Looking East

In the silence of a Saturday morning, I'm reflecting on the week behind me. Actually, I don't imagine the past stretching out behind me, as if it were an ever growing timeline of moments and words that extends out behind me in some physical capacity. And since I don't feel this, I shouldn't say it that way. I tend to think of the past as perpetually extending east. It's not "back a few years ago" in my head or even "back in high school," but east. Therefore, since I am facing east in my morning chair, I guess I am facing the past, facing what God has taught me or will teach me in further reflection.

Sometimes I feel like I live for the weekend, always looking west (to the future) to when I will be able to sleep in or grade or read in peace. Rest. However, the weekends roll around, and they tend to be filled with about the same amount of stress as the weeks. Mostly because me, being over-ambitious, declare I am going to get a significant amount of grading done, and I complete half of it. Or none of it. Rarely do my weekends actually turn out the way I want them to.

But how can I complain? I still get weekends and don't have to hold a second job that fills my time on the weekends as well. Or have one job that I work 7 days a week. I am thankful.

But back to looking east, I realize that my week was successful in some ways, and in other ways, it fell flat. Conversations with students lacking patience might be what some of them needed to hear. Conversations filled with too much patience for students might do more hurt that good. Conversations with students containing too much caring for students well-being might color my view of students. Sometimes I feel like my classroom is a fish-bowl, and the student I see is all that matters. But other people have opinions of students and know more about their lives. I need to learn how to be more well-rounded with my students. But I will never agree that all students deserve the same treatment. What is fair is not always equal.

So looking west, I hope that my heart can be in the right place, that my love for my students can be Christ's love. And I can help them in my classroom, whether it be a fish-bowl or not.

Coming Home

After a year, almost to the day, I have reentered the blogosphere with a curious calling on my heart. I don't know what it really means, but I know that I'm supposed to write, to share. I'm sorry for those of you who are faithful readers who have lost interest because of my absence, but I'm back now, with a different outlook on life.

Much has happened in a year. I have survived student teaching and graduated from college. I have learned I am going to be an aunt (literally within the next few days as yesterday baby was due). I have travelled to another country where part of my heart will always reside. I have read many books that have overwhelmed my soul. I have lost cats and gained others. I have been blessed with a part-time job which transitioned into a full-time job. I have students whom I adore and constantly challenge me.

But the biggest challenge and blessing came in this past week. I can't share details, nor do I really want to, but let's just say that I experienced something that will (Lord willing) only happen once in my teaching career. I know that's frustratingly vague, but to protect my students, I'm gonna keep it that way.

Because of this moment, this outpouring of emotion, my eyes have been opened to the pain of some of my students. And my heart aches. Instead of wanting to run away, I feel so much more anchored to the floor of my classroom. I have come home.

Some of you chuckle because I literally did come home. I am working at the school that I graduated from. But this is different. Because of this moment of utter pain and unguarded emotion, I don't think there is anywhere I would rather teach.

Yes, I probably will teach at another school at some point. Most teachers don't stay at the school they begin at. And especially with the Masters I plan on getting, my chances of staying at my school are little to none.

And yet. And yet I am overwhelmed. I feel a certain togetherness in my classroom that can only come from God. Instead of a splintering of souls, I feel like there is a coming together, a support system in a room of four cinder-block walls and posters.

Perhaps a little dumbly, I am going into this next week with high hopes. I know my students will not always be fantastic. I know that I will fail to teach them or be patient with them or plan something for them to learn. I know that the togetherness may not last, and maybe it's just an illusion that my soul wants to cling to, but I want to keep it.

I have hope. "'And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?'"(Esther 4:14).