Decade the Third.

I turn 30 next month.  Three-zero.  I leave behind my identity as a twenty-something and take my first step into the next decade. 

I was in high school when my oldest sister hit the 30 mark.  I ragged her about being old as mold and was pretty sure that she should be putting her birthday money away to start saving for a gravestone.  I took every opportunity to rub her age under her nose.  I was awful. 

If I had an 18 year old sister doing that to me right now....o boy....I don't know what I'd do. 

Sorry, Lois. 

My mind has been pulled in the direction of this milestone alot lately, and I've had a few mini-epiphanies (emphasis on mini) about the subject.  So here's a brief list on the things I'm learning about being on the brink of a new decade.

1.  I don't feel old.  I'd like to say that to my 18-year old self.  30 is not old as mold.  I still feel like a kid when I jump into a pool of water, cheer like a crazy person at a ball game, catch the fast kid in king's base (I love teaching), blow bubbles, chase a lightning bug (for a nephew, of course), drive barefooted, or stand at the top of a mountain or the foot of a waterfall.  I still naturally fall into the little sister category when I'm with my family, which results in a renewed feeling of youth each time.  My heart still feels young.

2.  Life really does get sweeter.  I've thought alot about this concept this past year.  Maybe it's the events of my life during year 29, or maybe it's a natural progression that happens around this age.  I experience joy mixed with pain.  I express laughter intertwined with tears.  I see triumph mingled with suffering.  Perhaps I am a late bloomer and my eyes are only now being opened to what that that abundant life is that Jesus promised to give, but whatever it is, life feels much more valuable to me than it did a few years ago, and even the bitter holds a hint of something sweet. 

3.  Dreams sometimes find new faces.  Had I been asked on my 20th birthday to sketch out where I'd like to be at 30, I am sure it would be wildly different from what my life looks like today.  That picture probably would have included a husband, a couple kids, and a position in a high-action, people-filled, God-centered, ministry on the foreign field.  That's not so much what my life looks like right now.  While I hope that someday my life might look more like that, right now I am living a shadow of that dream, a new face of it.  An incredible support group of friends both far and near, a classroom full of teenagers, and a life that brings me a boatload of opportunites each day to serve others. 

4.  I am not Wonder Woman.  I used to be the strong one.  The one who could sleep on a pile of wood, a bed of rocks, or whatever position necessary.  Now, I can't.  After dealing with reoccurring back issues that make me walk like I'm 80, doctors tell me I have some unnatural curvature of my spine.  I hear words like therapy, treatment, adjustment, and time, this will take time.  I have to be careful how I play sports, lift heavy objects, and even how I sleep, but I'm really grateful for doctors that have a hopeful outlook on treating this issue.  The 20s have also brought some bruising to my heart, and I have learned of my need for others and my desperate need for Jesus more with each passing year. 

5.  Chocolate cake makes it all better.  Oh the gooey goodness of shortening, cocoa, and sugar.  Every problem can be fixed with cake. That is, except for the whole BMI issue. 

16 more days till I take the leap...

Because life is more than bubblegum

Tomorrow morning's Bible class covers the topic of stories.  We all have them.  Some we love to tell; others we long to forget.  Each story centers around decisions we made, either consciously or unconsciously, out of our worldview.

I pulled up my old xanga site and had a jaunt down memory lane as I remembered some old stories in my own neighborhood.  I laughed as I saw pictures, cringed at all the spelling and grammar errors (please, save me from myself!), and reminisced on days gone by, on stories filed away.

I'm living a story right now.  Sometimes it seems all storybook-ish.  Other times it feels more like I'm stuck in the outtakes. 

Funny how perspective fades when you're right in the middle of it. 

Tonight I made myself a latte, turned on an instrumental pandora station, and lesson-planned for my World Lit class tomorrow.  This evening that would have looked like a glamour shot a year or two ago.  my first job...my own latte...wi-fi in a cute little house...

Unfortunately, tonight it mostly felt like work. 

How quickly I forget that life is made of years, which are made of weeks, which are made of days, which are made of hours.  In these hours stories are born, matured, and completed.  In these moments, decisions arise.  Decisions that matter, mostly much more than I think they do.

Doing life with middle schoolers has taught me that very few things stay the same from day to day.  I have no promise of tomorrow. 

But I do have today.  Right here.  Right now.  Those 19 set of eyes reminded me of that this morning.  Soon I will send them out the door for one final time. 

But for today, they're still mine. 

I purpose in my heart to makes these moments count.  To allow the Master Author to pen something worthy.  Something honorable to Him.  Something including low-key evenings of prep.  And yes, something middle-schoolish. 

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.