still be working and waiting for that world I want for my kids.

A perfect little thing happened on Christmas yesterday. My Grandpa Gesch was asked to pray before lunch. He can hardly maneuver around my house anymore and needs my dad to cut up his steak for him. But one thing he'll always be able to do really well, no matter his age or physical limitation, is pray. And he said, on Christmas, that God should help us remember to be loving to each other, to show kindness every day, and to take care of each other by giving each person around us what he or she needs. It was beautiful. And while I can't do many things, one thing I can do while I wait is to love my kids. I can't fix their entire world, although I will continue to do everything I can to try, but here in the meantime, in the midst of the waiting, I have my mission: I want to love. I want to be kind. I want to take care of people. That's the stuff that helps make the wait worthwhile.

The Search

These days I'm steeped in research.

Ever since joining Teach For America and starting this crazy ride of teaching in urban education, I've been bombarded with the research. The research on poverty. The research on racial systemic injustice. The research on boys and girls and who learns better in traditional public schools and who is favored in science class. The research on college readiness exams. The research on being ready for second grade. The research on unlimited varieties in curriculum and why certain ones are better than others. The research on phonics. The research on higher-order thinking. The research on vocabulary acquisition. The research on rewarding kids for success and moving towards intrinsic motivation. The research on character development and social-emotional learning. And a lot more.

In the past two years I've read countless articles, about 10 books, and a lot more blogs on what it means to be in this tough but important work of serving in low-income schools and the children in my community.

And with all that, I've still got so much to learn, so much to know, and so much more to understand.

I still can't wrap my mind around what it is going to take to work with people in my school's communities and others like it in order to have a holistic and healthy renewal of poverty-ridden areas so that children everywhere can grow up to be who they were meant to be; so that places like the West Side of Chicago can be places of hope, fairness, and life. There is so much that goes into an effort like that, and I am made aware every day that it needs to be an all-hands-on-deck approach: no single white girl driving down from Wisconsin is going to change anything unless she is working with all kinds of other people who are working for the same things, teaching her so many things in the process. But.

But. But. In all of the research, in all of the social programs, in all of the new ideas and curricula, there seems to be something missing. Something that I have a hard time articulating, but something that I know in my guts has to be there for anything good to happen or anything new to grow.

Here's what I mean. One Thursday night, during grad class last spring, we had a guest speaker come in to talk about social-emotional learning. She was promoting a curriculum that she has used and helped develop and was now pitching to us young teachers. Don't get me wrong, it was a good curriculum I am sure, complete with group problem-solving and peace-keeping strategies, as well as activities to practice and foster a sense of kindness and community. Her curriculum was, of course, backed by all the research in the world. During her talk, I made a note of some of her quotes that particularly struck a chord with me:

"Teach all the math and reading that you want, but we've gotta change what's going on on the inside if we want any actual change for our students."

"I'm educating my kids for life. I'd lose a few points on those standardized test scores if it meant making time for social-emotional learning."

"This kind of stuff is what matters in marriages and families and workplaces and life."

And as I read those quotes over again, I am struck again with how much I agree. Recently I just finished reading a book called "How Children Succeed," by Paul Tough that I really loved. It spoke to the skills that most successful children have in common. Surprisingly, it's not their high test scores or exemplary IQ. It is their character: their grit, curiosity, social awareness, and integrity. So teachers, leaders, and parents should all be working to teach and develop those skills in our children. And again, I was struck with how much I agree. It was completely research-based, of course, with study after study across multiple disciplines backing his supposition.

But. Again, I felt, for some reason, that all of this is research missing something. The research is, for certain, searching for something. I like the word research and its prefix "re" for the simple fact that it could mean to search again. We know that the word implies that someone is searching systematically for an answer. And all of this research in the educational and social and political world in which I exist is looking for something to answer all of our issues, all of our challenges, and all of our struggles. What is the answer? How do we help people? How do we help kids? Every year or month or even day, it can seem, the newest and latest thing comes out from the newest and latest research. A new answer to our problems. A new solution for the ills of the West Side. And while they are all very positive and even often have results and data to back up their success, there is one side that is left out.

For all of their searching and researching and searching again, I think the scientists, sociologists, and educators are missing something very important about children, and for that matter, about people in general. I wonder if they consider that a child is someone who is more than just a human, physically here with physical needs, and a physical brain that needs to understand how to achieve character and academic growth and adequate test scores so that they can maneuver about their social environment to make their own way forward. I wonder about the idea that a student has a soul, a spiritual side, that needs to be cared for; I wonder about how people expect to "change what's going on on the inside," as that well-meaning guest speaker purported to do. Is it we teachers who really change what's going on on the inside, the deep-down inside? Am I the one with the ultimate ability to heal the spiritual and emotional traumas of my children?

Or is there another answer for which we are searching? Is there another way to which I can point that fills in the missing piece to the puzzle of helping and working with low-income communities? Is there a possibility that the cycles and roundabouts of finding new and good ways to serve kids are missing something in their important search? Every day that I spend with my kids gives me the conviction that there is, indeed, more to it when it comes to children. When it comes to people. When it comes to our world. My kids, to me, are living proof that there is a never-ending depth and mystery to the meaning of what it means to be human, of what it means to have a soul. The research is well-meaning and even effective and helpful. But the search that should be taken up on behalf of my kids' souls must be addressed. It has to be. I guess all of this doesn't mean that I have an answer.

But I might have an idea of where to look for one. The search always leads me there, leads me to the same place, leads me to the very start where my hope and love and faith began. I wonder if the search will ever end. I don't know that it will. But I'm gaining conviction that I know exactly where The Search needs to start.

Press Pause

It is really here. Fall Break.

Those words have such a delicious taste as I type them on my old and on-its-last-legs MacBook. I'm sitting at an outside table at a Pizza-by-the-slice joint on Main Street of a quaint little town called Safety Harbor and this is my view: 

Yes, those are palm trees you are seeing! I'm in Florida visiting the one and only Hannah Joy Schaap for four days while my students and I get a break from school and one another. Hannah is just one of those girls - full of adventure and saturated with independence - and catching up with her is like a gulp of fresh air. This chick takes trips to Kenya, bikes across the country, and moves her whole life from the midwest on her own to become a fabulous first-grade teacher in Florida. She has her own opinions and ideas and follows them. She takes time out of life's routine to enjoy herself. On top of all of that she has such a caring and encouraging and happy and giving heart. She is a year younger than my grade in college, but I look up to her for all of this. So here I am, in the sunshine and so so thankful for this time off. I needed it. 

October, as I'm sure all teachers might tell you, is the perfect time for a week off. We all seem to get in a funk at this time in the school year.  Room 25 and I have completed the first quarter of our school year together and as we are feeling the days start to get shorter and the nights stretch out to get longer, fall beak is just what the doctor ordered. 

I realized in the last month that, although I was busy and my life was full of great things to do, I wasn't always making time for the good things that make me feel centered, balanced, and, frankly, like me. Between Brian's friends and mine, we've had 5 weddings in 4 weeks. The weekends have been devoted to roadtripping and gift buying, and the weekdays devoted to catch-up. I haven't, in the chaos, made the time to write in my journal, write on my blog, read books I like, or read the Bible. Of course, I've had the time. We all have the time. But when I didn't make the time, the time that I had was swallowed up in other little things. I was staying up late to cram, pressing snooze, rushing my mornings, saying yes to everything that I should do, and no the things that I need to do. I think we all do that in different weeks and months and times of our life, and all that we need is a day, a morning, or even a few minutes to hit pause and take stock. 

When I think back to last year's fall break, I was dreading the return to school as soon as the break began. I was worried and anxious and nervous and hated going to work and overwhelmed at this unbalanced life I was leading. I suppose I still have to work on that balance, of course, but I like where I'm at much more this time around. This year, on fall break, I'm doing a little catch-up on school work of course, but I'm looking ahead to the coming quarters of school, changes in seasons of weather, time with people I love, and more open weekends with contentment and even a little excitement. 

Maybe my life won't ever be balanced, but I can try in the middle of it all to find moments to pause and look around. I can try to find those moments of clarity and reorder the priorities again; to tidy up my to-do list by discarding a few should-dos and adding a few more need-to-dos. 

Growing Up Strong

I spent an amazing Saturday morning on June 1st doing an amazing thing. It wasn't anything special that I did, but it was the event that was truly remarkable. I was a running buddy for a third grade girl from my school at the Girls on the Run 5k event in Toyota Park (where the Chicago Fire play!) as the finale to the program she completed this spring which focused on fitness, healthy lifestyles, and building self-esteem.

Girls on the Run is a really cool organization created to support girls as they grow up in becoming confident, passionate, and healthy as they pursue their dreams. It sounds lofty and even a little silly, but after experiencing the 5k, I've really been thinking about how necessary organizations like this are. They want girls to grow up strong and to go conquer the world. My running buddy did an amazing job (she is NINE years old and only asked me to walk three times during the whole race!) and we had a blast. The event's atmosphere was fun, encouraging, and completely supportive. People were yelling "You can do it!" "You're so great!" "You're beautiful!" "Keep going!" the whole way. At times it dawned on me that my nine-year-old running buddy may have only been hearing those words for the first time in her life right there at that race. It's not often that my kids have people cheering them on, believing in them, staking bets on their side. In the midst of all the triumph, it set a bittersweet note in my heart, as I know this one optimistic Saturday morning is very different from the world where that same nine-year-old girl actually lives.

My mind has been full of this kind of stuff ever since that race. (Here's one blogger who's really insightful on this particular issue who I have been reading lately.) We need more events like this and messages like these sent out to little girls. Now I'm no tiara type, and I'm hardly one to claim Girl Power as reason to celebrate anything. I was perfectly happy to be the only girl on my soccer team in fourth grade; after all, the boys were more aggressive and I liked that better anyway. But I do see the crazy junk that goes into the minds of girls in America every day. I see my second grade girls hike up their shirts so they're showing some skin and have seen notes passed with hyper-sexualized language that no seven or eight-year-old should even know. I, just like any girl, sometimes have a hard time remembering that it's who I am and not how I look that is the truly important thing. The messages out there for us are messed up. And being a girl is an awesome yet confusing life. Thanks to my parents, friends, and God, I don't have to struggle with the confusion quite as intensely as lot of other girls I know. And girls don't have the monopoly on this kind of confusion. The false messages are everywhere for everyone. Money, power, appearance, sexuality, materialism, and popularity are brainwashed into the mind of every kid with a pair of eyes to see a billboard, TV screen, video game, iPhone, or window display in the mall. Someone has got to start setting the record straight. 

We need more people telling all kids that they are created for a purpose, not for a picture frame. We need more people helping kids work on their brains to work for their dreams. We need more people who help kids develop confidence, not in some skewed sense of popularity, but in their values, beliefs, and sense of self. 

We need more people who help kids to grow up strong. 

First World Problems?

You've all heard of first world problems. There are pictures all over the internet making fun of the frivolous stuff we Americans like to complain about: "My GPS made me drive through the ghetto," "I can't hear the TV while I'm eating crunchy chips," and the like. Let'sbereal...we've also all heard the college freshman with the most free time they'll ever have in their lives complain about studying for their finals for general education classes. I often feel like anything I complain about is really just a first world problem. The hassle of getting a city parking sticker for my car, the confusion when my credit card company replaces my card for me after a fraud attempt, and my lack of time to go to the gym that makes my monthly gym membership a nice little donation to the fitness center where I'm supposed to be going. But then there are the things that I really do struggle with, and when it comes to asking for help or admitting that I'm having a hard time, I feel guilty doing so. This is something I've found to be weird when it comes to my transition to adulthood and the working world and my first year with Teach For America.

Let me start by saying: I have a good life. I love this amazing city. I love the church I found here. I love my apartment and roommates and neighborhood. I love my friends and the way they are there for me even with all the changes that come with post-college life. I am employed right out of college doing meaningful work, which is something that was extremely important to me when it came to finding my first job. I have enough money to take care of what I need and even a little extra to buy yet another pair of colored skinny jeans when I feel the need to add to my collection.

All that said, because of all that goodness, I've had a hard time figuring out what to do with my uncertainties, struggles, pressures, and stress. When there are families breaking up, hearts breaking open, and bombs going off, who am I to ever be discontent or overwhelmed with anything?

If I'm going to be real, I have to say that the daily juggling act of balancing my job and life have been overwhelming this year. Maybe some people are just better at it than I am right out of college, but I just can't keep all the pins in the air on my own without dropping them all in a clattering mess from time to time. I dropped them yesterday after school, which resulted in a weepy ridiculous phone call to my mother after she innocently asked me for my credit card number so she could sort out a logistical detail for me.

This teaching gig at my school has been really hard on me. I run into this issue every family gathering, friend reunion, and introduction to a new person. Should I tell them that I'm invincible, or should I admit that sometimes I feel completely incapable? Instead of admitting that I need help or prayers or a break sometimes, I feel like I have to have a big fat Teach-for-America-peppy-social-justice-girl smile on my face at all times. I just think: Positivity in the face of adversity. Finding the bright spots instead of focusing on the negatives. Putting on a happy face instead of freaking out. But all that does, in reality, is to lose that vulnerability that makes you a human being. It's okay to struggle. I'm learning the hard way that admitting you are having a hard time is not complaining, it's being honest. This is so important because being overwhelmed leads you to the one who holds it all in His hands. Even if you are a white employed girl with a good life. Having your material needs met does not mean that you will not go through spiritual storms. There's no time for guilt over first world problems. Because admitting that you aren't handling it all is a testament to the truth that we can't handle it all alone. We were never meant to handle it all alone. We aren't expected to be perfect. We aren't expected to be invulnerable. We are expected to be faithful through the trials. When we admit the struggles, and we let Him carry them instead, we can keep moving forward. We can take the next step.

And that's a a freeing feeling.