I remember. (An American tragedy through the eyes of a child)

I remember 9/11/01. I remember being in Mr. McBain's 4th grade class. I remember "city" was one of my spelling words that day and I thought that was so ironic even though I didn't even know that word yet. I remember classmates puzzling over how they were leaving early. I remember bursting into the house to ask my parents if I could have a friend over. I remember my dad was home early and my mom was sobbing on the couch watching the tv. I remember singing "I'm proud to be an American" and I remember having a lemonade stand to raise money for relief efforts. I remember tragedy and I remember hope. I remember

Memoirs of a First Year Teacher

So I've done it, I finished my first year as a teacher and I'm on the precipice of my second. I spent the day writing notes of my memories next to the names of my students. If you don't know anything about my school, I'll tell you it's nestled in a pocket of the world that can be a harsh reality for 7 and 8 year olds. They are dealing with abuse, unstructured lives, jail, and broken families. My days of school were often swollowed up by hardships as I took on not only the task of teaching but loving. 

Amidst the tough were embarrassing moments that sprinkled my day with laughter such as feeling a tug on my neck as I leaned over the laminator only to scramble to pull my id badge out from pulling me into the machine just an hour before kids arrived the second day. Then, there was my distress when one of my most challenged students found an inappropriate book that made its way into my library. I had pencils hit me, meltdowns complete with tears and words of anger, cheating, bed bugs, scabies, lice and even a few moments of cleptomania. However, alongside these were the moments when light shone through the cracked vessels of these students lives.

A little boy eager to share his fish constellation drawing with you in the midst of a hectic day.

A classroom leader breaking into tears as you pull her aside to find out why she has been displaying such attitude only to learn its coming from her fear about summer school.

There is the girl with long braided pig tails and a jean skirt that reaches her toes pondering out loud, "But I'm a bad kid," when you tell her probably for the first time there are no bad students. And then laughing as the same student plugs her ears during a Halloween song at music class knowing you were just like her wanting to follow all your religious rules. And although she never could quite focus in class she kept an unbroken gaze as she sketched the playground with chalk and kindly directed another student to join in her efforts.

Then, there is the little boy who hit you with a pencil one day but later on shares about his mothers superb pizza as you guide him up the steps to lunch with the teacher.

There was the boy beloved by all his peers who had such brave integrity shyly admitting he was the one talking when his friend was given the blame. 

And the new girl who twirled around at recess, who, in winter time, was eager to share that her new car had heat! But her writer's voice was one unparalled to any you had heard from even those well beyond her years. 

Another student after being helped correct one math problem took her own initiative to fix a bunch more and another makes up math problems at home eagerly sharing them with you at school. 

Yet another girl wisely answered the teacher posed question as to why no one in the class asked questions about problems with content with "maybe we are afraid to be embarrassed." 

And finally one who after being disciplined announced, "I know, I know Miss Goetz, you still like us,you always say that"

I can see the beautiful of this year, once hidden in the bramble of the broken and because of it I anticipate a new year of sifting through the seemingly impossible to the moments that infuse this life with beauty. Year two, I embrace you with arms open wide, filled with the love and strength of a Father who gives me the ability to accept the challenges and celebrations of each moment of the school,of bringing his kingdom here on earth. 

End of the Year Letter

Below is the end of the year letter I will be reading to my class tomorrow on their last day of second grade.  The word that continues to come to mind as a season fades is bittersweet.  Sweet; as I escape the emotional challenges and mental demands that come with a career in a helping profession and drift into the restful and rejuvenating rhythms that summer provides and Bitter; as I say goodbye to a class of 26 beautiful children and to a community that will never again exist after 11:30 am tomorrow.

To My Dear Second Graders,

      Congratulations! We have made it from August 25^th when we started this grand adventure together to June 4^th, our last and final moments as a learning grove. 

      I can remember very clearly that first day, as you huffed and puffed while you climbed all the way up to the second floor for the very first time here at Northwest.  That was your first of this year’s joys and challenges.  You were excited to meet your new teacher and reconnect with your friends but you were nervous if you would fit in and if you would be able to do all of the learning that was ahead of you. 

      In the fall you learned strange circley things called number bonds and now many of you can use them with ease.  We met characters like Iris and Walter and Henry and Mudge and learned about the desert and astronauts in space.  In science, we explored many types of rocks and even created our own classroom rock collection.  In November, right before Thanksgiving, we “filled up” a fellow classmate with many treats while reading There Was An Old Lady Who Swallowed a Pie.  That afternoon WE ROCKED AND WE ROLLED showing Northwest we had the most school pride while we traced our bodies and created an epic paper chain to win the hallway decorating contest!

In the winter, as break approached we celebrated during Rudolph Day when Mrs. Goetz, my mom, came in while we made reindeer antlers, played holiday bingo, opened our glove gifts, and listened to her read The Grinch.  During that season, we met characters like Tara and Tiree and Anansi the Spider.  In math we practiced measuring with cubes and then centimeters.  We started social studies learning how to be good citizens.  We practiced voting in our own classroom voting booth and elected two class presidents.  Along the way, we picked up some new friends who came to Northwest for the very first, (or second time)!

This spring we ventured back into science learning about insects, observing our very own mealworms and waxworms and releasing our classroom butterflies.  In math, you took on the challenge of adding and subtracting 2 and 3 digit numbers and became masters of the up and down way!  In reading, we learned about frogs and many other wonders of nature. This spring, we also enjoyed time with our wonderful student teacher Miss McQuate.  As we wrapped up the year, we read The Lemonade Wars with the rest of the school and had our very own classroom war and sold lemonade with our entire second grade team!  Such fun!  We celebrated with South Hills Day and Field Day and now we celebrate the very last day.

My dear class, I hope you enjoyed all of the things we did this year. (This is the best class I have ever seen at using sequence words!)  But I also hope you enjoyed being a part of this class this year.  As your teacher I want to thank you for all that you taught me.  Because each one of you was apart of this class, I learned so many things about teaching and also about life.  I learned how to be calmer, kinder, stronger and more loving.  You impressed me; when I saw one of you bend over to rub the back of a crying friend, when another said that people hurt each other when they are hurt, when you clapped for someone else’s successes, when you fixed your own mistakes, when you chose to do rock, paper, scissors instead of fight with a classmate, when you took on a challenge.  I can’t believe today is the day we say goodbye and I hope each one of you feels like you belonged here in this room and that you mattered because each of those things is true.  Goodbye for now my second graders.  I hope to see you again next year!

                                                      Your teacher,

                                                            Miss Goetz

To the end.

It's a going to bed feeling heavy night.
No, not physically heavy, like I spooned too much ice cream in my mouth kind of night,
But the emotionally heavy night.

The kind when you feel thick with nostalgia,
Ripe with the precious nature of life.

The kind of night where you read a whole hundred pages of a children's novel and kind of lost track of time.
When you haven't spoken to another person for hours.
When you've      s l o w e d.
A deep inflation of breath that has been kept out for too long.

It was a flipping through pictures kind of night,
Sensing, somehow knowing a kind of end is drawing near.
An ending of a life cycle.
Like my second graders' mealworms that have gone from larva, to pupa, to adult.
I've gone to adult.

Clicking back to images,
A rerun in reverse of the moments that have brought you to now.
To this    s l o w   moment.
The moment to catch your breath from all the growth that has taken place.
Growing pains, back to the start of when you thought you knew what you were doing when you accepted the job and trudged 20 or so seven and eight year olds heaving up two flights of stairs.  A class that now brims over with 26  and your insides cringe as you think about how you really had no clue what you were doing.  And wondering....could I ever have anticipated the fullness of this year? And knowing if I had tried I would have been swallowed up all in that moment, glad its a journey of singles steps that turn to leaps and bounds.

And you see yourself smiling in the photographs,
Glimpses and snip-its of a year gone by,
And you swell.
Because for each image their are about a thousand others that are linked to that one.
To the challenge and the struggle that made that one possible.

It's going to bed lost in this maze of life but yet more alerted to it.
To its fragility.
To the fact that you are so small,
But that in fact this is your place,
You fit in this grander scheme as you rerun the pieces, puzzling together what got you to here, what got you to now, and what brings you to the end.

My feeder

Thank you for birds perching on my window sill.  As I sit on a newish bed, in a newish room, in a newish home, in a newish life.  Thank you for the muted drum roll of a seed against brick and the jerky, jittery taps as they skitter onto the small box.  Thank you that this is happening just outside my window, just now.

Its here that I come to sit, in these still, weak moments where my insides seem to crush at all the fear and discomfort of this season of change.  I sometimes seem swallowed up by the massive newness that has me in its clutches.  I'm quickly tempted, brought low, brought to fear.  But then I really take peak, I look beyond the window and there are birds at my feeder, it's all happening right here, and right now.

Dear Mrs. Marzarella

I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm an older version of a seven-year-old that entered your second grade classroom with fresh cut brunette bangs angling around a face of uncertainty. I would love you to know that I have been talking about you for many, many years and I have been wanting to write to you for quite awhile about the impact you have had on my life.  Even now after my graduation from college I can still remember drawing the crab apple tree that grew right outside our window every season and bringing in a cardboard box to symbolize my house in the large classroom map we created of our town.  I can still identify the black capped chickadee, tufted titmouse, junco, morning dove and downey woodpecker when I see them at my feeder.  But most of all I know you loved me and I felt a special connection with you. As I entered the second move of my lifetime in the middle of my third grade year, I was called into your room. I had already left your flock but you handed me a box of notecards with paintings by my favorite artist from the "Artist of the Month" that I learned about in your room. Since that time I moved once more, each time carrying with me this box of Monet stationary enscribed with a personal message from my favorite teacher.  Since then I have wanted to be an artist, an astronaut, a historian and a scientist (and looking through an old box the other day I noticed an entry from fourth grade me describing how I felt like an oddball because all I did was think about science, hysterical). As a young girl and over my lifetime I have struggled with worry like the water stains that have speckled your message on my box but I have always carried a piece of you with me in my heart. Today I took the first steps into my own second grade classroom ready to become Miss Goetz. I am beyond confident and excited to be able to touch the hearts of my students the way you touched mine. Thank you so much Mrs. Marzarella, for when you taught you loved. 

I love you!

Sincerely, 

Miss Sarah Goetz

Former Student and Second Grade Teacher

 

This season is about becoming

As I struggle with the job-search God meets me where I'm at.  It's called "twenty-five" a chapter in the book Bittersweet by Shaun Niequist and these are His whispers to me:

Here are a few thoughts of being twenty-five-ish...

(Advice #1)
You are young enough to believe that anything is possible, and you are old enough to make that belief a reality...
it takes about ten years after college to find the right fit, and anyone who finds it earlier then that is just plain lucky...
That's what this time is for to figure those things out...

(Advice #2)
Now is also the time to get serious about relationships. And "serious" might mean walking away...

(Advice #3 and #4)
Twenty-five is also a great time to start counseling...
the perfect time to get involved in a church you love...
to connect with God in a way that feels authentic and truthful to you...

(Advice #5)
Stop every once in a while...
Ask yourself some good questions like, Am I proud of the life Im living? What have I tried this month? What have I learned about God this year? What parts of my childhood faith am I leaving behind, and what parts am I choosing to keep with me for this leg of the journey? Do the people I'm spending time with give me life, or make me feel small? Is there any brokenness in my life that's keeping me from moving forward?

This season is about becoming...
Now is your time. Become, believe, try.  Walk closely with people you love, and with other people who believe that God is very good and life is a grand adventure.  Don't spend time with people who make you feel like less than you are.  Don't get stuck in the past, and don't try to fast-forward yourself into a future you haven't yet earned.  Give today all the love and intensity and courage you can, and keep traveling honestly along life's path.

I need to admit I need to hear this. I need to know that even though a month has passed since I graduated (and only a few weeks have past since I finished my last class) that I need to give myself time.  I need to give myself space to become, to risk, to try, to have adventure, to find friends, to find love, to find a church, to find God.  And! It all doesn't have to happen the summer after I graduate.  I have time and space in this season, and though I'll admit to tears and to being grumpy, this is my season, and here's to becoming!

Homemade

Before my stay in Lancaster County I assumed the food would be homemade, but it was not until I actually experienced their daily life first hand did I realize how sustainable their lifestyle truly is.  During my six days with my family I do not remember taking out the kitchen trash one time whereas it occurs almost daily or every other day at my own home.  Instead during my time we filled a small slop bucket multiple times, emptying it into a pile or feeding it to the pigs.  Additionally, one morning I crushed egg shells with a rolling pan to put in flower pots for added nutrients.  Banana peels were also used for the rose bushes.  Most of our meals depended on what was available to the family whether grown in the garden, provided by their married siblings (such as one of the older boys produce or the milk directly from the dairy their son now operate), extras brought home from market, or whipped up from scratch via the bulk products like sugar and flour in the home.

The farm I stayed at also operates as organic. Pesticides were not used meaning that twice during my visit I went through rows of potato plants removing the hard shelled white bugs (once drowning them in cans of chemicals and the other time squashing them with sticks) and their juicy brown young and smushing their nest of eggs between the plant leaves.  Organic also meant that the cows on the farm were grass fed and given all natural feed in their troughs.

My homemade experience is epitomized in the day I made seven gallons of "media tea."

Wednesday May 28, 2014- Making Tea

On Wednesday morning, I was sent out into the garden to pick a variety of tea leaves.  My Amish host mother in Lancaster County wanted to spend the day making tea, particularly for a brother who was going to host the School Committee Meeting of five representatives who reported to Harrisburg earlier that spring.

I set out into the large garden in front of the house, following behind Barbara (the 27 year-old daughter).  We walked along the side row where patches of herbs were growing.  She pointed out the three different types of plants used for the “Meda Tea;” spearmint, peppermint, and woolly.

Spearmint

Woolly

Peppermint
 (see the  reddish stems?)

 During the course of the morning I went out with scissors and cut four dish tubs full of the herbs. Each time I brought in the tubs I would wash the mint in the drinking water, squeezing the leaves to wring out the dirt. Then, I would lay the mint in the dish drying rack to dry off. My host mother then filled 13 quart kettles with water, brought the water to a boil, and then put in the herbs. The mix was two fistfuls consisting mostly of spearmint (the largest of their herb patches) and then some woolly and peppermint to taste.  The timer was set for 3 minutes and would take out the plants.  When this mixture was complete we funneled the tea into glass jars and set them out on the table to cooler before bringing them to the cooler (if the hot tea went directly into the cooler the jars would shatter). We made 7 gallons of tea and then dried the rest up in the attic by placing the stalks on old window screens draped across the laundry drying rack.

Here are some pictures of our process:

Tea drying and jugs ready to be filled

Filling the jugs

The pot of brewed tea

Some completed jugs

"You will be our new sister"

Around 11 o clock this morning the Messiah van pulled onto Zook lane to drop off myself and another Messiah student to our Amish families. The van turned and my stomach twisted with nerves.  But very shortly I was put at ease; I noticed my favorite plants (succulents) about the house, seashells and a large bowl of popcorn. I would be alright!

I shared dinner (Amish lunch!) with the family members at home internally forgetful of the after meal prayer. I helped wih dishes and set out to hoeing and picking off "potatoe bugs" from the potato plants, squashing the eggs that had made the leaves their home. I toured the farm with the youngest daughter who was eager to let me trail behind her all day showinf me the ropes of their life (around the barn and sheds). We wheeled potatoes in our wagon and I set out to help to mash them and prepare a salad. When the entire family was home we settled in for supper and I almost forgot the silent prayer again at the end, thankful for the family's reminders. 

After some more dish washing, I was mystified as the youngest daughter and I climbed through hay bails in the second floor of the barn. Barefooted (as I was all day!) I jumped over the dried stalks in my long skirts, and as we peered out the barn door over the gardens and the misty earth from the passing thunderstorm andi had a brief moment of wonder. I couldn't believe I was there taking to a kind Amish girl just a few inches from myself like I would with Rachel (my younger sister). Surreal!

This evening, we cooked popcorn over the stove and I enjoyed learning that often their Sunday dinner consists of popcorn like at my own house. Although I'm intrigued by the different ways of doing the daily routines, (it's baffling that just a few hours away my family is living their own usual day!) it's still people. People who I laughed with, chatted with, and connected with, going about their life as I would go about mine.

I am so blessed to be here for a week aloud to be a part of the family, and that is how they see me! I am so thankful for the welcoming words of the youngest daughter upon my arrival, "Your our new sister for the week!" 

Full Circle

In fifth grade I wrote my first paper on the Amish.  Today, I interacted with them for the first time.

As a young girl I visited Lancaster County more times then I could count on two hands.  I was enamored with the Amish lifestyle.  How could they live so conservatively and so simply in the face of such a fast paced modern society? And why did they want to?  The farms, the cute dresses, and the buggies awed me and as I drove along country roads I desired to be one of them.  I was nostalgic and it all seemed a bit romantic to me. Today however, I got to experience it!

This morning our class scrambled into the 15 passenger and took our first trip to Lancaster County.  We started with a touristy place called the Amish Experience, where we witnessed a somewhat "corny" yet informative video production on an Amish story.  Afterwards we visited several shops eating meals while also getting a taste of the culture.  What was particularly intriguing in those initial situations was gawking at the various Amish we encountered while also being gawked at while walking around in our long skirts and conservative tops.  I felt the tension of standing on middle ground as both the offender and the offended.   A women even asked a classmate, "where are you from?" and "what are you up to?"  When she found out we were with a college she said she knew because we did not indeed look "authentic." While impressed that she knew the true dress, it evidenced the way we did indeed stick out like sore thumbs.

After these morning activities, our group travelled to the shop and home of an Amish friend of our professors, a one Samuel Riehl. Sam, a minister of the church greeted us openly inviting questions as we surrounded him in a grassy circle behind his store.  Of particular note throughout the conversation, was the demeanor of this Amish man.  Crouched strong, upon one knee he spoke to us, pausing before responding, flavoring his speech with humor, and humbly displaying his perspective, repetitively proclaiming not to be the judge while offering his personal convictions and describing all of us as Christians. In our conversation, several of Sam's responses struck me.  A classmate asked him about the pacifist roots of the Amish in light of the Old Testament. Samuel responded with surprising appreciation for America and a shocking awareness of Memorial Day (coming up on Monday) with prayer and gratitude towards our veterans. As I was sitting there I could not help but think of my own army man and wonder what his thoughts would be had he been a part of the conversation.  Samuel continued to describe that he and the Amish believe in the powerful warfare of prayer, impressing me with a component of my faith I have never taken so strongly.  During the conversation, I had the opportunity to ask about the rejection of the assurance of faith (Amish do not boast of a known salvation) and whether he still finds peace. Samuel did not denounce the dramatic experiences of people who feel great change at the time of conversion, but he himself felt he could not claim a similar attitude, having grown up in the church.  This response brought up an irony, given thought, it may appear to be prideful suggesting that he had never committed so aggregious a sin to warrant such a conversion moment, while also claiming a humility that he has never experienced those feelings proclaiming the continual process of his salvation. Samuel admitted to not feeling peace at all times (seemingly associating his faith with his actions?) indeed proclaiming however, the peace of knowing that Gods grace is available at all times.  Among other tidbits he proposed keeping the Bible simple and encouraged us as the future of the nation to pursue our dreams. While more answers brought with it more questions I was blessed by the wisdom of Sam and the opportunity of this meeting.

Later in the afternoon we visited the homestead of Jacob and Anna Esh.  After learning about Anna's quilting business, exploring the farm, riding Amish scooters, observing milking (I even got to pour fresh milk from the can!) and playing with kittens we sat down to an Amish meal.  Anna served us salad, fresh bread with jam, chicken, beef brisket, mashed and scalloped potatoes, baked corn, asparagus and for dessert, Reese's peanut butter cake(?) and french rhubarb pie with ice cream. Even more striking then the meal however were the interactions of the Amish family.  Anna went about her work humbly, cheerfully and kindly. I was struct by the shyness of the young children expecting them to be more outgoing then the adults (seemingly opposite of our American culture). The compliance of the girls to sing after supper to us English (what the Amish call outside Americans) upon request of her father and mother demonstrated obedience and a reverence of their parents.  What an honor and blessing to be singing songs alongside these people, that they would even invite us in their home, which felt like an invasion to me, was welcomed and met kindly.  Anna cheerfully showed us her gardens and I picked her asparagus with her and my classmates.  We filled two buckets! Leaving, even after only being their for a few hours she proclaimed, "I wish I could hug all of you" and the parting made me desire to begin my home stay even more!

We concluded our day by tracking down the local Amish/Mennonite baseball tournament that Jacob and Anna's son was participating in.  This experience was a picture of "rumspringa" or running around of the Amish "youth" before joining the church.  At the game I was overwhelmed, both astounded and confused by what I was seeing.  In many instances I could not tell Amish from Mennonites from English! What particularly struck me was what the Amish chose to do during their "rumspringa" period.  Many of the young men continued to wear suspenders over patterned and brand name shirts.  Girl also stretched tees over their Amish dresses but did not wear their hair loose though I thought I saw one girl wearing makeup.  Other piled out of cars and many of the young men were smoking.  It seemed that the men were much more rebellious then the women and at points I am sure I couldn't tell Amish men from English!  This patterns finds similarities in the decision to leave the church.  In the van one of our professor highlighted that Amish men tend to leave the church at a greater rate then the females.  In all religions women generally tend to be more devote and in Amish culture men have much more opportunity to interact with the world possibly accounting for this difference.  This could also explain the more drastic differences in rumspringa.  During our time at the game, one of my classmates proclaimed that she wished our communities would participate in activities such as this and I agreed, saying, "this [the gathering of youth] is just crazy enough for me, without being too much."  As I ponder it more it seems similar to the young people who scout each other out on the boardwalks of the beach in the summer.  On the ride home, our professor mentioned how many of the tamer youths would have been at home this Saturday night.  As we drove I considered myself and my close-in-age younger brother.  I imagined myself sitting at home quietly while he rambunctiously attended the baseball game,  thinking of similar evenings in while he was out with friends and how the Amish parents feelings must be akin those of my own parents in regards to the various young people.

Wow, today was full circle for the young girl who wrote her first research paper on the Amish in fifth grade and I am overwhelmed by the opportunity to move past the romanticism and experience the people, for all of their similarities and differences to my own life. I am so excited for the homestays beginning Tuesday!

Fellowship

It's amazing the difference of 24 hours.

One day ago, my body and soul were terrified, trembly and nervous. I was hollowed by heaping a plate too full. I was my own worst critic. Expecting an unreasonable performance in all of my roles; teacher, student, RA, friend(?)  I churned with the tense paradox of insecurity woken from a bed of pride. The kind that demands "I can do it all" "I must hold it all together" forgetful that I can't.  

I'm in my last month of college and it is a heavy place. And an awkward place. Competing with friends for job positions wriggles ugly fingers into relationships. Over these past few weeks, I believed I needed to be the calm in the senior storm of the unknown. Wasn't I past my anxious days of perfection?  I didn't realize that in those very moments I was returning to the old double headed monsters of pride and insecurity.  That, that in itself was undoing.  

And I undid. 

As I anticipated participating in a teaching round interview for a local school district last night, my "all-together" persona shattered into the insecurity of my lack.

But I was held. Held up by a friend who was willing to put aside her own to agenda to listen to me practice and practice and offer support and advice for a position she too applied for a was let down by (a true Frederick friend!). I was held by a friend who told me to stop apologizing for the tears and overwhelmed feelings that overflowed from my body. I was held physically and emotionally by my love who went above and beyond, knowing me at my core and loving me still. I was held by my family and my mother who talked me out of my panicked sleepy dreams. I was held by text messages and cheers and questions from friends today before and after my interview.

It was in my undoing that I remembered it's okay to be held. I shed my pride and reversed insecurity in fellowship. 

Today as I go to sleep, I go to bed different. A period of 24 hours. My lesson was successful and I received astounding and wonderful news. And tonight in these happy moments I was also held.  I was cheered and I was celebrated.  I am reminded of the beauty in the vulnerability of my whole self and in fellowship I am loved. 

New life breaking through

Walking along collecting items for a preschool camping unit and I noticed this. I love how the new growth has pierced directly through death. 

Story

I just started my final semester here at Messiah and it is bringing me full circle.  In my first year I took a seminar class called "Learning to Tell Our Stories" and over the course of the past four years I have gathered many, many, many, stories and began to create and reveal my person, my character I play in this life narrative.  Now in this final semester I am taking a class on the "Inklings" the work of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and I am brought back again to this concept of story.  Lewis believed that the  best metaphor and media to explain the human existence is story, because of the tension between the temporal and the transcendence we all grasp for as children of God.  Here is a bit of my story (our first writing assignment):

She sinks down in the chair hugging her sweatshirt tight around her stomach, trying to hold together the hollow weight of emotions that flutter inside like the tumultuous feeling of being hit square in the gut.  Her mind rushes with a flood of thoughts that erode the banks of her identity as a daughter of the king.  A life built around to-dos and a constant spiral of busyness: “You didn’t accomplish enough,” “you weren’t kind enough,” “you aren’t good enough,” intermingle with fears of hypocrisy: “you are too prideful,” “you want too much attention,” “you are too much.” She has made camp here, besieged from both sides by aggressors of pride and shame, whose arrows both pierce with insecurity.  “How do I live as His daughter? How do I make His love the foundation of my footfall?” she thinks.

A healer probes her to give a name to the “shoulds” in her life, the to-dos that she “should” accomplish, the way she “should” feel, and the Christian she “should” be.  This one word has such a grip in her life to perpetuate the internal attack on her self-worth and inheritance as a worthy daughter.  Upon uttering the words, she finally summons the voices out creating a power in naming that diminishes their strongholds in her life and exposes many as lie. 

This is her struggle.  A battle of years.  A long, unending fight that stalks her long after its seeming defeat.  She draws her own sword again trembling under its weight. 

Slice. 

The bottom two-thirds of a calculated list of tasks floats to the ground.  She makes a shaky attempt to attack pride as she chops at the to-dos by which she measures her success each day.  Between her palms, she crumples the writing and tosses it into the garbage can.  Eyes lift, empowered. 

Days pass and she falls again, easily, prey to this subtle enemy that tip toes into her life masquerading in a cloak of enviable ability and success.  Wiping tears from her eyes, fists pound the ground frustrated by her inability to just break free. “I can’t do it!” she cries in defeat ripping off all pretenses lying there exposed and broken.  In this instant different whispers whisk by tenderly sending cooling shivers down her hot, wet cheeks. “My grace is sufficient for you,” “My power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).”  Dazed she finds herself face to face with another.  Slowly, the speaker stands and she lifts with Him in an embrace, arms encircled around His form.  Arms that once clutched her hollowed and chaotic insides now clutch Him.  She breathes Him in and the fires of turmoil disappear filling with an elixir, cool and refreshing.

From her position of complete exhaustion and inability, she notices Him bend and clasp steady fingers around a handle unsheathing a blade that glints in the light He radiates.  He grasps it firm, hard, perfect, strong.

Slice.

He pierces the words of failure with victory, the chains of pride and shame with glorious freedom.

Vignettes from a Kindergarten Classroom

My student teaching semester in Kindergarten blessed me in ways more then I could have asked for or imagined.  When I started I was wholly fearful and now sitting on the other side I am thankful and affirmed in my decision to pursue teaching as both a career, service and passion.

Picture from my first day 

Here are some snapshots into my classroom written over this past semester:

“You are Reading!”

“Who thinks they can read today, I’m not sure you can. What do you think?” Sarcasm rolls off lips and hangs over 21 little heads like a pinch in the air. Heads shake and the confident, rare “yes’s” intersperse the sea of “no’s” as the kindergarteners struggle to wriggle themselves still. 

            “I’m going to show you our first sight word” She leaves the wooden rocker, uncaps the Expo, and leaves the inky trail of the word “I” on the board. 

            “What is this?”

“I,” children say.

“You just read!” she proclaims.

At this moment I notice him. “He’s my hugger,” she told me on day one.  She knows he does not get many from home. He barely reaches my hips yet tugs at her heart-strings.

At this moment he’s watching. Eyes light up.  The corners of his mouth turn ever wider in delight.  Her exclamation lights a spark in his heart. This woman whose everyday consists of stern discipline, the “move your clip,” also lives by the motto “my goal for kindergarten is that they like school.”  The juxtaposition of care and control forms her challenging crux.  She mouths, “You are reading! You are reading!” and the hard words fade.

“That was fun”

Six exit the class to work on numbers zero to ten with an aid. Miss Goetz perches at the front of the room.  With the fifteen kindergarteners left, she begins to lead counts from zero to twenty.  After the chorus stops, the fifteen flit to a new patch of carpet.  Miss Goetz drops bundles of number cards at their feet.

“Boys and girls lay the cards out starting with 0 and going to 20.”  Number lines begin popping up; straight across, two rows, looped. From the back, Mrs. Brown* calls names of students with developed number sense lugging the number board into the hall.

With lines of zero to twenty complete, Miss Goetz begins number games.

 “Who can find the 18?” Cards fly into the air. “16?” More cards.

In the back by the tables he sits. Or does everything but sits. “Matthew*, come on up here,” Miss Goetz calls. “Boys and girls, Matt* is going to clap a number and you are going to hold up that number card.” She whispers a number in his ear. He smiles and begins to clap. 1…2….3... Cards up. She directs and they clean up.  “That was fun,” Matt* proclaims. (*names changed to protect confidentiality)

Don’t Stop the Flow

            Miss Goetz sits at her desk and checks in the students as they enter the room incrementally from different waves of buses.  The students move about the room getting unpacked, making lunch choices and using the bathrooms.  Morning routines complete, they sit at their tables scribbling at morning work on beginning sounds. 

As they begin to finish, one girl comes up and asks, “Can I get a whiteboard?”

In a split second Miss Goetz makes a choice, “Sure you can get a whiteboard. Use it to find “a” words,” she says.  Eventually more and more students finish and grab boards.  Some sprawl across the floor with partners searching books for words.  Others work to search the room. Time for morning meeting comes and goes, and Miss Goetz does not stop them.  Given twenty extra minutes the students continue to explore and make their own discoveries.

Eventually a small tiff breaks out and it is only then that Miss Goetz takes back the reins and calls, “Put your things away, let’s go on to Morning Meeting.”

Wide open

I've come to this place called McCormick Park, a small stretch of grassy and gravel banks along the Yellow Breeches, in a moment of respite before a leap into my senior year professional semester. I sit now and an ant aimlessly crawls across the adjacent page (having just tickled his way down my belly). I pull blanket and journal out of my worn napsack and lean my back against the base of a large tree that spreads branches like arms forming a canopy to encircle me from afternoon sun.  Light glints on the babbling brook and I watch a small leaf drift down from over-hanging limbs until caressed and carried along the cool water's rapids. These are the tiny moments that I want to fill life with, the ones that make me feel nostalgic, wonderful and a light melancholy thoughtfulness that longs to still the heart.

I come here today to ask for life's gifts. To remember similar days back when my toes skimmed seashore and I felt at peace. This time may be a re-creation; a grasping at the more natural posture of summertime but it's also my soul's cry to carry a bit of that pace with me as I adapt to changing tides. These gifts did not end when I folded up the beach chairs and drove off the magical bridge. Yes, many turned to memory and remain only in the pulses of my heartbeat but many wait to be discovered. That is why I sit here on the two day precipice of student teaching. Not to ignore the challenges and grit of this changing time and changing role but to call on my great Gift-Giver so that I may do more than merely survive this stage of my journey. I came to take this cool margin time by the brook to recreate with my Creator where He will re-create me.  To transform the mind that so easily translates work into stress and a job into a chore, to instead send a pulse of love that turns the palms upward to ask to receive. This time to fill with Him so that what I pour out to my kindergarteners, floor, teachers, staff is swollen with love. To fill with Him that my very identity is rooted and established in love so that even my brokenness, my limitations, are still beautiful reminders of grace. To fill with Him so that in this epic chapter of action and impact there remains gift, there remains grace, and I remain wide open to receive.

Broken and beautiful

The other day I set out along the beach, bucket in hand on a mission to collect shells for Ohana, my Hawaiian themed floor this upcoming year at Messiah.  Initially as I dug my toes in the flat low tide shoreline, I set out to find beautiful, whole shells.  After a few minutes of exploring, I began to notice the plethera of broken clam shells that littered the beach.  Typically I would bypass these shells and I realized that I actually felt bad for rejecting them, knowing they would never be selected as someone's treasure.  I've had those feelings on my treks before, grimly aware of how these shells just did not make my cut of perfection.  That's when I realized that this time I wanted to pick them up and as I did I began counting out one for each woman who is about to enter Bittner 3rd in just a few days. As I walked along the shoreline, God began revealing that these seemingly ridiculous feelings for inanimate objects were actually my hearts rebellion against the standard of perfection in my own life.  What seemed nonsensical and a bit foolish turned out to be my inward plea for acceptance just the way I am.  On this journey of life, I have struggled to accept the cracked and hole-y areas of my own life.  I have tried again and again to will away my flaws and limitations, incorrectly and unknowingly submitting to a scarring message that I must fix me because I am a Christ-one.  But I can't make my imperfections vanish by sheer will power and I have spent most of my lifetime building a web of anxiety trying to reach a standard I don't believe I am made to.  Isn't that sort of missing the point? After all, isn't that the beauty of it?  That God reached down and plucked me out of the crashing waves as is?

Each time I bent over to pile one broken shell on top of another I felt more and more giddy inside, imagining the confusion of passers-by at my absurd selection.  That must be how God feels.  A little bit silly-happy as He bends over to select the broken, those that seem untouchable and places them in the palm of His hand and makes them His treasure.  I am glad that I don't have meet the standard of perfection to be loved by my Savior and it is His love that makes me whole. The broken are beautiful, not because they were broken but managed by some great effort to prove that they weren't broken, but because they were chosen as is. That's what's transformational.  That's what heals the cracks of insecurity and hurt in our lives. That's why what is broken can be called beautiful. That's grace.

As I head back to Messiah in just a few days, I lug back a bag of 50+ broken and beautiful shells for 50+ broken and beautiful women of God and I am excited to stand before my floor broken and beautiful because of Christ.  Thanks be to God for a trail of maimed seashells along the beach. Thanks be to God for the broken and beautiful, for grace.

What's in your beach bag?

I came across this link from one of my favorite LBI bloggers and tweeters and thought it'd be neat to take a peak inside my beach tote while I sit here soaking up some August rays:

-a hairbrush

-half full (optimist) water bottle

-a green shovel with a wooden stem

-white bathing suit cover up with braided straps (I've had this for years and can't seem to find a much better replacement despite a few small holes and a stain)

-two containers of bubbles

-my neon green billabong hat (which I'm actually wearing so does it count? It's typically in the bag)

-a bag if microwave popcorn ( not sure how that fits unless the sun gets hot enough to pop it without the microwave)

-two sticks of banana boat lip balm with SPF  

-my green nalgene (does it show that green is my favorite color?)

-a teensy tiny empty tube of sunscreen 

- a mason jar filled with seashells and sand dollars

-a miny tube of L'Oreal kids SPF 40 sunscreen (for my nose!)

-Christy Miller series book (corny beach read!)

That about sums up my beach bag! What's in yours?

http://www.lbisource.com/island-skinny/whats-in-your-beach-bag

When tears are a good thing

When you drive two hours into the unknown. When you can't quite jiggle the locked door free of your new dorm.  When you begin unpacking your stuff into an unfamiliar closet and a few crates in a common lounge because they don't fit in your room. When you can't sleep because your feet don't quite fit on the bed.  When you panic just a bit because the first few days of work are filled with long 9-10 hour shifts.  When faces are strange. When you are unsure of when you will make any connection. When your heart flutters a bit with the twinges of anxiety at the start of something new.

When you are asked to run down to the beach in the pouring rain.  When you bound the steps of the dorm and are greeted by your sisters. When you pull out a variety of outfit choices out of you closet and have endless free fashion advice. When your bunk mate assures you that you can let your long legs run over onto her bed at night. When you dance to the beat while cleaning up from your shifts in a psuedo flash mob giggling with the other servers. When you are welcomed to try out all three food service positions, server, kithen and dish (all but baker!). When you write encouraging messages to the dish room in the cake residue on the pan because you know you are a team. When you hang out in the pantry on your day off because that is where your friends are. When you bike to the beach at sunset to play ultimate or soccer with the whole gang. When you float for long hours in the deep ocean or when you skim across the foamy surf. When you take adventures to the lighthouse and body board at sunrise and build a sandcastle.  When you have deep conversations with friends that fill up your love tank. When you chat with your top bunk mate during gloomy weather and drift off to sleep for an afternoon catnap.  When you tow a guy friend on his longboard back from the beach on your bike. When your friends spend a late per to go out for your last night to spin around and stare at the stars.

 When you have celebrated the joy and grace filled moments of the last two-months. When you are bombarded with hugs and words of affirmation spoken like whispers to your heart. When you realize that this goodbye carries with it the transformation of uncertainty into the beautiful gift of a new family. When your eyes swell with all of the happiness, love, joy, friendship and blessings of a summer that rests heavy upon your insides as you drive away.

When tears are a good thing.

A morning well spent

Peeling out of a gravel lot with friends passing the motivated few who rush towards the dawn. Cotton candy clouds, wisps of color. We run up the dunes. A reddish orb breaks over horizon. Footfalls in the sand meet the cool, refreshing foam of the crashing waves that lag on the shoreline of low tide. Our boards slap the water, mist sprays my face from a clean wave that breaks just beyond me. I play, invigorated by the salty depths and pink rays that slant through the sky tinging the time with the adventure of sunrise. I manage to tuck into the barrel of one of the waves and am met by the compliments of one of the guys. A morning well spent. A summer well spent. A few more days by the seashore...

Just a summer night

Finished the post-dinner clean up. Cue the dining services ice cream party announced by your super visor earlier in the day. Eventually the whole staff joins in for some chocolate and vanilla goodness. 

Hop in the jeep. Top down, roommate co-pilot and another in the back. Grab some surprise

secret brother gifts for tomorrow night. 

Back to HCBC. Hit up the Davis to watch staff brothers take on the guests in basketball. Erupting cheers (and many giggles). Game ends, and knock out commences. 

Curfew. Blushing girls gush over guys and cuteness. Snuggle up to a letter from a friend. End with a read-aloud of an old favorite.

Summer nights.