Pondering my priorities...

Do you ever stop to think about your priorities? Not the ones you pay lip service to - "Oh that's the most important thing in my life!" - but the ones that eat up your time and attention.

There's a verse in John's gospel in which Jesus tells his disciples "Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who care nothing for their life in this world will keep it for eternity" (NLT 12:25). The way I read this verse, it's all a matter of priorities with the emphasis on the pronouns.

Their life, their way - my life, my way, my plans, my ambitions, my goals, my aspirations, my hobbies, my passions...the list could go on and on. If these things become my love, my priority, it seems that Jesus says that's all I get. If, on the other hand, I subjugate my own desires to his, the rewards are eternal.

As a young person I was sooooo rebellious. I chafed at authority and strove to make sure that I was living MY life the way I wanted. The net result was not a peaceful life. I failed to see that God's plan for my life, even when it didn't jive with my own ideas for happiness, was the best plan because as my Creator he knows me better than I know my self and as my Father, he loves me beyond my limited comprehension of love. Once I began to grasp those facts, submission became a little easier.

But even with my adult understanding of why submission is a desirable thing, I think the practice of it can be a challenge. I asked God this morning, "How much of what I'm doing is a priority for you? How much of my time really is wasted, invested in things that only last for this very brief span that we know is life and how much am I banking for eternity?

I suppose I should close with some life-altering realization, but the truth of the matter is this is something that bears close scrutiny over time, hence the title in present tense. I want to give this some serious thought...

Gloom

Is it a phenomenon unique to our school or is is a societal illness? If my philosophical young friend is correct, it is the illness that may well be the death knell of life as we know it.

Warning: I am a little gloomy. If you do not wish to be gloomed upon (or have your thoughts provoked) stop reading now.

Colleague: "I was told to do everything possible to make sure the kids passed. I said, 'I've done everything possible. When do THEY have to start doing everything possible.'"

So if you are playing some sort of competitive sport, and you cease movement ten minutes or ten feet from where you have to be to score whatever point(s) it is you score, is it the coach's fault? the official's fault? Nope. It's all on you.

I find it all very disturbing.

We seem to have developed the cultural notion that we are no longer responsible for our own choices or our own actions, and that we are entitled to (you fill in the blank) simply by virtue of being alive. No hard work required. As a matter of fact, how dare you ask me to work at all, let alone hard.

Sign: "Wanted - people who are willing to work hard."

I feel really sorry for all the entrepreneurs out there in Internet land who are seeking employees.

Don't get me wrong. I encounter on a regular basis students with an outstanding work ethic - kids who work and play sports and still manage to get their homework done and done well. But they are not the norm. The larger proportion are looking for the easy way to get it done, if they opt to do it at all. Yes, adult population, they simply opt not to do it at all.

(I have to giggle a little imagining my fourteen-year-old self waltzing into Mr. Womack's Algebra I class and saying, "I had volleyball practice until 5:00 and went home and crashed." If you know Mr. Womack - or had your own version in high school - you know what I mean. The scary part is I AM MR. WOMACK - figuratively speaking of course - and they don't mind a bit to tell me that they "just didn't do it" and on a regular basis.)

I've come to the conclusion that I am destined for extinction. Like the dodo or the wooly mammoth, my species cannot survive in this hostile new environment. Whoa is...wait a minute. I don't think so.

Regardless of the generation, there is value in hard work and merit in learning that there are consequences for our actions because whether the human race likes to acknowledge it or not, this is truth.

All those great kids with fabulous work ethics will most likely lead successful lives because they possess the skills necessary to do so. The waltzers, well, all hope is not lost. Perhaps, somewhere along the way, some cranky old schoolmarm like me will refuse to accept their excuses and hold them to a higher standard. Perhaps someone who wants someone who wants to work hard will say, "Listen up, kid. It's my way or the highway." Perhaps, before all hope is lost and the waltzer becomes a life long consumer, a drain on the system, somebody somewhere, young or old, will say "enough" and demand accountability.

If not, I'm afraid my young philosopher friend may well become a prophet.

My Favorite Part of the Story

We studied Dr. Luke’s telling of the resurrection story this morning. I spent a considerable amount of time reading and listening to commentary on the passage on Blue Letter Bible in preparation for teaching my class. (Thanks, Dena. Awesome, awesome resource.) As I thought about the story, I noticed again one of my favorite parts of this wonderful event.

Let’s face it. Jesus’ disciples didn’t give a stellar performance during the trial and crucifixion of our Lord. I’m not pointing fingers, mind you, just commenting on what I’ve read. Peter denied him. They all tucked tail and ran. Even after Mary and the other women encountered the angels and shared the good news of Christ’s resurrection, even after John and Peter took a look in the tomb for themselves, they were skeptical about the resurrection.

But this is my favorite part…when Jesus shows up and reveals himself to the Eleven, his first words are words of comfort. No – “thanks a lot, guys!” No – “wait to stick by me, fellas…” Nope. Peace. And comfort. Jesus didn’t chide or reprimand or harangue them. He offered them peace and reassurance and very practically removed their fears that he was some kind of ghost.

That’s one of my favorite things about Jesus. He loves the broken. He comforts the failed. He redeems the fallen. It’s not just the best among us that He came to save; it’s all of us.

Perhaps it’s because I walk around with plenty of regrets in my knapsack that I identify with those characters in the Bible that just blow it. I get them because I have blown it myself on more than one occasion.

I’m the broken.

I’m the failed.

I’m the fallen.

And when I pick up that love letter from God and see Jesus offer his wayward disciples peace and purpose, I can hear Him offer me the same thing. As amazing as it seems to me, He wants me on his team in spite of my weaknesses.

(And did I mention that He wants you, too.)

What a miracle that Jesus lived, that He died, that He rose again and went back to Heaven to be with His Father and make it right for me, for all of us. And having done all that, how amazing that his response to my sin, is grace and forgiveness and Peace.

Everyday Miracles

"Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons." ~Ruth Ann Schabacker

One of the most important things I’ve learned is that the greatest pleasures of my life are small things. I read Hannah’s blog earlier, and she talked about digging in the dirt and planting flowers with her aunt. Those are perfect examples – quiet, everyday pleasures that can transform our lives if we take the time to see their beauty and be thankful for them.

When my life becomes so jam-packed with activity that I don’t have time to sit and be quiet for a little while, I have a tendency to look past all the wonderful moments that happen in the course of the day. It becomes easy to focus on what’s wrong, rather than what’s right. I think that’s why the Word tells me to be still.

If I’m not careful, I could miss the fact that the buds on my lilac bush are so full of spring sunshine that they are about to burst open or the pungent smell of grass that’s just been mowed or the way my husband’s blue eyes sparkle when he laughs. What a tragic waste that would be!

Beautiful and blessed experiences are all around me even as I sit here alone, watching the clock tick toward midnight. My curtains are blowing gracefully in a breeze that promises rain. When I lie down to sleep in a few minutes, I’ll revel in the crisp, coolness of the cotton sheets on my bed. And in the morning, should God grant us another day, I’ll wake up to the rich smell of coffee brewing and my best friend’s smile. Life, real life, is made of moments such as these.

adieux

On this dreary spring afternoon, another piece of my childhood slipped quietly into eternity.

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite places in all the world was my Uncle Gene and Aunt Ella Jean's house. It's amazing how many of my memories are tied so firmly to their farm on the hill beyond my parent's house.

As I sit here alone, watching the clock tick off the minutes, I can't help but think of all the pieces of the puzzle of my life that were spent in my uncle's company. Dimly, I remember the phone call from the hospital that announced the birth of my new baby sister. I was not even three, but I have a hazy picture of standing on a step stool talking into the phone mounted on the kitchen wall, my aunt and uncle and cousins close by.

I remember sweet, homemade ice cream and saltine crackers, and riding horseback clinging to his overall straps, and tart, green apples not quite yet ripe from the tree in their yard.

They always had a cedar for Christmas in the old, farm house hung with glass ornaments, streaming icicles and big, incandescent bulbs that even now I use on my front porch at Christmas and remember. Next to Christmas morning at home, Christmas Eve there was the highlight of the holiday season.

In my mind's eye, I can see, even smell, the barns where my sister and I raced across the floor on creepers Uncle Gene and the boys used to work on the farm equipment. We played in wagons full of soybeans, shelled popcorn, and jumped, in the last breaths of summer, from hay bale to hay bale.

The pictures are idyllic, no doubt. But they are mine. Precious and beautiful. I saw their house as a place of refuge when one cold, winter day school let out early and finding my parents gone, In my little red coat, I trekked across the field to their house where my older cousin watched over me until my mother, frantic with worry, found me there, unscathed after all.

It was there that we stayed the one awful summer when my mother had to work, there that I learned I would bend and not break under the sorrow that precipitated that change. Beside their fireplace, I filled pages and pages with adolescent yearnings and mourned innocence and anticipated adulthood.

So many days. So many memories.

One of the greatest tragedies of adulthood is how those childhood attachments unravel and slip away in the business of school and jobs, marriages and parenting. The people at the hub of our infant universe are often relegated to some distant galaxy, remembered at Christmas or encountered at a restaurant or church event. Life intervenes and we never sense the loss until a rainy, spring afternoon when it's too late to say...thank you.

A Lament

Last night I received a text message from a friend who was attending the school board meeting. I don’t go to board meetings. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I care too much, but that’s another story for another day.

The text included a list of names of people, members of the Harrisburg Unit District #3 certified teaching staff that will not have a job next year. As I read over the list, it occurred to me what a disservice we do the public when we talk about budget cuts in terms of “programs.” Cutting a “program” is so much more antiseptic than the translation, which is firing someone, maybe even your child’s teacher.

For those of you who don’t know me, I was a single mom for several years. I supported three children on my teaching salary. As I read over that list again this morning, I wondered if any of them are single moms and what they would do now. I felt a momentary sense of panic as I imagined how I would have reacted to the possibility of not being able to take care of my children.

In truth, there are teachers all over the state of Illinois who face a similar predicament this week. Men and women who have dedicated their lives to teaching our state’s children may now be unable to feed and clothe their own children because someone somewhere up the food chain dropped the ball. (I’d be willing to wager that the someone in question isn’t worrying about their mortgage either.)

I know that in today’s economy there are countless other professions in the same boat. Downsizing. Streamlining. They are all words for the same thing – firing people. And even though our government can’t pay the bills it owes, it continues to pass legislation that will eat deeper and deeper into the pockets of everyday Americans and drive us deeper and deeper in debt to whomever it is a country borrows money from when it overspends.

I’m not a politician or an economist, but even I know that you can’t continue to spend more money that you have or eventually somebody suffers. Today it was my colleagues – many of who were once my students and have become my friends. Next August it will be the many students who need classes and services that no longer exist. I can’t help but wonder when, if ever, those at the root of the problem will have to pay the piper for the damage they have caused this week.

Porches

When the first breath of spring wafts into town, I inevitably wander onto our front porch where I sit and watch as the daffodils and tulips peek through the dead grass. Perfect for writing or reading or daydreaming, porches have held a special appeal for me as long as I can remember.

******
My childhood home was possessed of a magical realm that daily converted from the crow’s nest of a ship to a castle tower to a space ship exploring unknown galaxies. My little sister and I lived on our front porch.

It wasn’t anything spectacular by architectural standards. The wooden floor was peeling and spongy where rainwater dripped out of the battered gutters and pooled in the corners, shaded from sunlight by the maple trees in the yard. The four posts that supported the roof were clunky and inelegant with white paint that was chalky and that rubbed off on our hands should we hold on while we stood on the sloping banisters to scout for pirates or aliens or Indians.

We often used the banisters as a perch to wave at the occasional car that passed by stirring up gravel dust or to sit and play “Old Lady Mac” or “Down, Down Baby,” clapping games that distracted me enough that one bright summer morning I fell off and knocked the wind from my lungs in the flowerbed below.

Our porch was a place of grand occasions. I received my first kiss, grieved my first death and planned my youthful foray into the waiting world right there. When my sister and I grew too old for games, I took my pretending underground and read books and books and books on our creaking porch swing. I suppose all that imagining was destined to make me fall in love with the porch, perhaps porches in general.

*****

One summer not too long after I moved out, my parents remodeled the porch. They poured a concrete floor, removed the old wooden banisters and replaced the posts with aluminum columns in the Doric fashion. Over twenty years later, they still strike me as oddly out of place on my parents’ small country home.

No doubt, the porch is more structurally sound than it was when I was a child. The floor is level and free of holes. My mother has stationed two wooden rockers where the porch swing used to be and has a wide array of flora flourishing along the edges in an assortment of pots and tubs. In spite of its reformation, my daughters and my nephews seemed to have had as much fun on the porch as my sister and I did. They rolled their cars and skates along the rough concrete, leapt off the open sides to roll in the soft grass below when they were old enough and have now begun to bring their own children back to toddle across the floor and watch the cows across the road.

When they tore out that wooden floor, I was sure the magic was gone forever, but I was wrong. The magic wasn’t in the wood. It was in our imaginations.

*****

I have my own porch now. It reminds me a little of the old one. The floor is tongue and groove and the posts wide and wooden. My husband and I toiled endlessly three summers ago, replacing rotten floor planks, painting and trimming, recovering the cushions on our wrought iron glider with red and navy plaid and finally hanging a navy blue barn star to complete the new look.

While I don’t pretend to fight dragons anymore, I have wrestled my share of monsters on our porch, but it is mostly a place of quiet. It’s the perfect place to contemplate, to rock the grandbabies, to say my prayers, and to look toward the future. It’s the place we most love to decorate at Christmas, to drape with bunting on the Fourth of July, to have our morning coffee and to eat lunch, especially in the spring when the weather turns just warm enough to sit outside, and I can steal away from school for a quick bologna sandwich.

My daughters and I watch from the porch as the grandchildren grow. They ride by on trikes and wave while their granddad follows just far enough behind to let them feel big, but close enough to catch them should our usually quiet street lure them off the broad walk. We’ve watched as they climb up the brick stairs, first holding a hand tightly and later pulling free to ascend on their own. How much more quickly childhood seems to pass with each generation.

I love a porch. It invites the people next door to talk for a bit on their way in or out, transforming them into neighbors in the truest sense, and it invites us all to stop and dream a little while, whether it’s of faraway places or the place closest to our heart.

Why Write?

Edmund Spenser: Amoretti LXXV (1595)

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his pray.
"Vain man," said she, "that doest in vain assay.
A mortal thing so to immortalize,
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eek my name bee wiped out likewise."
"Not so," quod I, "let baser things devise,
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name.
Where when as Death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."

Like the speaker in Spenser’s sonnet, I’m of the opinion that we write in an attempt to give substance to that which is often fleeting – a memory, an emotion, an insight – we write it down in hopes of preserving it, perhaps of sharing it with someone else.

And yet, I’ve always been hesitant to get serious about writing. I’ve been put off by (1.) the vanity inherent in assuming that someone, anyone, would care enough about what I have to say to wring precious moments from their day to read it and, if I’m completely honest, (2.) my own fear of failure. What if no one reads it? What if I pour my heart and my soul into my essay or poetry or blog and no one chooses to read what I have to say? What if I write that novel and it ends up in the 99¢ bargain bin because it was so insipid, so trite, that no one in the world could stomach it.

I would imagine that it is fear of failure more than any other obstacle that keeps us achieving our dreams. We would blame lack of opportunity or money or time, but if we strip away the rationalization, we are just afraid to fail. And why not? We live in a culture where failure is something to be avoided like the plague. We shield our children from it and should we (or they) encounter it, we quickly seek out someone else to blame lest we have to accept the horrible truth that we tried…and failed. But if we don’t try, does that mean that we have avoided failure or does it simply mean that we have failed to try? And if we never try it’s a certainty that we will never succeed.

And so, here I am. I’m throwing my hat into the overcrowded ring, making an attempt at writing something that is worth reading, trying to make the moments, the thoughts, the insights a little more permanent and perhaps learn a little about living in the process. And while I have no delusions that what I write here will attain the permanency of Spenser’s sonnets, maybe, just maybe, some one will read it and be momentarily renewed.