On Sam's Birthday

 

Today is St. Patrick’s Day.

Today is also Baby Sam‘s birthday.

Baby Sam was born 11 years ago. 

He, like all babies, had black poop when he pooped for the first time. 

I didn’t know this was the norm, 

So I was shocked.  

Sam’s mom, A, through her post birth pains, 

Laughed at me. 

 

Baby Sam lived a good life. 

He was well-loved by his Mama, Papa, and big sister,

As well as his extended family and friends. 

Baby Sam died when he was just six months old.

His life and death made a huge impact on all who knew him, 

Not the least of which was me. 

 

There are a lot of things we will never understand in life,

Sudden Infant death syndrome being one of them.

There are a lot of things that are sad and unfair and infuriating and crazy making and 

They leave us hurt and angry and lost and confused. 

 

Our tendency in life is to want to control  things. 

But some things can’t be controlled. 

Yet when we’re hurt and angry and lost and confused, 

We want to control things even more. 

We want to fix things. 

We want to make everything better.

We want to make sweeping changes that will put everything into balance. 

And then we get overwhelmed because it seems like there is nothing we can do because the problem is too great. 

 

In the movie Frozen Two, 

At her moment of deepest despair,

When all seems lost,

Anna sings this song: 

 

I've seen dark before

But not like this

This is cold

This is empty

This is numb

The life I knew is over

The lights are out

Hello, darkness

I'm ready to succumb

 

I follow you around

I always have

But you've gone to a place I cannot find

This grief has a gravity

It pulls me down

But a tiny voice whispers in my mind

"You are lost, hope is gone

But you must go on

And do the next right thing"

 

Can there be a day beyond this night?

I don't know anymore what is true

I can't find my direction, I'm all alone

The only star that guided me was you

How to rise from the floor

When it's not you I'm rising for?

Just do the next right thing

Take a step, step again

It is all that I can to do

The next right thing

 

I won't look too far ahead

It's too much for me to take

But break it down to this next breath

This next step

This next choice is one that I can make

 

So I'll walk through this night

Stumbling blindly toward the light

And do the next right thing

And with the dawn, what comes then

When it's clear that everything will never be the same again?

Then I'll make the choice

To hear that voice

And do the next right thing

 

Friends:

No matter where you find yourself today, 

Or in this season of life, 

I pray that you will stop trying to control 

Everything 

And just do the next right thing. 

 

Amen. 

Blessing of the Backpacks

It gets me every time. 

The blessing of the backpacks. 

The first year, it was the whole concept. 

Last year, it was the opening of hands to receive the blessing. 

Yesterday, it was my sweet 5th grade friend Caius. 

After admitting that he was not looking forward to going back to school, 

He announced that the only thing he was looking forward to was seeing his teacher. 

He added his friends as a PS. 

“But mostly my teacher,” he said—

His teacher who looped up with his class because she liked them so much—

His teacher whom he knows and loves because she knows and loves him as well. 

 

…

 

I spent at least three hours over the weekend typing up my class lists and making my grade book. 

It would have been much easier to ask my data manager for the lists electronically and then to copy and paste them, 

But typing out the names allowed me to remember. And pray. And feel out class make-up. 

It was a step in processing the beginning of the year. 

It was an exercise in patience and perseverance. 

It was a simple gesture of love. 

 

…

 

I teach over 600 students per year.

Learning names isn’t always easy,

But I do my best to learn names because names are important.

Names help us feel seen and heard and valued.

Caius’s teacher sees him, hears him, and values him.

She is why he wants to go back to school.

 

…

 

If I could be the reason that just one of my students wants to come back to school,

Then it would all be worth it.

Just one of those names.

Just one of those little people.

If I’m there for just one student to feel safe,

And seen,

And heard,

And valued,

Then I am there for the world.

…

 

Oh God: Help me hold to the one. Even if I never know which one it is. Amen.

Good Helper Dee

A few weeks ago, my mom commented that she needed me to stay home for one month so that I could help her clean out the attic.

Thanks to Covid-19, she got her wish…and then some.

Every day since last Tuesday, we have spent time in the attic—sorting, arranging, rearranging, remembering, laughing, crying, throwing things away, giving things away, keeping things right where they were, feeling encouraged, feeling discouraged, and lots of things in between.

We have cleaned out three car loads of thrift store stuff and three car loads of empty boxes and trash.

We now know everything that is being stored in half of the attic. Over the next few weeks, we will hopefully figure out everything else.

Today, I found this little card that made me smile. It fell out of my elementary school keepsakes and very simply says: Good Helper Deanna.

Evidently, even at a young age, I was already showing tendencies to help.

Right now, in the midst of this global health crisis, I am feeling a bit helpless to help anyone other than my mom with the attic. I know that I am helping society by sheltering in place as much as possible. I know that I can help by donating money to worthy causes. I know that I can do my job and provide my students with little rays of musical sunshine. But other than that…I feel pretty helpless…and I know I’m not the only one.

Oh God of Help and Hope: Grant us peace and purpose in these times of helplessness and despair. Even in the small things, remind us that we have a purpose much bigger than ourselves and help us to remember that life is most fully lived in the journey, not the outcome. We love you, God. Amen.

As Children Think

During my Kindergarten class on Monday, two of my boys spent most of the class period with arms wrapped around one another’s backs, smiling as they were singing their ABC’s and dancing happily around the room.

They didn’t care that they were both boys.

They didn’t care that their skin was different colors.

They didn’t care that earlier in the day they had been arguing with one another.

All they cared about was having a friend beside them, connected to them, in that very moment.

How much better would this world be if we were like these two boys? Not caring about gender or race—not holding grudges—but just being in the moment with a friend?

God, help us to live with the simple, innocent, open eyes of children and to enjoy our lives and the people you’ve placed in them every moment of every day. Amen.

Spelling Bee Cooperation

Today was the annual school spelling-bee and my fourth year serving as pronouncer for the event. I really enjoy this job, but it’s surprisingly difficult.

Each year, the national spell bee people produce an official list of spelling bee words, complete with word origin, pronunciation, part of speech, definition, and sentence. If the word is a homonym or one that sounds like another word, then the pronouncer must share that information. All other information is up to pronouncer discretion or shared upon participant request.

While the words are in a formal list, each school has freedom to select which words it will use. Additionally, each participant is given a number and referred to as that number for the entire bee. Since one never knows if a participant will get his/her word correct, one cannot pre-number the words.

Therefore, the pronouncer must keep track of which word she is on, who the word belongs to (by number), if the participant gets the word right or wrong, how the information will influence other rounds, what round she is in, etc. I was reading, calling, marking, and making notes all at the same time.

Again, I enjoyed it, but it was surprisingly difficult. I’m glad I am fairly organized.

Each year’s bee is different. Sometimes the kids are nervous. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes the kids are dressed up. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes lots of kids get out quickly. Sometimes they do not. Sometimes the final battle lasts for a long time. Sometimes it does not. Sometimes a champion is immediately declared. Sometimes it is not. Sometimes the championship word is missed and a winner cannot be declared until another final battle has been fought and another championship word has been announced.

What made this year’s bee unique, though, was the camaraderie that the participants shared. Once it got down to just a few participants, they were openly cheering for one another—giving each other high fives and fist bumps. They wanted their competitors to spell their words correctly. They wanted to see each other succeed.

Yes. The spelling bee is a competition. Yes. Each kid wanted to win. But the view from the pronouncers chair today was one of little animosity and lots of good cheer and, well, it made this pronouncer smile…and have to look up how to spell camaraderie just to complete this note .

Never Any Less

“I always have one main goal for all of the classes I teach. I want my students to leave my class with more poker chips than they came with.” --Alice Hammel, Teaching Music to Students with Autism

Imagine that each of us is born with a certain amount of poker chips. As we go through our first years of life, people constantly add to our pile or take away from our pile. They add to it by paying attention to us, talking to us, spending time with us, saying kind things to us, making sure that we have everything we need. They take away from it by ignoring us, yelling us, saying mean things to us, not caring when we are lacking that which we need.

By the time we enter Kindergarten, we arrive with different numbers of chips. Some of us arrive with a bunch. Some of us arrive with only a few.

As with those who gamble, those of us who have a bunch of chips are more willing to take risks and try new things because we have more to fall back on if we mess up or lose. If, however, we only have a few chips, then we are less likely to take risks. Things become more calculated and we have to decide what we are willing to risk and what we are determined to hold onto.

The same holds true for the rest of our lives.

I have a new goal for all of the classes I teach—and all of the relationships I keep. I want my students to leave my class and my people to leave my presence with more poker chips in their love tank buckets than they came with—and never any less.

Never any less.

AIG Egg Beater

Because of the aftermath of Hurricane Matthew, we may not have another teacher workday this year. That being said, I’ve been doing everything I can do to utilize these days. So far, my days have been spent organizing responsibilities outside of my classroom. Yesterday, I worked to organize our school-wide writing challenge and classroom incentive plan. Today, I worked on a promotional brochure for the school, wrote a lot of e-mails, discussed our school improvement plan, and did quite a bit of research on AIG. AIG is an area that I don’t know a lot about, and it’s an area for which I have chosen to do a project for my classes at Campbell.

AIG: Academically and Intellectually Gifted.
Formerly AG: Academically Gifted.
Formerly GT: Gifted and Talented.

Growing up, I was labeled as Gifted and Talented. I have two memories relating specifically to this label.

1) In elementary school (sometime between 4th and 8th grades), my friends and I were pulled for a GT class. It was cold in the trailer where we went for class and for some reason the teacher left us alone for a few minutes. While she was gone, my friends and I found an old fashioned egg beater/hand mixer—the kind that you crank by hand. Naturally, my friends and I chased each other around the trailer trying to attack each other with the egg beater.

2) Governor’s School. Because of my GT label, I was able to go to Governor’s School. I went for six weeks during the summer after my sophomore year. That summer was life-changing in many ways, not the least of which was introducing me to my horn instructor that would eventually lead me to Meredith College. That summer was the also the first time that I truly understood that there were people my age who were not Christian and had not grown up influenced by Christian belief.

So even though I benefited from the GT label, I have only those memories of the program, and while I know that the program has changed a lot over the years—which is subtly shown in the name changes—I don’t know a lot about what has changed—or what was even there in the first place! GT was bound to be more than an egg-beater chase!

Hence the project.

I got to choose from four categories: Limited English Proficient, Behaviorally Challenged, Poverty, or AIG. I was undecided between the last three categories until the sign-up sheet came to me. I was last to sign the sheet, and no one else had signed up for AIG, so AIG it was. I deal with the effects of challenging behaviors and poverty every day. In fact, I deal with them so much that I don’t even know where to begin to do a specific project. But AIG is something I can learn about and do. I think. So I will try.

Part of my job is to figure out how to see and teach all of my students because all of my students are worth it. Highest, lowest, and everything in between. Maybe I should get an egg beater, though, just in case.

Land of Plenty

We live in a land of plenty. If one ever doubts this fact, then all she has to do is turn on HGTV and watch its programming for a couple of hours. Granted, our plenty is not equally distributed and too many of us take for granted the backs on which our plenty stands, but that is a note for another night.

A few weeks ago, during my Saturday Sabbath, my mom and I stumbled onto a Tiny House Marathon. Ever since that day, I’ve been turning on HGTV to try to find another Tiny House Marathon. In the process, I’ve found myself watching a plethora of different shows—and talking to the TV quite a bit, almost always making the wrong decision when given a choice between house 1, 2, or 3.

Last night during a few of the rare moments that I’ve been awake this Memorial Day Weekend—I’ve been trying to beat a chest cold that settled in at the end of last week—I found myself watching a beachfront property show where the couple was looking for a new home for their family. The husband and wife were both lawyers and their budget was between two and three million dollars. Yes, million. When talking about their children, the couple said that the kids were, “energetic, especially the boy.” When interacting with the kids, the couple was very awkward. And when talking about how happy they were with their new home, the couple was playing tennis, marveling about how much less stress they feel with their new life, and how happy they are to have made the move—and their children were nowhere to be seen.

Evidently, this show bothered me so much that I dreamed about it. In my dream, I met the nanny who quite clearly was the person raising the children and said, “I knew it. I knew that they had a nanny. I knew that they were hands-off parents and that those segments were staged.” In my dream, too, the boy was identified autistic, which I would wager money that he, in real life, should be but that he will not be because his parents will not want the diagnosis.

I know. I’m sounding very judgmental and investing a lot of emotional energy into something far beyond my reality. But I can’t seem to get it off my mind. Maybe I’m jealous of the money and properties and wishing that I could have three million dollars to invest in a tropical island home. But I don’t think that’s it. I think I’m bothered by how expendable the children seemed in that segment—and in other segments as well. Today, for instance, a couple opted to spend their “nanny budget” on a beachfront property and to push back their efficiency date of having a child exactly one year and nine months.

Another thing I’ve been quietly reflecting on is the fact that no one—on any of the shows that I’ve seen—ever—has spoken about finding a home—huge or tiny—permanent or vacation—that is close to any kind of place of worship. Space for entertaining, amazing views, making the most of life, de-stressing, being within walking distance of shops and bars, granite countertops and open floor plans, living environmentally friends—I’ve heard a lot about those. But having somewhere to do yoga is the closest I’ve come to hearing anything about faith—and this may have had less to do with faith and spirituality and more to do with flexibility and good health. Maybe it’s a network editing rule. I don’t know. But faith and faith communities seem a non-priority on these shows. And this, too, bothers me.

We live in a land of plenty. We have so very, very much. Even our tiny houses are bigger and nicer than many homes around the world. Yet when our plenty causes us to lose site of our children and to live life to our present fullest with little to no thought of leaving the world a better place, is our plenty worth it?

Dear God, we come to you tonight aware of the many good things that life has given—and the many people who have died to make these good things possible. Help us to turn our plenty into so much more than we can imagine and to devote our lives—our time, devotion, talents, and resources—not just to living our lives to the fullest but to helping others live their lives to the fullest as well. Children, teenagers, adults. Body, soul, mind, spirit, and strength.--Amen.

"You Made Me Feel Safe"

We do a writing/art challenge each week at Johnsonville. It’s normal for some challenges to be more popular than others, but last week’s challenge took the prize for most popular challenge ever. The challenge? “If you were a super hero, then what would your super hero name be and what super hero powers would you have? You can also make yourself a villain.” The three most memorable were Super Cheetoh (who turned bad guys into cheetohs so that they could be eaten), Puzzel Master (who is able to easily solve puzzles), and Rotten Tooth Man (who punishes people by making their teeth rot).

We had so many entries last week that I was still sorting through them this week! As such, I didn’t create a normal challenge of the week. Instead, I challenged students to write a thank you note to one of their favorite teachers as an extension of last week’s Teacher Appreciation Week.
My part in the challenge was to sort, compile, and deliver the notes to teachers.

As I was beginning my part today, I found myself smiling quite a bit. It always makes me chuckle to read what goes on inside kids’ minds. But then I came to a note that made me come to a screeching teary-eyed halt. The note very simply said, “In Kindergarten, you made me feel safe…You will always be my favorite teacher.”

When I think of my favorite teacher—my Junior English teacher—I think of a teacher who made me feel safe. At that point in life, I had just moved from the city where I’d grown up and my whole world had turned upside down. In the midst of it all, through her calm, steady presence, my English teacher made me feel safe. And she encouraged me to write. And writing gave me a safe place. For that, I will always be grateful.

What about you? Who was (or is) your favorite teacher? Did he/she made you feel safe? And teachers, are you creating a safe place for your students? Friends: this is your writing challenge of the week! Share your answers here.

Little Love Monsters

I think I’ve accidentally created some little monsters.

I’m pretty sure that my favorite artist other than Barb the Art Teacher, Fabio Napoleoni, could sketch an image perfectly depicting the monsters’ creation. In fact, I’d commission him to do this sketch if I had the money to pay for it!

Picture me standing in the front hallway of the school, right in front of a set of double doors that are placed at the intersection of a T.

Picture a 36 inch stool in front of me, my Willard sitting on top of the stool, me working on morning announcements while monitoring the comings and goings around me.

I open the door for bus drivers, stop wayward parents from going too far into the building, speak firmly to kids loitering in the bathroom, say good morning to both students and staff over and over again, and give quite a few hugs.

It’s in the saying good morning that I’ve accidentally created little monsters.

I have one little monster who hugs me every morning and stays right beside me until I kiss him on his forehead. I’ve written about him before.

I have another little monster who slowly walks toward me every morning and pretends not to be waiting for me to say, “Good morning, handsome,” but is really waiting for me to say, “Good morning, handsome,” at which point a tiny, almost unnoticeable smile appears on his face and he proudly walks to class.

I have one little monster who expects to see me in place each morning, lest her morning start in anxious tears.

I have at least five little monsters who stop for a hug every morning and many more who stop at least a couple of times a week.

I have a handful of 5th grade boy monsters who like to walk past and speak to me about random 5th grade boy things. Last week, when the question of the week was to write about someone you admire, one of those boys wrote that he admired me for teaching him music and for always making his mornings better. Now. Sometimes I get answers that I’m pretty sure are written to sway my opinion toward that student’s writing because the student wants a prize. For instance, a student once wrote that if he could go anywhere in the world then he would go to Beethoven’s house :-). But what got me about my 5th grade morning monster’s answer was that he added the little detail of me making his morning better. Until that moment, I’d not considered my 5th grade boy conversations overly important. But evidently, they are. Right down to conversations about shoes and hair cuts.

Friends, I have accidentally created a bunch of little monsters:

Little love monsters.

It’s one of the greatest privileges I can think for a person to have.

To all of you, especially teachers, who daily create and influence little love monsters, too: Thank you. Thank you for giving love and receiving love and teaching others to love in such a way that differences are accepted and quirks embraced and personalities nurtured exactly as they are.

Amen.

Pay Attention

I think it’s an unspoken understanding that we, as humans, want other people to pay attention to us. Though sometimes we many want to remain unnoticed, most of time we want to be seen and heard. Children demonstrate this fact loudly and openly when they act out to receive attention. Teenagers demonstrate this fact loudly and openly when they film themselves doing ridiculous stunts in hopes of becoming a YouTube sensation. Adults demonstrate this fact loudly and openly when we leave passive-aggressive or cryptic messages on Facebook. Truth be told, sometimes the lines of action between children, teenagers, and adults get crossed so blurrily that adults end up acting out like children.

As a human teacher, then, it’s no surprise that I want my students to pay attention to me. I want them to listen and learn and I want them to gain knowledge and information that will help shape their lives in a positive way. This is always my hope—to be heard—but oftentimes I get the impression that my students hear more of the teacher in Charlie Brown than they do me…especially when it comes to the morning announcements.

So this afternoon when one of my students repeated something I’d said on this morning’s announcements, I smiled.

I gave a shout-out to a 2nd grade boy who showed kindness yesterday. He was one of my helpers but sat down and started to find his page number before realizing that he’d forgotten to give his neighbor a book. Just as he got up to get the missing book, he realized that he could give her his book—open to the proper page—and get himself another book. He was very sweet and chivalrous with his actions and had no idea that I was watching him. I told that little

Just as today’s helpers were finishing book distribution, one of my helpers came to my desk and said, “I forgot to give Alex a book so I gave him mine and got myself another one.” I inwardly smiled and said, “Well that was very nice of you. You just showed kindness, just like I gave a shout-out for on the announcements this morning.” She proudly nodded her head, grinned, and walked back to her seat.

Just the other day, I posted a Stephen Sondheim quote that says, "Careful the things you say; Children will listen. Careful the things you do; Children will see and learn. Children may not obey, but children will listen. Children will look to you for which way to turn; To learn what to be. Careful before you say 'Listen to me’; Children will listen."

They really do listen.
They really do pay attention.
And they really do just want us to pay attention to them.
And they are us.
And we are them.
Children. Teenagers. Adults.
Wanting to be seen and heard.

End It: Shed Light On Modern Day Slavery

One of my most vivid memories is of an experience that I had on a women’s retreat in Charleston, SC. Late one night, as I walked through the large yard separating the house from the beach, I looked to the sky and located the big dipper. Almost immediately, I started singing “Follow The Drinking Gourd,” imagining myself as a slave running for freedom, walking under the cover of night, having little more to guide me than a constellation in the sky. I quickly determined that I would have been caught.

I have been teaching “Follow The Drinking Gourd” for many years. It’s one of the units that my students enjoy the most, and this year has been no different. Between an excellent Reading Rainbow video about the song, the real gourds that one of my coworkers gave me, the textbooks, and a super interactive game by National Geographic, I have been able to present information that has truly fascinated and resonated with many of my students.

Since taking some time away from the classroom and working heavily on educating about and fighting against human exploitation, I have found myself fighting back tears more than once when students have breathed a sigh of relief that slavery is no longer legal—or when they’ve asked if slavery still exists and I’ve had to lie to them—or at least highly edit the truth…

…Because the truth is that slavery is still very much alive in this world—this country not excluded.
The truth is that hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children are held against their will, used, beaten, demeaned, destroyed, bought, and sold every day.
The truth is that slaves are brought to America not just from Africa but from destinations around the world.
The truth is that slaves are held in or sent out of America from households just around the corner.
The truth is that the clothes and shoes that we wear and the coffee and chocolate we eat and drink is likely produced by slaves.
The truth is that slaves are not just working in homes and fields but in restaurants, hotels, nail salons, and massage parlors in our own cities.
The truth is that some of my students are vulnerable to becoming slaves themselves—to being lured by the promise of money and a better life but landing instead in invisible chains nearly impossible to break.
The truth is that most of the sex workers that we often condemn and the persons seen in the pornography that many Christians secretly watch and that is creating addictions in children as young as 8-years-old are modern day slaves. Held against their will. Used. Beaten. Demeaned. Destroyed. Bought. Sold. Every day.

But I can’t tell my students that. My students are far too young to hear of these atrocities from their public school music teacher. So I tell them stories of the past and teach them songs of courage and hope and pray that they will grow to learn about and fight the slavery that indeed exists under the drinking gourd and beyond.

Message from a 1st Grader

Believe it or not, I have another 1st grade story to share…

At the beginning of class today, one of my students, A, came directly to my desk instead of going to his seat. When I got up to greet the class, he followed me. After I hugged him and he didn’t go sit down—which is usually what happens when I have a lingerer—I asked if he needed something. He said he wanted to tell me something. I said okay and started to listen but continued monitoring the rest of the class. I often do this, too, because most of the time students want to tell me something completely random—like their uncle’s girlfriend is having a birthday this weekend or their bug bite itches—have me acknowledge them, and then return to their seats.

Since A never said anything—he’s a pretty quiet kid—and the class came in a bit crazy, I quickly started the welcome song for focus. A went to his seat, sang along, completed our entire class welcome routine, but evidently didn’t forget that he wanted to tell me something because he came right back to me the moment we finished our welcome and said, “Can I tell you now?”

Realizing that he really wanted to tell me something but assuming it was something quick, I gave A my full attention. The class quickly slipped back into crazy but I tried my best to focus on A. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about because he was reciting something about his sister. Then I realized that he was sharing a voice-mail message that his mom had left on Sunday night.

“Oh, oh, oh!” I said. “You’re telling me a message that your mom left you! Do you not live with your mom?”

“No,” he said, “she lives in another town. But she called on Sunday night and this is what she said.”

He then proceeded to speak the clearest and most confidently I’d ever heard him speak, quoting his mom’s message verbatim, as if her words were the greatest words he’s ever heard.

She didn’t say anything profound. She wasn’t imparting life wisdom to her children. She had very simply called them, missed them, said that’d try to call back around 6 that night, and told them that she loved them.

Yet her words were absorbed by her 1st grade son’s heart and mind like water is absorbed by a sponge.
And he was so happy.
And he was so proud.
And he was so affected by his mom’s phone call that he had to tell his music teacher about the call four days later.

Friends, take what you will from this story—the importance and power of words, the impact of a phone call, the need for presence, the need for love, the brokenness of family, the reminder that kids crave their parents attention, the challenge to focus your attention on the person in front of you instead of all of the distractions around you. As for me, I’ll take the memory of A’s bright eyes and determined mouth boldly reciting a phone message of hope and I’ll pray that hope, not jaded disappointment, will be the dominant force that pushes him through the 1st grade and beyond.

Just Another Day In Elementary School

Something weird happened during 1st grade music today: a student got a piece of plastic stuck between his teeth.

Instead of placing his coat on the back of his chair, one of my students evidently decided to put part of his coat in his mouth.

Maybe he had a little piece of food lingering from lunch. Maybe that little piece of food was bothering him so much that he needed to remove it. And maybe the little piece of plastic on his coat seemed like the perfect thing to remove that little piece of food.

I don’t know.

For some reason, my student decided to stick a piece of plastic between his teeth. And it got stuck. It got really stuck.

When I first noticed that something was wrong, I thought that the kid was trying to pull out a tooth and that he had pulled a string from his coat to help him do this. Thinking this a bit odd, I started some dance music for the rest of the class and walked back to check on the tooth removal operation.

I quickly noticed, though, that he wasn’t trying to remove a tooth and that the thing dangling from his mouth wasn’t a thin string but a somewhat thick piece of plastic. Thankfully, when I looked at what was going on, I didn’t see blood gushing from his gums. I also didn’t see any reason that that little piece of plastic should be so wedged in his mouth.

Then it hit me: My 1st grader had the remainder of a price tag stuck in his mouth. Having put the “T” behind his teeth, close to the roof of his mouth, he had gotten it so tightly wedged that he couldn’t get it out. When he pulled the plastic forward and down, the “T” simply hit his teeth. The harder he pulled, the more futile his attempt to dislodge it. Unless, of course, he had been trying to pull out a few teeth!

As the class began to fall apart from a minute of unsupervised dancing, I began to feel a bit panicked. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a 1st grader with a coat hanging from his mouth! I knew the weight of the coat was not good for his teeth but I also knew that I couldn’t get the plastic dislodged without gloving up and doing a lot of work that I wasn’t capable of doing in the middle of a falling-apart class.

Then it hit me: Cut the plastic! The tag might still be lodged in my student’s mouth but at least the coat wouldn’t be hanging from it as well. So I cut the plastic.

Then I remembered: Thursday is nurse day at my school!

A little while after sending my 1st grader to the nurse, the nurse called to see if his class was still with me. They were leaving. My student was leaving, too. The class was going back into the building. My student was going home. With a piece of plastic hanging from his mouth, stuck between his teeth. The nurse couldn’t dislodge it either.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.
“Me either,” I responded.
Then we both laughed in disbelief,
I silently wished some dentist luck,
And I taught two more plastic-free classes.
Thankfully :-).

Miss D's Handling It

Barb The Art Teacher’s 2nd grade daughter, Dae, was given a music project to complete for class. Her task? Design and create a working musical instrument. The examples sent home with the assignment? None that a 2nd grade child could do on her own.

B and I brainstormed lots of fun instruments that Dae could make. But Dae was set on one idea: a xylophone. Even though B had to explain to Dae that a xylophone made from sticks would not work, Dae was not deterred. In fact, she was never even the slightest bit concerned about the project because Dae wholeheartedly believed one thing: Her project was going to be great because Miss D was handling it.

Did Miss D know that Miss D was handling Dae’s project? No. But Dae knew it. So after a very busy day at work today—2 duties, 6 classes, no planning, 1 rehearsal, and 1 meeting—Miss D went to Dae’s house to handle the project.

If you look at the picture attached to this note, then you’ll see the instrument that we created: a homemade boomwhacker xylophone. We started with golf tubes and a paper box, used all of the tools that you see on the table, and ended with this. And sure enough, it works.

During our meeting this afternoon, my staff was asked to discuss ways in which we communicate and collaborate with team members. Tonight, as B used her weaving skills to weave together the boomwhackers that I had precisely measured and cut, I said, “This is how we collaborate, B!” She laughed, yet we both know it is true. I see things she doesn’t. She sees things my mind can’t comprehend. Then we work together to make things happen.

Dae helped me measure and mark the golf tubes for cutting and then held the tubes while I sawed them off. She told me that they made different pitches depending on how big or small they were and then she and her brother happily played the tubes as boomwhackers were originally meant to be played and loudly declared, “I’m making music!”

And making music she was…good grade or not…Miss D handled it…and thanked God for friendship, teamwork, and collaboration along the way.

On Amelia's 8th Birthday

On Amelia’s 8th Birthday…2.4.16

Today is my Amelia’s birthday.
She’s 8.
I adore her.

Because of another obligation, I cannot attend Amelia’s family birthday party tomorrow night. Knowing that this would make Amelia sad—she still thinks I’m wonderful and loves spending time with me—I tried to figure out another time to visit with her this week but couldn’t figure out a time to do it.

Then something unexpected happened. My appointment at Massage Envy (I’ve been going in for therapeutic massages for the past couple of months) got bumped back from 8pm to 8:30pm. This extra thirty minutes was going to give me the time I needed to see my Amelia!

Then something else unexpected happened. When I got to Joe-The-Counselor’s office, it was locked. When I called his office, I learned that he was out of the office this week. I had scheduled my appointments so far in advance that I’d scheduled an appointment before he’d blocked off this week and then we forgot to talk about it! So. There I was. Five minutes from Amelia’s house. With an unplanned hour of time. I didn’t think twice. I went to see my little girl.

Shortly after arriving at the house and surprising the whole family, I found myself standing behind Amelia as she sewed a small pillow for Stanley. Amelia got a sewing machine for Christmas. Amelia learned to do her own bobbing and threading over the past couple of weeks. Amelia is quite the 2nd grade seamstress.

“So, Amelia. Is it true that you made everyone who attended your friend-birthday party a blanket and pillow for their dolls?”

“Yep,” she said as she sewed.

“And she helped me sew recorder bags for all of the students in my recorder classroom, too,” my sister chimed in.

“Yep,” Amelia said with a humble smile on her face—as if this was completely normal activity for a now eight-year-old.

Then later, as Amelia and I snuggled on the couch, I asked if she got any special presents for her birthday. She said, “I didn’t get presents for my birthday. I asked everyone to bring something to donate to the local animal shelter.”

“Oh,” I said. “So let me get this straight. For YOUR birthday, YOU made everyone gifts and then asked for donations instead of gifts in return?”

“Yep,” she said with that same humble smile as turned her sweet, freckled face up toward mine.

“Wow!” I responded, my heart about to burst with love and pride. “You really are my favorite girl in the whole wide world.”

Amelia’s life inspires me.
And on Tuesday night,
And every time I see her, really,
Seeing her was therapy enough.