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.
  

Old School

I was just reflecting today on old people. Okay I'll be kinder and say "my elders."

I don't know what it is, but I'm just feeling thankful for the silver-haired-no-nonsense-full-of-wisdom types lately. Whether that's my fabulous grandparents or others. I think it was probably my Seminar class for my grad program through Dominican University tonight. Our Seminar class is taught by a nun named Sister Mary. She is definitely rocking the patterned vest ensemble on the reg and I have a sneaking suspicion that she might smoke. I hope she does, in a weird way. (I don't know why I would find joy in the knowledge that an old lady nun takes cigarette breaks, but I do. I definitely do.) She leads us for class one Wednesday a month, mainly spending our class time facilitating discussions about what is going on in our classrooms and peppering in her own advice from time to time.

Let me tell you, as a TFA-er, I wade through my fair share of PC BS. If you need me to explain PC, that means Political Correctness. I hope you can figure out the other abbreviation. It's a constant. I understand Teach For America's need to tread carefully as they enter communities and school districts where they aren't necessarily welcomed, and so they, as a non-profit, need to say the right things at the right time about things like, say, the Chicago Teacher's Union. They would never refer to our schools as "the worst in Chicago," for example, because that wouldn't be politically correct. It's with good reason that they have well-worded things like vision statements, theories of change, and mission statements.

Not so different after all. 

Old people, on the other hand, just get to say stuff. Sister Mary threw it out there tonight and said, plain and simple: "You guys are the best and the brightest. You are in the worst schools in Chicago. That's right where you should be, because the system stinks. It needs fixing. And the only way it will start to get better is if people like you who actually care are there doing the job. Keep it up. Don't give up."

Talk about a moment. A nun just told me not to give up. Day = made. (And this is on a day when my kids forgot how to stand in line, sit on the carpet, and work in partners and chose to act all cray instead. So this was a great thing to hear.) And while the way she says things, her technological know-how (we never have internet up in the class...ever), and that patterned vest she was donning might all be a little out of date, I appreciate it.

There must be something about growing older that makes you cut the BS. That makes you just say things when you want to say them. The thing I love about our grandparents' generation (Sister Mary seems to be included) is not only that they say things, but that they still believe in the things they say. They mean them. There's not a passive aggressive agenda. They aren't disenfranchised or burned out. Sure, they can come out grumpy sometimes, but at least it's all straightforward. They've put in their time and have seen crazy things and been through struggles. They've been around for awhile. And the great ones still believe that change and goodness can happen. If you can make a 23-year-old-first-year-teacher feel positively about being in grad classes on a Wednesday night after teaching all day, you must be doing something right. So to all those old people and nuns in America, and particularly old nuns in America, I salute you. Keep saying things. Keep meaning them. We all need to hear it.