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

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. 

Spiritual Amnesia

I've known many people who suffer from amnesia, dementia, Alzheimer's, or something of the sort throughout my life. The affliction of forgetfulness in the most cruel and confusing ways. It's affected my family and friends; how terrible for them, we all say, that this has happened. But I've come to believe over the past couple of years that I suffer from it too, in my own way. I have Spiritual Amnesia of the worst kind.

Let me begin by telling you some things I know to be true, deep down to the insides of my bones: God takes care of me. God helps me through the challenges of my life. God has never and will never let me down. These are the facts.

God proves these facts to me time and time again. He has put friends, people, circumstances, opportunities, blessings, and too-good-to-be-true-coincidences directly in my path time and time and time again.

 I was feeling lost and directionless during my senior year of college, wanting to do meaningful work but not knowing where to start. He put Teach for America on my radar and I sailed through the three-month application and interview process, disbelieving that I kept getting promoted to the next round time after time.

I was feeling lonely and weird when I lived in a new city in a new apartment. He put friends, roommates, an amazing church, and family right in my way to surround me with intelligent, talented, kind people. 

I was feeling sick of the dating game and so over the ups and downs of heartbreak after heartbreak. He put Brian Edward Whartnaby in my life, completely out of the blue, for the last first date of my life.

I felt defeated and burned out from teaching at a charter school in CPS. He put connections and last-minute Skype interviews right in my path to bring me to a fantastic community and the amazing group of 24 kids that are in my class at Calvin Christian School. 

All of this has happened to me in the last few years! And that's only the big stuff! What about the little stuff?

What about finding my thoughtful, wise, and caring mentor at church? What about generous donors who funded a technology project I started for my classroom? What about the joy I find in cooking for the first time in my life? What about the new brothers and parents and relatives I gained when I joined Brian's family, and the love and support I feel from them? What about awesome trips I've gotten to take? What about the love and friendship of friends that continues to grow through the different stages of life? What about the encouraging phone calls from my dad that come at just the right time? What about the proud sight of a second grade Reader's Theater performance? What about my newfound ability to wake up at 5:00 a.m. on a consistent basis? What about finally having a school day that goes exactly as you planned it? What about the simple joy of seeing Brian working at the kitchen table when I come home from work each day? What about a sunny day with blue skies making for a crisp and perfect October day? 

What about all those things? They didn't just happen. They weren't coincidence. They were carefully orchestrated, put in my path to prove to me, yet again, that I am not alone or without help.

And yet, in spite of all of those things, I forget. I forget God.

I get bogged down in my work at school. At the fact that I am on my third year in a row of teaching a new grade-level, a new curriculum, and a new school. At the fact that I'm tired and weary down to my toes at the end of every day. At the fact that I feel guilty for being a walking zombie when I'm supposed to be a supportive, attentive spouse. At the piles of ignored laundry and dishes. At the fact that I haven't had energy to go on a run since the school year started. I get bogged down in it all. Even in my silly first world problems and superficial insecurities, I get bogged deeply down in the midst of it all and I forget. I forget all of those things that happened and more. I look up and ask God: Why don't you ever help me? Why don't you look out for me? Why am I always fending for myself? Why am I alone in this? I forget that God has always helped me; God has always come through.

And then it hits me. I have a lucid moment of awakened understanding in the middle of my complaining, exhaustion, and piles of papers: I am with you. I love you. I always take care of you. Don't you remember, Anna? Have you already forgotten?

This weekend I was with my mom's side of the family for a wonderful and rambunctious reunion. One of the best things about this side of the family is the life and memory of my cousin Nikki. She passed away 5 years ago from brain cancer, but was a big influence on all of our lives in lots of different ways. Her motto, which I was reminded of this weekend, was this: Trust in God. He will help you. Our family loves those words and remember them when we think of her.

Those words are simple to say, but hard to live. Nikki was someone who didn't forget things, especially not any one of her cousin's birthdays or what they got for Christmas last year. She had her own struggles to face, but she definitely didn't have the forgetful problem I have. Her words are hope for sufferers of Spiritual Amnesia like myself. Trust in God, Anna. He will help you!

He always has. He always will.

And don't you forget it. 

Every Life Matters

http://qz.com/250701/12-things-white-people-can-do-now-because-ferguson/

Read that link. My heart hurts. And I don't have the right words to say, so I'll borrow some really true ones from the author of that article:

"Michael Brown was a good kid, by accounts of those who knew him during his short life. But that's not why his death is tragic. His death isn't tragic because he was a sweet kid on his way to college next week. His death is tragic because he was a human being and his life mattered. The Good Kid narrative might provoke some sympathy but what it really does is support the lie that as a rule black people, black men in particular, have a norm of violence or criminal behavior. The Good Kid narrative says that this kid didn't deserve to die because his goodness was the exception to the rule. This is wrong. This kid didn't deserve to die because he was a human being and black lives matter."

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.

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.

Incidentally

I had a really good day at school today. Which is good, because yesterday had me thinking I should throw in the towel altogether. Isn't it funny how life can swing back and forth like that? My math lesson went well, my kids were generally kinder today toward one another, and we packed up for dismissal without any problems. Let me tell you: that was an accomplishment. Because if you think it's easy to pack up 23 6-year-olds without a hitch, you're delusional. But when I got home, after I sorted the mail and dropped my stuff on the floor with a thud, I sat and stared at the wall. Because even though it was a good day, it didn't feel like a good day.

It didn't feel like a good day because there was an incident.

An incident, of course, means that something happened with a weapon, violence, or the gangs near my school. An incident means that something unsafe just happened and now you need to react. Today's particular incident involved passersby carrying a firearm near our older elementary kids on the playground and asking them to look at it and take it from them. A ten-year-old was asked to take a gun and shoot it today. During his recess. That's the world we are living in. That's the Chicago we are living in. 

When you hear that there's been an incident as a teacher in my school, you kind of just shut up, listen to directions for contingency plans that you need to know right now (dismissal locations, Gym/Recess schedules, and other logistics), and go read your email or meet with the administration at the end of the day to get the more descriptive details after the fact and after everyone is safely home with whomever picked them up from school. It's happened more often than once in the last year, and it's even happened more often than twice in the last year. For the sake of my parents and other people who worry about me and where I work in the city, I'm going to leave it at that for the count of incidents around which I've had to maneuver my class of children. Today this incident meant that my kids had Gym in the classroom instead of walking down the street to the big space where we usually go. There are only so many running in place games, jumping jacks next to your desk games, and rounds of "heads-up-7-up" you can play with kids before they get to the point where they just need to go run around in a big space. But, because of the incident, it was the safe decision to have Gym in a classroom. And I'm thankful for my awesome principal and co-workers who keep it together in the midst of chaos for the sake of my kids. 

It's odd to me, though, that we call these things incidents. I naturally think of the words "incidental" and "incidentally" when I think of the word "incident." "Incidentally" means that something happened by chance or a random occurrence. You know, you might incidentally run into an old friend in the frozen pizza aisle one day. You might incidentally trip on the sidewalk and scuff the side of your new shoes. You might incidentally catch that you have a virus or infection on a routine checkup at the doctor. But these incidents at my school are far from incidental. They're not chance. They're not random. They're not happenstance.

These incidents are symptoms of the growing beast that lives in the poorest neighborhoods of a powerhouse city, the beast that gains momentum every time a kid loses his or her right to just be a kid. These incidents are not incidents at all, but real stories of the patterns of violence and injustice that continue to make the act of growing up and achieving your goals and becoming something new increasingly difficult for kids like mine. 

No one will hear about this incident on the news tonight. No one will read about it in the paper tomorrow. To most, it's either something you shake your head at or worse...just something that's happened...incidentally. Oops! Bummer! Another weapon incident on the West Side! Change the channel. When will this stuff start to really matter to us?

You know what's the oddest thing of all? This incident happened in the same exact spot where, exactly 24 hours earlier, there was an Anti-Violence Rally where teenagers and community leaders spoke out about keeping the peace in East Garfield Park. I suppose one could say that the rally and the subsequent day's events, so closely related and also contrasted, happened...incidentally? 

I, for one, do not even believe in the term "incidentally" at all. I believe that things happen because something or someone causes them; things don't just happen. Chance doesn't cause things. People, both broken and also redeemable in the most confusing and wonderful of ways, cause things. We cause things. And when we cause things, they are for good or for harm. We need more people to decide to cause good to happen. Even when I'm not capable of causing good to happen on my own (because believe me, I mostly just mess things up), I have to rely on the One who can make it happen for me and through me in my life. We all have to. No more incidental incidents happening incidentally. It seems to me like it's time for us to stop pretending that things happen by chance in Chicago and to start causing things to happen in Chicago instead. For good.

Until then, my kids will be living, as 6-year-old kids on the playground, from incident to incident. 

Peach People

I took a class towards my Master's degree this summer that has my mind spinning. It was a course called "Teaching in Diverse Classrooms" and focused on issues that surround diversity of gender, race, socioeconomic status, ability, and more that we see here in Chicago. It forced me to exercise those dormant brain muscles reserved for uncomfortable, convicting, and troubling conversations that surround these kinds of categories.

We read course texts and took notes and all that good stuff, but we spent most of the time in class reflecting and discussing these things in relation to our own experiences and the experiences of our kids in the classroom. We discussed things like gang rape. White privilege. Segregated proms that are still happening in Mississippi. The pressure on girls to be perfect and the ads, TV shows, movies, and songs that promote it. Racial slurs. The American Dream. Hate crimes. Affirmative Action. Food deserts. Unjust systems, societies, and sovereigns. Immigration. Where they money goes. And more. I know a lot of those things are buzz words for people on both sides of many of those issues, and believe me, my head has been buzzing ever since.

I often left class feeling overwhelmed. But it was good.

When I was a kid, I thought people were peach. I had a crayon labeled "peach" and it more or less matched my skin color. I looked around me and all I saw were other peach people. Every so often I would encounter someone who wasn't a peach person and I mentally noted which crayon he or she might be. I distinctly remember doing so with one of my favorite people: I loved Michael Jordan when I was growing up, and he wasn't peach. So I figured he was "brown" because that's the crayon that matched him. Later on, I learned that my coloring-book-theory of race relations was not acceptable. I was white. Michael Jordan was black. And that's without addressing all the other kinds of people on this earth besides the two categories we so harshly box up with neat little labels.

But back to the class.

Beyond being simply a student, I carried my faith into that classroom with me each day that made all of the brokenness and darkness that we dug up to be all the more harsh, confusing, and disorienting. I still have a million questions swirling around. How could our world look like this, so broken and hurtful? How am I supposed to move on? How can I, just one person, love people like Jesus loves people? How do I embrace all the differences we have and be someone who looks past the neat little labels so carefully affixed by people to other people? I'm somewhat frustrated at myself that at age 23 this is the first time so many of these questions have been on my mind. I'm frustrated at all of us for being so unloving to one another in the most nasty and subtle of ways. How do I even start? I'm just that one person, remember?

In the week since the class ended, I've been thinking about what it means to be a peach person in this black and white world. The starting place, I've decided, has a lot to do with my everyday life. It has a lot to do with the words that come out of my mouth, the thoughts I assume about people, and the time I put into listening to others. It starts with me deciding to be an ally against injustice. It starts with me waking up each day of teaching this year and asking God to help me love my kids for who He made them to be. To encourage all the hues of personalities, people, and ideas that come from our neighborhood on the west side of Chicago. To see the box of crayons for all of its beautiful colors. 

No Air

This year my eyes have been opened to the other side of Chicago (and, I believe, also the other side of this country) on the opposite end of what I've been seeing otherwise for my whole life. Recess is one of those times when I see it the most.

I grew up with a soccer field, a baseball diamond, four swing sets, a jungle gym, four basketball hoops, three slides, monkey bars, teeter totters (I hear you people also call them see saws), and tire forts in my playground as I was going through the primary grades a few years shy of 20 years ago. I was able to run free and tear around for two, sometimes three times during the day. There was enough room for snow forts, kick ball, world cup soccer, freeze tag, and vicious games of boys-catch-girls. If we, heaven forbid, had an indoor recess due to extreme rain or snow situations, we had a big gym with tons of equipment in which to get our energy out.

My kids rarely get outside. They get one 15-minute recess a day. Where do we go outside, do you ask? It's called the grassy pasture by my school's administration. I call it the dirt patch. It's a chunk of ground that's about 15 feet wide and 15 yards long. No slides, no monkey bars, no basketball hoops. Just dirt. A brick border wall. Random shrubs and trees that have popped up and invaded games of red rover and tag. Oh, and a nice little sewer drain right in the middle. That's in case they successfully avoided the bushes.

Not only does this patch get ridiculously gross whenever it rains, it falls in the shadow of the school most of the day so the sun can't dry it. If we are within 15 days of any rainfall, it's a muddy mess and we can't use it. It's not my administration's fault that we have little to no options, the building where our school rents has restrictions that they need to follow as well (the first two floors are offices and a day care, and a class of 23 second-graders running around doesn't allow the little kids to nap with all the noise). My principal usually is really good at using her resources as best she can, but there are some things she can't do. She can't wave a wand and give us a field. She can't make a playground appear out of nowhere. She can't ask the day care center below us to have their 2 and 3-year-olds just not nap all day. She knows it stinks and she wishes it could change too. It is just a crappy situation. 

But what, then, becomes of my kids? With virtually zero access to fresh air (our windows are sealed shut and can't be opened due to security and safety reasons) throughout the day, recess often happens inside our own room. It happens within the same four walls where we eat breakfast, give instruction, eat lunch, have art class, and learn Spanish. I almost don't even care about the equipment any more. I'm almost even happy with the dirt patch when we even get to use that. It's a far cry from soccer fields and jungle gyms and kickball, but at least it's fresh air. It's outside. They can run. They can make up games. They can be kids. 

To the right, they're throwing a ladybug funeral in the wood chips. 

But, as I've seen throughout this whole year, East Garfield Park is not an easy place to be a kid. It can even be suffocating at times. There's not much air out there, but we're gasping at any chance to take a breath. 

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.

Notes of a TFA-er: Halfway.

I've been waiting to say I'm halfway done with my first year of teaching (probably since my first day of teaching). Well, here it is: I'm halfway done with my first year! 

I can honestly tell you that this is the hardest thing I've ever done. It's been full of stress, frustration, a few failures, and a LOT of work. Between two classrooms, two co-teachers, two different groups of challenging 7 and 8-year-olds, new cultural norms, standardized test pressures, behavior management issues, home life challenges, grad school classes, and all the while facing the idea of becoming a teacher on the fly, I think it's fair to say that these past six months have been crazy for me. There were nights where I did not know how I would get up the next morning and do it all over again. I'm sure there will still be nights like that to come. I still do not feel like I'm a good teacher. This is not false modesty. It's honesty. I think I've come a long way since August 1st and will still keep (hopefully!) improving.

But. These past months of my new life have also been wonderful. The first half of this year has introduced me to an amazing opportunity to push myself, lean on God for each day, and learn about and from amazingly wonderful people I've never met before. I've made new friends, met new people, gone on new adventures, and had some great reunions with old friends. I get to live in a beautiful apartment in a beautiful city full of beautiful people. How lucky am I?

And, lest you still be tempted to look at me with approving pity in your eyes for the valiant sacrifice you think I am making, let me ask you a question: If this is the hardest thing I've ever done, is that a problem with my job or a problem with me, or even more: a problem with our American society? Don't get me wrong: I appreciate the support, prayers, and friendship so many people have given me. I do believe doing Teach For America has made me a tougher person, and has required of me a great deal of courage and perseverance. But this is my first 5 months in this cultural climate. I drive there in the morning, drive home at night, and still get to enjoy my education, family background, steady job, and sense of self. My kids live in this. They are SEVEN and EIGHT years old and live in the same environment that throws a vaguely (haha) competent, well-adjusted, and adequately intelligent college graduate into a whirlwind.  While to me it is a struggle, to my kids it is just another day. They don't drive away to their "real" lives at the end of the day and they don't pat themselves on the back for making it halfway through their second grade year. This isn't the hardest thing they've ever faced in their lives. To them, it is just life. And they have to deal with it. They have to hang in there. To me, that is really impressive. And brave.

This is what has struck me very strongly in this whole thing,  and we need a lot more than quasi-adequate teachers like me to spend time, talent, and passion on helping the situation. As I continue into the second half of this year I'm going to try to put myself in situations where I'm listening more than yelling, slowing down to understand more than rushing to move on, and loving more than controlling. My kids deserve it. 

No-Shame November

Some people do No-Shave November. I'd rather not be disgusting and I'm not a hippie girl, so I do No-Shame November instead. Inspired by my friend Liz, I did a post to start my little tradition last year and it was really refreshing to do. It helped change my mindset in some ways. Basically, I want to identify one thing that is true about myself that I am ashamed to admit and get it out there. Then I want to work on it. 

So here we go. Ready? I'm ashamed that...

Sometimes I want to quit Teach For America. Sometimes I want to give up. 

Is that terrible to say? Somewhere, Wendy Kopp just furrowed her brow and pursed her lips in judgement. There are times when people ask me what I'm up to these days, and I tell them. I say I'm doing Teach For America in Chicago in a second-grade classroom. That's usually very well received and accompanied by some sort of vague encouragement that I'm some sort of really good person for doing this. (Hint: I'm no better than anyone!) I believe my motivations for joining TFA were and are still pure, and I  want to continue to do this shindig for the good of my kids who are totally worth it and who deserve better than what the system is giving them. But I have to be truthful. It's really hard. I know that's obvious and lame to say, and I knew it would be hard all along, but I just want to be honest about what's going on.

No. I'm not going to quit. I'll stick it out. But what makes me ashamed is that I find myself wanting to quit sometimes. There are those days when I'm inspired and motivated and fired up about the world's problems and am ready to roll up my sleeves and GET TO WORK to start solving this whole thing. But that's not how I feel all the time. And that sucks. I hate that I feel that way sometimes.

I'm ashamed to admit the jealousy I feel towards those who aren't doing this crazy teaching thing. I'm jealous of those with cushy office jobs, part-time filler jobs, more semesters of school or grad school, and living arrangements with their parents. Who get to enjoy their Sunday afternoons. Who get to use the bathroom whenever they need to use the bathroom.

I'm ashamed to admit that I still feel like a weak sauce teacher sometimes. Like I am still trying to get the hang of it and it's been almost four months.

I'm ashamed that I don't always feel like the confident, courageous, compassionate person that signed up to do this. I know I still am that person and always will be, but when one student is flailing in circles on the floor, another is yelling a cuss word at 392 decibels, another is crying because someone kicked her on purpose under the table, and another just threw up, I tend to forget that person.

Honestly, I think it's good to fail a little bit. It's shown me what a huge problem our country (and our city in particular) has on its hands with this batty school system. It's shown me the intense work, talent, and passion that has to be invested in the problem to start making some changes. It's shown me that I have to work at things and that most great great things come at the end of difficult roads. This experience is already making the point plain as day that I can't rely on myself to solve everything. I alone am not going to be the answer to any problems. But what can I do?

I can show up. I can do my part. I can be one person who makes that choice, whether I'm feeling like it or not, to care. I can choose to be patient. I can choose to work hard. I can choose to celebrate the small good things instead of vent about the bad things. I can choose to keep at it. And with God's help I can maybe start to chip away at some things.

I'm resolving to fight off those thoughts of quitting, because at this point it's not an option for me or my kids. I have it on my mind to love my kids more, pray for my kids more, and listen to my kids more. I have it on my mind to never never never give up. As we go into Thanksgiving break, this is what's on my mind. There's no shame in that. 

The Other Side

I was really tired this afternoon. Not in the way that I usually am (and I definitely usually am), but in a way that made me want to fly to Alaska. Okay, maybe not the normal response to a tired feeling, but let me explain, because it really was how I felt (as ashamed as I am to admit to that).

At school, I'm kind of in the thick of a lot of stuff going on. There's a huge cultural difference between my school's neighborhood and the places I come from. My kids deal with things at 7 years old that I've never encountered my whole life. I'm definitely the odd one out, from my skin color to my family background. I always knew from the beginning it would be this way. But today it really hit me. 

We had recess outside this afternoon, and our kids ran up and down "the grassy pasture," as our school likes to call it (I like to call it "the dirt patch"), for about 15 minutes.  About 2 minutes before we had to go inside, I heard some extra commotion rising above the usual din of recess. It was coming from across the street, and it was between a mother, her son, and two men (in their thirties-ish?). Apparently the two men were from the boy's school and had just escorted him home after he got in a fight and was expelled for it. The mom was yelling at the kid, the kid was yelling back at the mom, the school officials were throwing their two cents in (although it sounded more to me like a few dollars worth) when they could possibly get a word in. The screaming got louder. Then the F bombs started flying. Then the slapping and hitting started. After talking back one too many times, the kid (a sixth grader?) pushed his mom to the limit. The men started making their way back to the school, but kept yelling like crazy as they walked and the mom and kid continued at it. 

Now this elicited a number of responses from my students, who were making their way to line up. Some of them didn't even notice and continued talking and playing with their friends. Some of them grew immediately silent, and took the commotion as a cue to break up the fun and get inside as quickly as possible. And then some of them gawked and laughed out loud at the kid across the street as he got disciplined by his mom, pointing fingers and telling their friends to look too. 

In the moment, I was just focused on getting all of my (now hushed) kids back in the door and upstairs. As I thought about it though, I replayed the episode over and over. My mind was sort of racing. The kid did get expelled from school. He had it coming right? But I would never treat my kid that way! But then again I haven't had him as a kid. And I haven't ever grown up and lived in this neighborhood and had her skin color so who am I to say something like that? But then again he got expelled for fighting, where did he learn to deal with his problems like that? And what does it do to a 12 year old when this is the nature of his relationships at home? But then again do I really have the right to make a call on the nature of his home life after a 5-minute snapshot from 20 yards away? 

And those thoughts went on. Now you get why I felt tired. This situation wasn't just this situation. It symbolized, for me, THE SITUATION. And not in the Jersey Shore sense, but more like the whole reason why this Teach For America thing exists in the first place. I don't like getting into debates when it comes to race, because race is about people and not politics. Maybe I'm reading a little too far into it all, but this afternoon was one of the first times I witnessed firsthand some of the realities of my kids' lives. Even this morning one of my second-graders shared how she babysat 4 of her little cousins all day on Saturday. By herself. Last I checked, 7 and 8 year olds need babysitters themselves. What is her mom thinking? But I don't know her mom's story. I haven't lived it. And while I do my best every day to be gracious to things I don't know and haven't lived, it's hard to know what to think and feel when the brokenness yells from across the street with a voice louder than 23 second-graders and demands your attention. I wish I was one of those inspirational people who is confronted with cultural difference and knows exactly what to do and is energized by opportunities to solve society's problems at 1000 miles per hour with a big beauty-pageant smile on her face. But I'm not. I was confused and did my best in the moment, which I'll admit was not a whole lot. 

It all goes back to the idea that there are two worlds here. There are two cultures. And there are two sides to every story. I don't have the skin color, address, or last name to understand the other side. And that's fine. I don't claim to know or understand everything. I never ever will. 

But I refuse to let that keep me from affirming those things that aren't split down the middle. There is too much in common to NOT work at it.  There are families, there are hopes and dreams, there are sports, there is food, there are laughs, and there is a God who we all share in common. There are enough fun personalities, great senses of sarcasm, and personal style in my room alone to show that there is more to an individual than what meets the eye and where he or she comes from. I guess it's both; we are where we come from, but we get to make something out of it too. We can't choose the hand we were dealt, but we get to decide what we want to do with it. 

This last part is what sort of keeps me from hopping on that flight to Alaska. Maybe it's that I feel sort of a kindred spirit with my kids: I'm not doing exactly what my background expects of me either (Have you noticed all the friends' weddings I attend?) and I'm trying to let them know that this is okay to do, to break the cycle of what's expected of you. It's a hard thing to do, but I think the secret lies in celebrating what you already are, yet never stopping at that point to figure out who you are going to be.   It's okay to be yourself, whoever that is, wherever that is, and however that is, to the best of your ability. And that goes for all people, whether they be white, black, green, blue, or purple. 

So I'm tired. But so what? That can be addressed with a large Coke during my lunch break. I don't really know exactly how to start addressing all this brokenness or even if I am the one equipped to address it in the first place. I don't know where to even start. 

So I guess I'll start with tomorrow. 

Transition

This post might seem a tad melancholy, and it is a little bit, but is not meant to be completely that way. Just more reflective. Today was spent going over lots of HR information, e-mailing with Teach For America AND Dominican University people about my licensing classes, and perplexing over how to set up my classroom with my co-teacher. It's that third thing that made me kind of do a double-take of my own self today.

I did a double-take because there I was, in a classroom with my co-teacher, who is extremely professional and good at what she does, and I felt like a big faker. Like I didn't have what it takes and that I couldn't shoulder my half of the work in making this first grade classroom a successful place. Sometimes I feel like a faker in this whole post-grad world in general. I feel like I'm actually still 14 years old and just masquerading as an adult. In this new apartment, driving my Volkswagen down new streets, attending new churches, and starting a new job. I feel like I have to overcompensate sometimes and be all, "Yeah! I'm totally great and I'm loving it and I'm really good at what I do and I'm on this adventure that is exciting and cool!" While all of those feelings are true sometimes, sometimes they're not. Sometimes I'm tired and feeling sick from 4 hours of sleep a night. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed. Sometimes I feel inadequate beyond measure. Sometimes I hate that I can't park wherever the heck I want to park. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't just called it a night on this whole Chicago thing and thrown in the towel. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be good at this teacher thing at all. Or good at this being-an-adult thing at all. I think that's the biggest one that weighs on me. 

But there are other times too. It's all mixed up, really. There are other times where I feel great about who I am and what I'm doing. 

Today during our HR session all the new hires were together so we had to introduce ourselves, where we are from, and something that we are proud of. I had a moment of happiness when I had to think of all the things I'm proud of because I have many. I'm proud of graduating college. I'm proud of my English degree. I'm proud of being accepted into Teach For America and being hired by a charter school right after graduation. I'm proud of my friends. I'm really proud of my family. I'm proud of the people I love. I'm proud of how I put myself out there with people, even if it's gotten me hurt from time to time. I'm proud of being hurt by others and still being optimistic anyway. I'm proud of my sixth grade summer-schoolers. I'm proud of being a small-town midwestern girl. I'm proud of my faith. I'm proud of moving to a new city by myself and starting adulthood this year. 

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be in those transition times. The good and the bad stuff. The doubts that you have and the...we'll call them the prouds that you have. I'm still strapped for cash and racking up quite the debt with the Bank of Brian and Kathy. I'm still really scared when I think of my lack of experience at my job. And I'm still a little overwhelmed when I feel like I'm going through this alone. But I'm also hopeful, excited, and proud too. Maybe I have to find that balance between being proud of who I am and what I can do while also using my lack of experience as a motivator to work my tail off to try and try and try until I get things right. 

I know eventually I'll get some things right. I know that every truly good thing comes with a price. And I know that every time I grow or get something to work out, it hurts a little (even a lot) at first on the way to get there. And I know, parking tickets and rent checks in tow, everything will work out in the end. At least that's what I believe. So with that, right now I'm going to live in the tension between the doubts and the prouds and work as hard as I can to make them even out. 

Risk

No, not the board game. Although I have spent many Christmas/New Year holidays with our family friends playing the game of strategic conquest (when you get two older brothers and their friends together, you're not playing Boggle, I'll tell you that much). And if you're any kind of Seinfeld fan at all, you already love this scene from the label maker episode. "The Ukraine is weak!" 

For this post I'm thinking of risk more in terms of putting yourself out there. In terms of exposing yourself to possible downfall or heartbreak or letdown or danger. This kind of risk is not a game...real people are involved in this one.

This idea of risk started to bounce around in my head ever since my brother Alex, who is a lawyer, brought up the concept of "Assumption of Risk" a long time ago. Maybe it was his first year of law school, I don't know, but it stuck with me. Apparently it was in a torts class (I guess that's a category of laws, but to me it sounds more like dessert) and basically you can cite "Assumption of Risk" as a possible defense to not get the pants sued off of you. Hopefully I'm understanding it correctly. For example, if you're playing a soccer game, someone slide tackles you, and you tear your ACL, the slide-tackler does not have a responsibility to pay for your medical bills. By suiting up in that soccer jersey and stepping on the field, you assumed that playing the game involves a certain level of risk. And since you love the game, you happily accepted and played in spite of that risk. You take responsibility for the fact that it's your own fault for joining in if you get hurt during the normal play of the game.

I also think of this with playgrounds. By climbing up on those monkey bars, you are taking on that Assumption of Risk. You might fall (and dang does hitting those wood chips below ever hurt!) but you also might finally conquer that farmer's flip you've been perfecting for your entire kindergarten career.

People are like monkey bars. You need to acknowledge the Assumption of Risk when it comes to people. Anytime you have a friendship, relationship, or interaction with another human being, you're risking something. The closer you get, the more you jeopardize in the process. The possibilities for love and friendship are worth it, and so most of us see fit to take that risk. But what happens when it all blows up? We all know the feeling of free-falling to a thud on the ground below the monkey bars, only to have the wind knocked out of us once we get there. It's not pleasant. People can hurt. People can leave you gasping for air. When that initial impact passes, do you yell curses up at the monkey bars? No. You pick yourself up, walk it off, and try that farmer's flip again. When you open yourself up to people, you take that risk. It's not anyone's fault, it's just never a sure thing with people. You give them the power to knock the wind right out of you. Hey, remember that you can do the same hurt to others when they trust you! But the beauty of it all is that next time it might not end up that way. You can learn from every single fall and every single scrape and bruise those wood chips leave on your knees. You risked it, it didn't work out as you'd planned, but you're still going forward better, smarter, and readier than before.

One of my all-time favorite literary characters is a sad little guy named J Alfred Prufrock. T.S. Eliot wrote a whole poem from his sad little perspective. J Alfred is so consumed with his fear of taking risks that he is completely paralyzed. He says he measures his life in coffee spoons and obsesses over the question: "Do I dare eat a peach?" Dude, when you start to have an existential crisis over fruit, you know you need to lighten up.

What I'm trying to say here is that we can't end up like my friend J. Alfred Prufrock. I can't sit on the sidelines of friendships and relationships for fear of getting burned or getting my feelings hurt. We can't sit on the grass while the rest of the world is playing on the jungle gym. I read somewhere that "life is between the trapeze bars," that in order to really live, you have to risk a little too. I'd rather have my life measured in jumps and falls than in coffee spoons. Safe is nice, but safe can become a crutch.

I'm working on facing those monkey bars again. The world is just too full of interesting people and exciting opportunities to not climb back up that ladder. And if I do say so myself, I can execute an outstanding farmer's flip.

Shine On

I like to think about the easy stuff. The nice, pretty, fun, safe stuff. When we start to venture into the world of death, difficulty, and darkness I don't always know what to think. Or say. I like to think I can explain just about everything with a generous dose of thoughtfulness and consideration. Just talk it out, right? 

Well, sometimes life just sucks. Sometimes it's mean, ugly, sad, dangerous, and confusing. March 30th, a beautiful day for a million other reasons, will always have a note of this darkness surrounding it. A year ago today, on a set of train tracks in the middle of the night, my friend Lindsay Huenink took her own life. 

I was in Spain when the e-mail entitled "Sad News..." from my camp director popped up in my inbox. I had volunteered as a camp counselor (where I also was a camper as a kid) for the past three summers and my fellow counselor Lindsay was one of the most vibrant girls I'd ever met. She was a girl who was just intrinsically popular and you had to love her. Always up to something fun, always laughing, always with friends, and of course always some guy was after her and that blonde hair. God gave her an inner spirit that was contagious. She was a senior in high school, a week before her prom, and with a pretty cool future ahead of her. I know it's kind to say these types of things about people after they pass on, but with Lindsay it's true. She just had that "IT" factor. She and her best friend Jackie were co-counselors together. Two young and beautiful kindred spirits. 

Some bunk bed shenanigans with the 5th grade
boy cabin. Lindsay's the bombshell to my right.

So when I heard the news, I was just confused. I felt all of those emotions people tell me I'm supposed to feel when someone ends their own life: anger that she would do this to those of us left behind, love for her as I miss her spirit and wish I could laugh at something ridiculous she says one more time, and immense sadness for her that she had such a heaviness to bear on her own. A darkness that she thought she had to carry alone. My heart breaks for her family as this date comes around this year and each one after. I think of Jackie a lot and wonder how it would feel to lose your best friend like that. Ugh. What a helpless feeling. 

So what should we say? I think the answer has to be found in her life, not her death. That ugly seven-letter S-word (that I just can't bring myself to type) that characterized her death cannot characterize her life. A bright girl like her can't be defined by a darkness like that. What we can look at are those years she was here and the impact she did make. Each year I saw firsthand the way 5th and 6th grade girls in her cabin looked up to her and caught her spirit. She passed it on to her family, friends, even to me in those three summers we led at camp together. Her passing is a reminder to guard one another against that heavy darkness, a reminder to ensure that no one feels that they must carry that burden alone. When I think of Lindsay, I get reminded to Shine On, to keep fighting off that darkness for myself and others every day. I get reminded to rely on the assurance that the darkness may have claimed her earthly life, but has absolutely no say in her eternal one. 

I'm friends with the One who can explain it all and hopefully someday will. He knows what he's doing and he's got Lindsay right in his grip, where she's always been. So I guess it's a good thing I don't have to explain everything. Because when it comes to Lindsay, I just can't.