On Fixing My Hem Line

On Saturday, I had the privilege of playing my guitar at a wedding. The bride wanted to surprise her groom with a special song during the ceremony, so she asked me to accompany the man who would be singing. The song we performed was the song to which the bride walked down the aisle. The groom had no idea that she wasn’t going to enter to “Here Comes The Bride.” It was a really neat surprise. But back up a few hours, though, and you will find me at home with a wardrobe malfunction. The hem had fallen out of one leg of my black dress pants. I debated leaving it as it was, figuring that no one would be paying attention to the hem of my pants. After all, I had on a black shirt, black pants, black socks, and black shoes—was the hem line even that noticeable? In the end, I decided to ask my mom if she had any stick pins. I figured I could pin the hem as a temporary fix. Here’s where my mom stepped in and did what moms tend to do. Not finding any stick pins or safety pins, she went into her closet and pulled out her sewing kit. The next thing I knew, she was telling me to sit down on the couch and put my foot on her knee. She then proceeded to stitch a “quick fix” hem line into my pants. Suddenly, I felt and looked as good as new. I felt really honored to have been asked to be part of my friend’s wedding for such a special surprise. But I felt equally as honored to have walked into the wedding looking my best because of my mom’s simple gift. Love is demonstrated to us in many different ways--big and small--surprise songs and emergency hems. When is the last time someone demonstrated his/her love to you through a simple act of service or an invaluable gift? Take a moment to answer that question now...and be grateful. I know I am.

Truth Be Told

If you haven’t heard this song, or even if you have, then take a few minutes to listen to it now—or at least read its words. It’s “Truth Be Told,” by Matthew West. I think that most of us walk around hearing lies—believing that we’re supposed to have it all together— that we must always be strong—that everybody’s life is perfect except for ours—that being broken is not okay. Even when we know that we’re listening to lies, it’s easy to believe them…and then we end up carrying such huge emotional weights that we feel burdened to the point of exhaustion—every. single. day. The truth is that being honest in a safe place—confessing reality—allowing light to shine on darkness—giving ourselves the time and space to be hurt, angry, sorry, mournful, upset, tired—letting God do God’s work of redemption, even when it’s not immediate—is the only way to “fix it.” Dear friends: I don’t know what lies you’re hearing—what weights your carrying—but I know that I will help you carry them if you trust me enough to help you hold them. I cannot fix you. I cannot guarantee a quick solution to your exhaustion. But I can be a safe place for you if you feel that you have no other place to go. All you have to do is write me, or catch me in the hallway, and I will listen to you and pray for light to begin shining on your darkness. Every day on the morning announcements, my principal ends the announcements by saying “We’re all in this together.” Let’s be in this together, friends. Let’s be those safe spaces where truth-telling is possible. Let’s be God’s hands and heart of Love and redemption in this broken, hurting world…Every. Single. Day. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4wYkS8Z3Io ------ Lie number one: You're supposed to have it all together And when they ask how you're doin', just smile and tell them, "Never better" Lie number two: Everybody's life is perfect except yours So keep your messes and your wounds and your secrets safe with you behind closed doors But truth be told The truth is rarely told, no... I say, "I'm fine, yeah, I'm fine, oh, I'm fine, hey, I'm fine" But I'm not, I'm broken And when it's out of control I say it's under control But it's not and You know it I don't know why it's so hard to admit it When bein' honest is the only way to fix it There's no failure, no fall There's no sin You don't already know So let the truth be told There's a sign on the door, says, "Come as you are" but I doubt it 'Cause if we lived like that was true, every Sunday mornin' pew would be crowded But didn't You say church should look more like a hospital? A safe place for the sick, the sinner and the scarred, and the prodigals, like me But truth be told, the truth is rarely told Oh, am I the only one who says... "I'm fine, yeah, I'm fine, oh, I'm fine, hey, I'm fine" But I'm not, I'm broken And when it's out of control I say it's under control But it's not and You know it I don't know why it's so hard to admit it When bein' honest is the only way to fix it There's no failure, no fall There's no sin You don't already know So let the truth be told Can I really stand here unashamed Knowin' that Your love for me won't change? Oh God, if that's really true Then let the truth be told

Naming Grace

We have a difficult parent in the car rider line. She's been rude to a few of us a few different times and she's unsafely tried to go around traffic when she hasn't wanted to wait to leave. I was complaining about this to a friend, explaining how the mom's children are somewhat difficult, too, when my friend casually responded, "She probably has a mood disorder." I suddenly felt bad for complaining about the parent and not extending her more grace. I know that I know that I know that there is almost always more than meets the eye. When I told Joe the Counselor about all of this, he listened attentively. He appreciated my friend's gentle reminder and smiled at my knowing. But he also said, "You know. Sometimes it's nice just to be able call a person a name and be okay with it." I smiled. Joe is right. But my friend's reminder was right, too. It's good to name our feelings in safe spaces. It's good to be honest about the responses that other's behaviors invoke. Stuffing everything inside for too long can slowly eat away at the core. But it's also good to be gracious to people and to imagine life from a viewpoint not our own. I understand life from the viewpoint of a teacher during the pandemic. But I don't understand life from the viewpoint of a parent during the pandemic--especially not the parent of difficult children. I understand life from the viewpoint of a person living with generalized anxiety disorder. But I don't understand life from the viewpoint of someone living with bi-polar disorder, or borderline personality disorder, or major depressive disorder, or any number of other mood disorders. So I should be gracious. And kind. Even when it's hard. But not when it isn't safe. And even then, I can be firm without being rude... I saw our difficult parent in the car rider line this morning. At first, I cringed when she rolled to my station. Inwardly, I was worried that she'd fuss at me. But I simply smiled and said, "Good morning," just as I do to everyone. I silently wished her well and said a little prayer for her. Then she rolled away without incident. And I smiled.

And I Laughed

I ran into the wall with my cart last week. Seriously. I was the only person in the hallway. I wasn’t trying to avoid anything. I had a straight-shot to my Kindergarten classroom. And yet, my front-wheel-steering cart steered itself right into the wall. I looked around to see if anyone had seen this amazingly stupid accomplishment. Then I shook my head and laughed 😊… Fifteen years ago this summer, I went to a Centering Prayer workshop. I didn’t know it at the time, but that workshop would become my beginning in mindfulness practice—a practice that seeks to keep the mind, heart, soul, body, and spirit focused on the realities of right now rather than the made-up-stories of “what-if.” That summer, and in the months and years to follow, I spent a lot of time judging myself for not getting the practice of centering prayer right. As I tried to center my mind and focus on God’s present reality, I caught my mind wandering to the past or future—thoughts that were far from Godly entering my consciousness—noise filling what was supposed to be silence—and I got frustrated. I deemed myself a failure and stopped the practice session in frustration. Yet still I tried…and tried…and tried…until I finally learned that it’s not about getting it right or wrong—it’s not about judging—it’s about noticing—and being present. In time, my practice has shifted from solely specific times of centering prayer to daily ways of living. I pray throughout the day every day. I say, “Dear God…” so many times a day that I sometimes wonder if God would like to forget God’s name! But now I say, “Dear God…” and share whatever is on my mind and heart. When I start to wander away into made-up-stories of “what-if,” I ask God to help me focus on this moment—what I can feel, see, hear, taste, touch, experience, control, and handle in this moment—and then I try to show up in the moment—even when it’s hard. I try to breathe when I need to reset. I try to welcome the anxious feelings with grace when I am worried. I try to feel the tension in my body and literally shake it off when I’m stressed. I try to remain present right now and remember, “Not me. Not mine,” when I find myself stuck and overburdened by the weights of this world. There is only so much that I can do to fix a broken humanity. I pray for God to show me what I CAN do rather than allowing evil to show me everything I can’t… Almost every teacher I know would quit right now if he/she could. Tension and stress are at an all-time high while respect, morale, and feelings of effectiveness are at an all-time low. For me, cart-life is tough. I feel all of the tension and stress as I roll throughout the building. I absorb the energy of the system that I cannot control. It’s hard. It hurts. It’s draining. And there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. Yet I ran into the wall with my cart the other day. And I laughed. In that moment, rushing from one classroom to another, wondering if my technology was going to work and if my lesson was going to engage my students, I laughed. I didn’t judge myself for wrongfully running into the wall. Instead, I showed up and was present for a funny moment. And that one moment propelled me to the next…and the next…and the next… Let’s be mindful people, friends. Not because it is trendy. Or because it is easy. Or because we think it will relieve all of our stress. But because it reminds us to show up to life and notice it—in all of its joys and sorrows—and it allows us to celebrate the small victories of running into walls with carts in the midst of palpable stress…and laughing. Amen? And amen.

Grasshoppers

A grasshopper got stuck in my car on Tuesday. At first, I was scared by a bug frantically jumping around the car while I drove. Then I moved from scared to sad--a bug frantically jumping around the car while I drove, trying so hard to get out, but failing with every thud on the windshield. When I stopped, I tried to guide the grasshopper out of the car, but I couldn't get him to understand that he needed to go toward the open window instead of the closed windshield. So I left my windows open all night, thinking that he'd eventually figure it out. He didn't. The grasshopper scared me again yesterday morning when he started frantically jumping around the car while I drove. Trying but failing again to guide him out of the car and still feeling sad for his diligent but misguided attempts at freedom, I decided to leave my windows open during the day yesterday, hoping that he'd eventually figure things out. He did! The grasshopper was gone when I got in the car to go home yesterday afternoon!... Sometimes, I think we're all just a bunch of grasshoppers--hopping around in search of freedom. Sometimes, we find ourselves in places we don't want to be, stuck. Sometimes, we try the same damaging escape over and over again, not realizing that our attempts are futile. Sometimes, we don't realize we need help. Sometimes, we refuse to follow the help that's given. Sometimes, we have to figure things out on our own. And sometimes, just sometimes, when we figure things out, we realize that we are not in the place where we started and that, come what may, we must move forward from there... Here's to hopping, my friends--out open windows and into the great unknown.

Always Expecting Something

Yesterday, my mom and dad returned home from a five-day beach get-away. While gone, they were able to see the beauty of God’s creation, celebrate long-time friendships, and enjoy the company of my sister’s family. Almost as soon as he walked in the door, though, my dad was ready to leave again to go to the post office. He needed to check the mail. It didn’t matter that he had a stack of mail from the street box already waiting. He almost always does this. It’s as if someone is going to take the mail out of the box if he doesn’t remove it immediately. I finally said to him, “Are you expecting something or something?” Without missing a beat, he said, “Yes. I’m always expecting something. I just don’t know what it is.” He’s always expecting something. He just doesn’t know what it is. What a way to live life! Always expecting to find something good, Always looking out for it as if it has arrived, Always hoping for its existence, Whether it’s there or not. He knows that the PO Box is full of mostly junk. He knows that the non-junk is usually bills. And still he hopes. Still he waits. For that one card, That one check, That one piece of something good. I went to check the mail for my dad. It was mostly bills and flyers. But sure enough, there was one card. And he got it. And then he started hoping for the good of tomorrow. Let’s keep hoping, friends. There is good to come. Better yet. Let’s be that good for one another…

Kids

I was sharing a song from 1928. I emphasized how long ago that was— Almost 100 years! I didn’t put the clip on full screen because there wasn’t anything special to watch. The kids could see the video information. “That was posted in 2014! Wow! That’s a long time ago!” I read in the chat box. “I was 2. OMG.” I laughed. Kids have little to no concept of time. I was standing on car duty, Taking temperatures and asking about Covid symptoms, But not opening car doors. I didn’t tend her car because I was with someone else, But I heard her as she exclaimed: “Hi, everyone! I’mmmmm Mia!” I saw her, too—arms opening in the air with a confident flourish, like Ta-da! I’m here! I laughed. Kids have little to no concept of modesty or shame. Kids are not born stressed out with no time. Kids are not made to hate and commit crimes. Kids learn what we teach them, whether good or bad. Kids learn what they are shown, whether happy or sad. I was talking to a student this morning, Trying to get her to put her head through the rolled-down window Because I can’t reach into cars. She didn’t respond. She looked off in the distance. “She’s got special needs,” I thought. But I followed as she happily went with the crowd All the way to her room. I smiled. Kids have little to no problem with resilience and trust. May we be worthy of their trust, Their boldness, And their innocence. Always. Amen.

Big Black Truck and Little White Dog

On Saturday, I lay in my hammock Fretting about the uncertainties of students returning to school. I knew I shouldn’t be worrying. Because worrying would do no good for anyone. Yet still I lay there worrying because worrying gave me some sort of control. Then I saw the cutest sight: A big black truck trailed by a little white dog. My dad was driving to the dump pile At the back of the yard, Making stops along the way to pick up pinecones and yardwork tools. Where the truck went, Bullet faithfully followed. Bullet does this around the house, too— Follows my dad wherever he goes. But I’d never seen him follow the truck. And the contrast between big and small, Black and white, working just fine and struggling with his back left hip, Was just so very poignant that for a few moments I stopped worrying. For a few moments, I lay in my hammock celebrating joy—and unconditional love. For a few moments, Everything in the world was right.

Let Your Light Shine

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” --Ian Maclaren Lost in the darkness My soul tosses about: Help me! I’m drowning! I can’t see To find my way out. Lost in the wilderness My heart cries in pain: Save me! I’m perishing! I can’t move— I’m paralyzed again. Just a pinprick of light; Just a small ray of hope. That’s all I need— Then I can cope. Found in the dark wilderness My whole being shouts: You saved me From dying! I can see— You led me out. ------ I think that most of us are searching for Light in this dark work. Let’s be Light and Love to one another, friends. Even if a pinprick is all we can muster.