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.

The Job Hunt: Stage 1

I am one semester away from graduating college.  In less than 5 months, I will don an unflattering but very celebratory black cap and gown.  I will walk the wooden floor of the Grace Chapel stage and grab a simple piece of paper, one that cost me thousands of dollars and four years of blood, sweat, and tears. 

I've been thinking that with the day coming so soon, I need to get serious about finding a place where I can put my education to use.  While I'm in school, the last thing in the world I have time to do is apply for positions, fill out resumes, and all that jazz.  So I decided that I need to make that a priority over Christmas break.

What I'm finding out is that applying for jobs is a bit intimidating.  Scary.  Frieky.  Threatening.  Terrorizing.  Well, maybe not that bad, but it's not a little cake-walk job for Maria. 

My straw-hat inhibitions make it hard for me to brag myself up on a resume.  I end up making myself out to be a dumbo who would try her hardest to do the job right.  I feel like I'm reduced to a few words on a paper that I have to use to sell myself to potential employers.  Don't like.

And then Christian schools add the zingers with their doctrinal position questions.  I imagine a school board of middle-aged men with pot-bellies and reading glasses pouring over my every word to make sure that not a single preposition is misplaced that may turn me into a heretic. 

But slowly, timidly, I am approaching the process.  I hope to have a few manila envelopes stuffed and sent by the end of the week.  So if you run into me and I appear to be in a far-off land, I am probably working out the wording for a resume, or how to handle the doctrinal investigation. 

On Blackberries and Inheritance

The tradition of blackberry picking runs strong in the Mullet family.  I have many memories of heading to the back forty on what always felt like the hottest day of summer, bundled in denim from head to toe in an effort to establish some sort of feeble protection from the flesh-eating bushes.  Somehow, Mom always managed to win the fashion show, although I do remember Aunts Ida and Mary Jane coming around in some doozys themselves.  

I'd whine and complain about the heat and the prickers, or tattle on Annie, claiming that she made me reach for that big bush that was too far away and in my lunge I spilled my bucket of berries.  I'd beg to be allowed to go back to the house.  One time, I tried the "I have to go to the bathroom" excuse.  Never again.  Mom escorted me to a nearby secluded spot, and I was paranoid that a pricker bush would find my bare skin.

  

But I mostly remember loving it.  Rambling deeper into the briars to find another section of blackberry heaven.  There was something almost magical about finding such morsals of happiness (as Gruffy Bear might say) in the wild.  

My dad still comes home late most nights while the berries are in season.  Along with his nearly antique lunch pail and Stanley coffee thermos, he carries containers filled with berries in from the van.  He knows all the hot spots in the wealthy enlotments where he works.  It's a wonder no one has called the cops on him yet.  :)

Today is arguably the hottest day of Summer 2010.  But guess what I just did?  Yup.  The berries back in the woods were calling my name.  I donned the thickest pair of pants that I own, and found mom's xxl long-sleeved denim shirt.  I was sweating before I left the house.  But I didn't mind.

O the blackberries.  They were beauties.  A thunderstorm threatened overhead, but I ignored it.  I had to get a bit farther in the bushes.  I kept seeing another cluster of berries that I needed.  When the rain was coming down in sheets, I decided that I probably should call it quits. I ran to the house, dripping wet, oversided shirt flapping in the wind behind me, half-filled bucket of berries swinging beside me, and I felt happy.  And young.  

And very much like a Mullet. 

IRL over URL

Last week when Clair of mummydeals was here, she made an interesting comment.  She was talking about some experiences she has had since starting her website, some of which involved free sightseeing trips given to her in hopes that she would blog about them and therefore, give the company free advertisment.  Most of these trips involve traveling with a busload of other local bloggers.  I immediately thought (and verbalized it, because that's what I seem to do best) what an interesting group that must be.  You see, I have this thing with writers.  No one intrigues me more than someone who has a way with the printed word. 

But Clair was not so quick to join the fanfare.  She said that she was one of the few who preferred her IRL over her URL.  I had to ask her to explain.  I know what a URL is, but an IRL?

IRL= In Real Life.

I like that.  Of course I want to value my IRL over my URL  But sometimes the URL is a quick, easy escape.  It's the easiest place in the world to be superficial, or to create the persona you so want to be.  It's what makes me not want to blog.  I just want to enjoy my IRL.  Forget the URL.

But I'm hoping that my URL can enhance my IRL, not the other way around.  That's my hope for this blog, that what is written on here can enhance my literal world, and not just my virtual one. 

Hello blogosphere, here comes another greenhorn.

Yesterday I turned 28.  To celebrate the monumental occasion, I gave myself a blog. 

I've been thinking about joining the blogging world for awhile now, but always quickly talked myself out of it.  I don't have the time.  Nor the energy.  Nor do I the creativity to keep anything worthwhile.  And besides, why would I want to publish my crazy thoughts in a place as public as the web where Vladamir Putin, Nancy Pelosi, or even Jack Bauer (if he were real) could read?  The excuses are plentiful, but the idea has been tucked in the back of my mind for awhile.  So now at the onset of a new year, I have decided to give it a shot.  I used to be known as www.xanga.com/forty_watt_bulb, but I decided to start something brand new.


I probably won't be posting many pictures of my kids (beings as I have none) or any great photos for that matter.  I don't have a host of creative ideas for you to glean from, so if that's what you're looking for, I believe you might be lost.  But I do find that writing something in my head is one of the best ways for me to think, so here on Marmalade, you'll be hearing a lot of whats buzzing through my head. 

I don't know what all this will become.  Maybe I'll post once and then run away and hide.  Perhaps I'll post every single day from now until the day I die.  I don't know.  But I'm plunging in.  Headfirst.  Into the deep end.

Ready or not, here I come.