Ships

I am twenty years old. I stand at the pier, surrounded by friends of my own age. Each one eagerly scans the horizon, wondering which ship the hopeful waters will send their way. Anticipation fills the air; a smidge of apprehension hides within each heart.



One by one the ships come. I watch as some board those bound to college and career. Mostly, I watch as they climb aboard ships that waltz them to an altar where they say two small words that form a life-long commitment.


But mine has a different name, a different purpose. Its voyage lands me on the other side of the world, provides me with four thrilling, high-action, grueling, adventurous years of participating in God’s work on the foreign field. This voyage has a peculiar feeling about it; I know it is changing the course of my life.


Four years later I find myself back on the pier, waiting for a new ship to peek its head over the horizon. One comes, and whisks me away to an unnoticed Bible college in the Southeast. Outwardly, I stay put; inwardly, I am navigating unchartered waters of exploring the heart of God and learning to love Him through the expansion of my mind.


Once more, four years after setting-sail, I find myself on that familiar pier. Again I wonder what the next ship will hold. I look around me, and nearly all of my peers are well into their voyage of marriage and family. I look within me and see that desire for a “normal” ship is increasing, as is my want to nurture another through mothering. I wonder if this is the time that God will bring that ship along.


But the current sends a different vessel. I catch a glimpse from afar. It is easy to notice because of the 19 sets of arms that are flailing from its deck and for the particular shrill of a Jr. High girl’s scream. It reaches out and grabs me as it sails past. I wonder if I know what I’m in for.


As I settle in, I realize that this ship involves much more than being a teacher. For besides instructing about poetry, predicate adjectives, and personification, we look to the Word of God to learn about faith, godliness, and eternity. We live life together and I learn what it means to have a roomful of eyes watching my every action.


One day, a student slips up and calls me “mom.” We laugh. Later, I ponder it. Maybe this ship is not just what I would have asked for, but perhaps it’s not so different as I once thought. I draw and enforce boundaries. I dry tears. I listen to excited stories. I correct when needed. I cheer with success and hurt with difficulties. I referee; I coach; I teach. Sounds a bit like being a mom.


Perhaps it is not the way I had charted my course those nine years ago, but maybe it holds more of what I long for than I ever thought it would. It is where this voyage has brought me. And I will embrace it.

When Words Don't Work

I have a fascination with the written word. A well constructed sentence has a certain power over me. Most of my books are filled with pencil marks, places where I just had to underline the words that jumped off the page at me.


I also have a thing for the spoken word. A skilled orator has my full attention. I love being a part of good conversation. It fills some sort of cavity inside me.

I have also found that the expression of words, either spoken or written, is one of the best releases for my spirit. While some go for a good run to cool off steam, or draw a bath to relieve stress, my release is found through conversation or through paper and pen.

But sometimes, words don’t work. And then I feel trapped. Like this inner-struggle has no way of cooling off, of being redirected, of settling. I try to talk through it, but I can’t put words on it. I pick up a pen, but the page remains blank.

Right now is one of those times. I can’t put my finger on what’s going on inside of me. I feel a lot, and I feel nothing. I feel empty; I feel full. I want to laugh, and I want to cry. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep.

Try as I might, I can’t define this feeling. Am I growing, or taking steps backward? Am I living in acceptance or in denial? Am I softening or turning hard?

How can I hand a struggle over to God when I don’t even know what I’m dealing with myself?

Enter the words of a Christ-follower named Paul, penned by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit: In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. 27 And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.

Bingo.

Thank you, Holy Spirit, for Your wordless groans. Thank you, Father, for being the interpreter. Thank you, Jesus, for paving the way.

What keeps me coming back for more...

Friday, March 25, 2011.
Day 48 in a 7th grade classroom.
Maria's last day of full-time teaching.
Mere hours before spring break begins.
In the middle of a final review for our sentence structure test.

And it happened. 

I've often heard teachers talk about how exciting it is to watch the lightbulb come on in a student's head.  Usually I've heard it discussed in reference to teaching a child to read.  Suddenly, often seemingly out of the blue, it all clicks in a child's head.  It all makes sense.  Teachers usually describe these events with stars in their own eyes, marveling in the wonder of watching a child grasp something new.

Mine ears have heard, but now mine eyes have seen.

I was attempting to lead my students through the heavy world of sentence identification last week.  A weighty topic for the week before spring break, I know.  My previous grammar unit could be described as a flop.  Fail.  And I was determined to avoid making the same mistake twice.  So, I tried to use various techniques I've learned in school to make sure that I wasn't missing anyone, which is a difficult task when you have eighty-five students to reach in a days time. 

But every day one of my students would give me the look. The I-don't-understand-one-little-bit look.  I'd try to help, but it didn't seem to register.  And every day, this student walked out of the room and I knew I wasn't giving the help I needed to give.  This student wasn't getting it.  At all.

Friday rolled around, and we were doing the final review before I passed out the tests.  The students were writing their answers on individual whiteboards.  I kept my eye on the one I knew was struggling, and saw most of the answers were incorrect.  I stopped and explained one sentence, just like I had done countless times throughout the week.  I looked back at the aforementioned student. 

And suddenly, I saw it.  I saw the lightbulb.  I think I even heard the click.  Somehow, something had shifted the pieces of the mind and suddenly it all made sense. 

The next answer was written with confidence.  It was correct.  So was the next one, and the next.  Each one was written more confidently than had the previous one.  And they were all correct.

A few minutes later, I served the test.  It was timidly given back when it was finished.  I had never been so anxious to grade a test.  I made it through the first section without having to mark any wrong.  Every answer was correct in section two.  Nothing was incorrect in section three.  Before I was done, I marked a big, fat 100% on the top. 

I don't know if this student possibly could have been more excited than I was.  I had watched the lightbulb come on.  And boy, was it invigorating.

Some people get adrenaline rushes from jumping out of airplanes; others get it from scaling mountain peeks, or jumping from ridiculous heights into bodies of water.  I discovered on Friday that I can get an adrenaline rush in the classroom.  Watching that lightbulb moment made my heat beat a bit faster, made my blood pump rapidly. 

I hope there are plenty more of those moments awaiting me.  I can tell that each one will keep me coming back for more.