The Wisdom of Sneakers on Broken Pavement

I love my students. I really do. They make me genuinely laugh and smile a million times a day. I miss them when I'm gone, and as much as I hate getting up in the morning, I truly enjoy spending the majority of my days with them. It hurts to watch them suffer through the brokenness that they are wrapped up in at home, brokenness they have no choice but to drag to school with them each and every day. I ache for their aches and I long to make them better, and sometimes it can be overwhelming.

One of my babies (I use the term loosely, since he is almost as tall as me and will become a teenager before leaving the fourth grade) has led a particularly rough existence. I can't begin to describe the perpetual hell he and his sisters are trapped in and helpless to escape. I, along with my community, have spent a lot of time in prayer for their family. We cry out for God to come, heal, redeem, comfort, love, and just grant a moment's peace. I try to hold on to hope for them as each day more and more drama seems to be added onto their already overflowing plates, but today was too much. My eyes were opened even further into their past, and I couldn't bear it. From being abandoned intentionally at a car wash in the middle of nowhere, to horrifying cps reports describing their environment, to restraining orders and stories of multiple rapes by family friends with no justice in sight, and to the inevitable mess that all of that leaves in its wake. Beautiful, beloved children of God, battered, broken, and just trying to survive on the meager portion hey have been given. Where is God in this? Where is the justice? The redemption?

I have days like this often. There is no way to keep it from getting to you. I brought all of my bottled-up frustration and helpless rage home, and decided to take it on a run. I put on my new neon pink socks, laced up my shoes, and headed off. I spent the first 15 minutes trapped inside my head, trying to work out all of the new information that was overpowering every other thought, fusing it with anger at every sign of brokenness around me. Run down homes, a tag on any surface that would hold it, cracks that seem to be mere extensions of the fault lines running within and between the houses lining each block, threatening to turn the sidewalk into a death trap if I were to turn my eyes away for even a moment. Once I had finally exhausted myself running it all in circles in my mind and asking God a bunch of questions I know I could never possibly understand the answers to, I got the bright idea to try listening. Not to the generic bass bumping in my headphones, attempting to keep my feet in motion, but to what God might actually have to say in response.

I looked up and I saw words of hope fused to the side of an abandoned building, speaking truth amidst the tags: "You are beautiful." And silly as it sounds, it gave me hope. Those little moments, little whispers from God, happen so often, and not just for me. How many people saw that same truth today? People are spreading seeds of truth and love all around the lives of these children, and some of them will no doubt find their way through the darkness and bring some light to their souls.

The resilient cacti everywhere, survivors of every season with delicate flowers blooming in the midst of their perilous thorns, gave me hope.

The sturdy magnolias blooming above the battered, abandoned and run-down homes gave me hope.

The breeze carrying the soothing, clean scent of newness and laundry detergent from the sheets blowing on the backyard clotheslines gave me hope.

God is there. There is a deafening roar of sin and destruction stealing our attentions, but there is a strong, silent, loving Father working in the midst of all of it. There is a Savior loving and redeeming. There is healing. There is joy. There is so much cause for hope.

And while I am left with no new understanding of how these things are allowed to happen, and really no clarity into the justice of the situation whatsoever, I am left with hope. My God has saved me, and is redeeming and healing me every single day, all to His glory. I have faith that one day the same will be true for these children. The knowledge that their healing will be that much deeper, that much more profound, and that much more beautiful, gives me hope. The knowledge that the power of God will be shown so strongly, that these stories of pain and suffering will become testimonies of joy and redemption, gives me hope. The knowledge that it is always darkest before the dawn gives me hope. The knowledge that things will not always be just as they are gives me hope.

There is so much cause for hope.

A New Haircut

Well, looks like I'm blogging again! Its been a few years...five to be exact. If you'd like to see examples the pointless dribble that will no doubt fill this page, visit my old livejournal. If you're still feeling daring, or at least excessively bored, then read on.

I'm entertaining the thought that God speaks through fortune cookies.

Days have had better starts than today's. By lunch, my head was swimming with data sheets, item analysis reports, projected school ratings and all of the same data from our TAKS simulation tests being presented in various (unnecessary) forms...as if I weren't capable of interpreting it for myself. Did it matter that I had already analyzed my classroom data and devised a brilliant action plan to get my kids where they need to be? Of course not. I got tired of the same old discussions over nuked leftovers and soup-at-hands aimlessly circling these tests. Our broken attempts to create equality and accountability, which seem to only succeed at poorly defining not only my worth as a teacher, but my students worth as well, for anyone who cares to look at the reports and make their judgements. So, consequently, I let my mind wander to more whimsical topics.

I've been seriously considering writing a children's novel lately. It is a thought I have had off and on for quite some time, but never seriously considered as an option because...really...who does that? Certainly not this girl. But, I love reading juvenile literature, and I love writing. I may not be any good at it, but I love it. I have this voice in my head that wont stop pestering me about it. Perhaps it's a bit of Kate DiCamillo's Leo Matienne that has seeped into my brain. I would quote him here, but my infantile blogging skills aren't enough to confidently quote published work just yet.

I sat feigning attention while actually pondering this possibility as I broke into the first of my two (yes two) fortune cookies I brought for lunch. I was admittedly excited to read the cheesy quasi-fortune hiding within, but was taken aback by what I read.

“You are a lover of words, someday you should write a book.

Lucky Numbers 10, 13, 18, 31, 35, 36”

A smile crept onto my face without regard to the somber topic of discussion. As I munched on it's crispy container, I found myself falling more and more in love with the idea. Though many doubts and fears tried to drown out that daring fortune, I finally came to a conclusion. Why not? Seriously, what's the worst that could happen? Let's do this.

I was enjoying this moment of decision, which I rarely experience due to my indecisive nature, when I cracked open the second cookie. I quickly read:

“Trust your intuition.

Lucky Numbers 12, 13, 17, 29, 35”

And so this new thought fought it's way through the many ponderings currently occupying my mind, much like a brightly robed woman in Kolkata fighting for her spot in the women's car on the train at rush hour. Does God speak through fortune cookies? I hope so, because I certainly could not love that idea more.

Flash forward to present: I sit here in my neighborhood laundromat, listening to (and admittedly thoroughly enjoying) generic soft-rock and taking in the comforting smell of fresh laundry. Quite the spectacle in my tie-dyed hoodie, dog-chewed flip-flops and favorite worn-in denim shorts, I find my self smiling. The weight of the world conspicuously missing from my shoulders, much like the last few inches of my hair that rested on them mere hours ago. Filled with a hopeful sentiment, no matter how cliché, that anything is possible, I find myself profoundly thankful for the joys of fortune cookies and new haircuts.