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Gimmicks

I cannot believe I am writing about Lady Gaga. I have never had much to say about her except, perhaps, that time she wore the meat dress. Meat? For real? The smell of uncooked meat makes me want to puke. Making hamburger patties sends me over the edge. Can you imagine wearing it? I guess sacrifices are necessary when it comes to fashion.

Now, though, I do have something to say. Sunday night at the Oscars, Lady Gaga sang a tribute to Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music, and it was incredible. Here – listen for yourself.

Sure, Lady Gaga has sold millions of albums and won Grammy Awards, but to be quite honest, I didn’t know she was such a great singer. She’s always just been (in my mind) a walking gimmick. She has been so well known for what she wears that how she sings has been secondary, at least to me. Truthfully, however, she has great talent. It is, to be spiritual, a God-given talent. So here’s what I have to say: sometimes the gimmicks we hide behind and use to gain attention only detract from the real purpose God created us to fulfill.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Lady Gaga was created to sing. With a voice like hers, her purpose must include music. But the meat dresses, bizarre shoes, and unusual attire for which she has gotten attention have overshadowed the talent God gave her to share (not to mention glorify Him).

It’s easy to point this out about Lady Gaga since she’s such a famous figure, but aren’t we all guilty, too? Aren’t we afraid that we aren’t enough on our own, so we need to dress up and show out and get attention by any means necessary? What would happen if we stopped with the charades and just did what we were meant to do? There is some reason that each of us exists, some purpose that only we can fulfill. For some, it is to use obvious talents like singing to bring attention to the Lord. For others, it’s to quietly serve behind the scenes where no one ever even knows our names.

I read a great blog today by Lindsey Nobles called “Owning Our Gifts,” and she just laid it all on the line. She said, “…this fall I started to forget who I am and the importance of my own voice and strengths. I started to believe that I wasn’t enough. I started to diminish myself.” I think we all diminish ourselves when we believe that our unique gifts do not compare to others’ and we start artificially adding to them. We also diminish ourselves when we think that our gifts are just for ourselves, forgetting that they are meant to praise and edify the One who made us. I’ve been thinking about gifts a lot lately, mainly because I’m fighting with everything in me to use mine for Him, stripping everything away except what’s true and raw and real. To be true and raw and real is to be vulnerable, and sometimes it’s easier to cover vulnerability with a meat dress than it is to expose your stripped-down self and leave it open to criticism.

Lady Gaga, I’m speaking to you. Actually, I’m speaking to you, Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, the woman who even needed to change her name. You are enough. Your talent is enough, your real self is enough, and it’s time to stop the gimmicks. You wowed us all with your voice Sunday night, and nothing else was necessary. Your talent – your purpose in life – is enough.

I’m also speaking to you, dear reader. You are enough. Your talent is sufficient to be who you were meant to be. No more gimmicks, no more charades. Let’s embrace the reality of who we are and run after our purposes with reckless abandon. Let’s leave the meat dresses in the closet.

Photos courtesy of eonline.com and stylewithanna.com.

February 25, 2015
You’re Not the Boss of Me

The world wants me to believe that I’m not a good mother, and it tells me in the most ridiculous ways.

These, for example.

All over Facebook and Instagram, I see friends who had precious matching shirts for every day of their Disney trip. You know who didn’t? This girl. We were lucky enough to be able to afford a trip to Disney, much less have outfits coordinating with the parks and princesses we’d be seeing that day. My kids wore their in-closet Target bargain clothes, and the voice in my head wants me to feel badly about it. Sometimes I do, and then sometimes I remember that THEY GOT TO GO TO DISNEY WORLD. So never mind.

Don’t forget these:

I don’t have monthly pictures of my babies’ first year complete with stickers showing their age. It wasn’t a thing back when they were born, and now I feel like they’ll need years of therapy because they won’t know how their six month pictures compare to their seven month pictures. Just what kind of mother am I? (One who’s lucky to have pictures of her children at all, I think. Especially the second one – she did not sleep through the night for TWO YEARS, and her brother was only 15 months older than she was, so it’s a wonder I even was cognizant enough to take pictures at all. Which I did. And those pictures exist somewhere in my house. I know they do. One day I’ll organize them, like when I have grandchildren and retire.)

And let’s not forget these:

Ah. Maternity pictures. Again, I was pregnant before these were a huge fad (thank goodness), and yet I feel like I’ve cheated my children somehow of seeing just how cute and stylish I was when they were in utero. (Or, as the case may be, how roly-poly I felt and how often I wore their father’s pajama pants. But whatever.)

I don’t have any of these either (yet another parenting fail):

Exquisite newborn photos taken at the hospital. How could I not have any of these? Oh yes. I remember. One, because my son’s delivery turned into an unexpected C-section when he decided to come into the world rear-end first. Two, because I looked like a hippo with all of the fluids they pumped into me during surgery, and then I looked (and acted like) a crazy woman when I turned out to be allergic to the drugs they gave me. So, nah. Newborn pictures didn’t need to happen in the hospital then.

What about the other time? Ah. Yes. The daughter who decided to be premature despite a day’s worth of drugs trying to keep her in, followed by a repeat C-section, followed by her stay in the special care nursery because (bless her 5 pound body), she didn’t know how to eat. And let’s not forget that all of this happened at Christmas. Christmas, for goodness’ sake, when I had to leave her at the hospital and go home to be Santa for her (sick at the time) brother. Newborn pictures at the hospital? They didn’t happen then, either.

Let’s keep going.

Of course – a snowman breakfast. What’s the use in having a snow day like today if you don’t make a snowman breakfast, complete with snowman poop? It’s a waste of a day, I guess. (Unless the roads are clear and you can take the kids to IHOP like I hypothetically might have done this morning. Pancakes still count, even if they’re not shaped like snowmen and aren’t wearing bacon scarves, right?)

Everywhere I look, the world shows me where I don’t measure up, and it wants me to think I’m a failure as a mom. (Ok, on Pinterest. I look on Pinterest. And Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. But that’s pretty much everywhere.) But you know what? I’m not. I’m not a failure as a mother. I love my kids and I give them everything they need (and deprive them of some of what they want. Saying no builds their character. I also make them put away laundry and eat vegetables that make them gag. Character. It builds character).

I try my best every single day to instill in them what matters. I give them rules, I require them to help with chores, and I tell them ad nauseam that I love them. (“We know, Mommy. You tell us all the time.”) Isn’t that what really matters in a mom? I know it is. So you know what Pinterest? Forget you and your taunts of my motherhood mediocrity. You’re not the boss of me. (But you do have some really good recipes, so I’ll see you later, ok? Just quit telling me what to do.)

February 24, 2015
Believe

I have a sign in the front of my classroom that simply says ‘believe.’ I want my students to believe that they can, believe that I care, and believe that this all matters for more than just a report card.

Today, though, this happened.

My ‘believe’ toppled to the floor, and I just stood there and stared. The sign on the floor was a sign for my life and a sign of the struggle I’m currently in. My belief is falling, and I’m afraid there will be a loud bang when, at any moment, it, too, hits the floor. I want to believe that I can, believe that someone cares, and believe that this all matters for more… But it’s hard. It’s hard, and I’m struggling.

The truth is that I’m in an incredibly hard season of life. I’ve been through worse, but the worse doesn’t make this better. It’s still hard. The details don’t matter right now, but I bet someone out there is in a similar place. I’m sure that someone else is also seeing his belief fall. So let’s talk about it.

My belief in God isn’t what’s falling. I still believe that He is good and that all of this matters, although to be very honest, I don’t understand how it does.

I believe that one day I will be able to look back at this time and see it all make sense, see how it was necessary to move me forward. Again, though, my heart laid open before you, that hasn’t begun just yet. I’m still in the “this doesn’t make sense and I just want it to go away” stage. It’s a stage that’s been going on for years now. It’s a stage that I, quite frankly, am tired of enduring.

No, my belief in my God isn’t what’s falling. It’s my belief in everything else. It’s the belief that I can hold up under the strain; it’s the belief that I will come out better and stronger. It’s the belief that I will ever be carefree and easygoing again. It’s the belief that all of this will ever end. It’s the belief that I will emerge, whenever the time of testing ends, as a woman who is not cynical or jaded but who still hopes and loves and believes the best.

Sometimes believing is hard.

If you worship in a contemporary service or listen to contemporary Christian music, there is no doubt that you have heard the song “Oceans.” Everyone loves it – they lose their minds when they hear it.

The lyrics are all over Pinterest, if that tells you how popular the song is. People have canvases made of the words. Don’t believe me? Just look.

It’s a great song – don’t get me wrong. But it’s really hard for me to sing it. Why? Because I’ve lived it, and living it is infinitely harder than mindlessly singing the lyrics set to music.

The lyrics say things like, “You call me out upon the waters, the great unknown where feet may fail.”

The great unknown? Yes. I’m currently there. The great unknown is the story of my days, and my feet have both literally and metaphorically failed to hold me. (And it’s not nearly as poetic as it sounds.)

The lyrics continue: “Spirit, lead me where my trust is without borders; let me walk upon the waters wherever you would call me.” I distinctly remember praying this kind of prayer a few years ago. Written in a journal somewhere are the words, “Whatever it takes, Lord. Use me.” When I wrote those words, I didn’t know that the “whatever” would be what it has been. If I had known, I’m not sure I would have prayed the same way. “Whatever” sounds a lot better than saying, “even torture.” But the two can be synonymous, if you want to know the truth. They have been for me.

More lyrics, further on: “Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander.” Yes, again. He has. In fact, He has taken me so deep that at times I have wondered if I would drown. I haven’t, so I know He’ll be faithful to rescue again, but when the waves are crashing, it’s so easy to wonder if they will consume. Waves are crashing now, and it’s all I can do to “keep my eyes above the waves.”

Yes, “Oceans” is a great song – if you don’t stop and think about what you’re singing. If you think it and live it and mean it, the words can wreck your life. A runaway hit song is great until you really have to live what it says.

One of my favorite verses in all of the Bible was spoken in Mark 9 by a father, and he was able to verbalize exactly how I feel. He was begging Jesus to help his demon-possessed son, saying, “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” Jesus replied, “Everything is possible for one who believes.”

Here’s my favorite part: the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

I know exactly how he feels. I believe, but I need help believing. I believe with my head, but sometimes my heart needs some help. I believe it for others, but sometimes I need help believing it for myself. I believe in theory, but sometimes I need help believing it in reality.

Believe. I wish it were as simple as it sounds.

February 24, 2015
Because I’m Worth It

My daughter captured this picture of me today.

Flattering, huh?

Yep, that’s me working out in my den, wiping the sweat dripping off the end of my nose. When I first saw the picture, I immediately (as all women would) critiqued it. I nearly deleted it, but something struck me. My daughter, the little brown-haired girl who copies my every move and is the spitting image of me, took that picture. She sat and watched me for the entire workout, jumping up and doing some of the moves with me at times. That little girl took my picture, and as she did, she wasn’t critiquing my form or muscle tone. She was just watching her mom making a choice to take care of herself. So I didn’t delete the picture, and I’m hoping that somebody reading this will remember that you, too, have somebody watching you, using you as a role model.

Being a mom is a super hard task, and being a mom who takes care of herself is even harder. I don’t want to play the martyr here, but it’s never easy to eat right and work out. It’s so tempting to eat what’s convenient and not exercise. It’s so tempting to come home from work and just go comatose in front of the television with tasty junk food. It’s tempting and it’s convenient, but it’s such a terrible model for my children. It shows them that my comfort is my priority and that my health doesn’t matter. It shows them that I don’t think I am worth taking care of, and that is a scary lesson for my kids.

Usually I don’t work out at home. I’m part of an incredible group fitness studio, and I try to go at least 5 times a week. Sometimes that means dragging the kids with me when they’d rather stay home. Sometimes it means leaving them home with my husband. It always means sacrificing something in order to work out. But it’s worth it, and I’ve finally realized that I’m worth it, too. Not only that, but the hour I spend exercising each day is 100% about me. That isn’t selfish – it’s necessary. That hour allows me to escape the stress and heartache and worries and troubles that plague me the other 23 hours.

I know that everyone is really busy, and I know that there are legitimate reasons we could all give for not taking care of ourselves. I’ve heard them all, and I’ve probably used a lot of them myself. But I also think that sometimes we make excuses and call them reasons to justify our laziness. (This isn’t just true about our health, is it?)

The bottom line is this: you’re worth it, and others are watching. Are you showing them that you matter or that you don’t? You’re showing them something, and it’s completely up to you.

February 23, 2015
My 600 Pound Life

Have you guys seen the show “My 600-lb Life” that comes on TLC? I am ridiculously obsessed with it. I will watch reruns, marathons, and cannot miss a new episode. These people, all of whom are at least 600 pounds, allow a camera crew to follow them for a year as they journey to lose weight through Gastric Bypass Surgery. It is riveting and heart-wrenching, and I cannot look away.

Many of them begin as prisoners of their own beds and houses, unable to stand or walk more than a few steps on their own. They are often reliant on a caretaker and can do very little for themselves, including bathing and, ironically, cooking. So often, there is a fascinating dependent relationship where a caretaker becomes an enabler, cooking extremely unhealthy meals or bringing in unlimited fast food. I’m no psychologist, but the psychology in that fascinates me and could be another post.

For some of the people featured, the end of the year means many pounds lost and regained independence. For others, though, the surgery is unsuccessful because they never face the real reasons they gained such weight in the first place.

I’m fascinated by this show for many reasons, but I think the greatest is that it’s not really about weight. Absolutely, being hundreds of pounds overweight is, at some level, a weight issue, but at the core, the issue is much greater than just food and exercise. It’s about more than just calories consumed and inactivity.

For so many of the men and women on this show, a trauma or tragedy earlier in life was the starting point of their battle with weight. Failed relationships, sexual abuse, divorce, neglect as children… There is always more to the story than just food. There is always a deeper issue. Even for those who did not face an extreme tragedy, there is still an emotional component. They eat because they cannot handle stress; they eat because they feel alone; they eat because food is where they get their greatest pleasure. The external pounds are just the visible symbol of the internal struggle.

I am not 600 pounds. I am not overweight, and I have never been one to turn to food when life gets hard – I do the opposite. But make no mistake. I, too, have a 600 pound life. In fact, most of us do.

See, here’s the thing. For every person, there are internal struggles that, even if others know they exist, they don’t understand the depth of what those struggles do to us. There are emotional hardships that consume and devastate us but that remain unknown to even those who know us best. And those internal hardships – please get this – if not surrendered and submitted to the Lord, will always manifest themselves externally as well. For some, it’s food and weight. For some, it’s alcoholism. For others, it’s anger or pornography or excessive shopping or work or a myriad of other things we do to avoid dealing with the reality that begs to be faced.

The external manifestation of the inner struggle is sin. It’s just not always obvious sin.

For the 600 pound people, the excess pounds are obvious. We can see them and judge them and feel superior because we don’t have (and can’t understand) that struggle. But friends, if we have unconfessed sin that we refuse to face or struggles that we try to cope with through external means, we are spiritually and emotionally 600 pounds as well. We are just as obese and just as sick and just as in need of help as those people we gape at and watch featured on a popular TV show.

It’s not politically correct to address obesity as sin. But handling our stresses and struggles with anything other than Jesus is sinful, and that includes food – both too much and too little of it. My struggles with undereating and over-exercising are just as sinful as overeating and under-exercising. My reacting in anger because I’m emotionally depleted is just as sinful as overeating or using drugs or sleeping too much to escape reality. However you and I try to handle life on our own, without surrender to Christ, is sin. Let’s call it what it is and refuse to let it be the story of our lives.

I am always so sad for the 600 pound people who have lost years of their lives. They have been recluses trapped behind walls and imprisoned in mountains of flesh. They talk about wanting to leave the house and walk out into the sunshine, and when they finally do, the joy on their faces is unbelievable. Can you see that you and I are also missing out on years of our lives? Maybe not physically trapped, but emotionally? Maybe not unable to walk, but still feeling dead?

There’s nothing harder than facing ourselves and admitting that we have a problem. But there’s nothing worse than remaining trapped in a prison of our own making that our Creator wants to destroy for our own good.

What is your 600 pounds today, friend? What will it take for you to face it and lose it? Whatever it is, surrender it. Lay down the weight, literal or metaphorical, and allow the God who made you to remake you into what He desires. Those 600 pounds are not what He intended.

All photos from http://www.tlc.com/tv-shows/my-600-lb-life/photos

January 18, 2015
Let’s Do Unconscious

There are two words that more accurately describe being a working adult than any others in the English language: perpetually exhausted.

I’m just tired, y’all. Like ‘I could go to bed at 5:00 p.m. and not wake up until noon the next day‘ tired. Or ‘if I sit still for more than 30 seconds, I’ll fall out‘ tired. Also known as ‘if my husband has the remote and watches the riveting show Treehouse Masters, I’ll be snoring in 8 seconds.’ (Funny story: autocorrect just corrected snoring to scoring. Um, no. I’m too tired.)

What has happened to me and my formerly energetic self? Work. That’s what. And children and bills and responsibilities. Back before my hair turned gray and my knees cracked when I walked up stairs, I could stay awake past 8:00 p.m. with nary a yawn. I could be awake for 4 hours without praying ‘please Jesus, let me put my head on this desk for 5 minutes with nobody noticing.’ I used to want to go places and do things. Now I just want to go to bed. And do unconscious.

January 14, 2015
Jesus, the Mall, and $385 Sandals

So apparently I can’t even go shopping without Jesus getting in the middle of it.

My husband and I went away for the weekend to celebrate his birthday (and coincidentally had one of the best weekends ever – sometimes you just have to suck it up and pay the money to get away from the laundry and dust bunnies that haunt you if you stay home.)

We ate a delicious meal and inhaled incredible cheesecake.

Then we decided we’d do some shopping. As we walked around the mall, I was simply overwhelmed. Everywhere I looked were fancy stores with incredibly expensive items. And to be honest, I wanted some of them. Or many of them. The consumer in me wanted to buy some of the designer clothes to bring my Pinterest closet to life. The stuff was beautiful. But y’all. It was expensive.

Maybe it’s because we weren’t at the mall that we usually go to and I was seeing designer stores that I usually don’t see, but I just felt really sad. I picked up a pair of sandals – the same brand that some of my 9th grade girls wear – and the price tag was $385. For sandals. Don’t get me wrong; they were cute. But that’s more than our car payment.

We passed the American Girl doll store and saw baby dolls that cost more than my weekly grocery budget. That’s just the doll. Tack on the clothes and beds and strollers and accessories, and you’ve surpassed my monthly grocery budget, too.

Now, listen. Here’s what bothered (still bothers) me. I like to dress cute. My own closet contains way more clothes than are necessary, and I’m too embarrassed to tell you how many pairs of boots I counted in there last night. I’ve paid more than I’ve needed to for stuff I don’t need. The number of scarves I own is laughable. It would take months of me wearing different outfits every day to wear it all. Maybe my clothes aren’t the expensive brands in those stores I saw, but inexpensive items added up are still expensive. It bothers me that I want my daughter to have the doll that her school friends have, that I don’t want her to be embarrassed if hers is the off brand.

It bothers me that stuff is so important to me.

This is the tension I felt as I passed the Lacoste and Michael Kors stores and as I peeked in the windows of Louis Vuitton: it’s not wrong, not a sin, to shop in those stores. But is it right for me? Is it the best way to spend my money when I have seen with my own eyes people who have only two sets of clothes?

A hard part of living for Jesus is living with the knowledge that I can’t live however I want and simultaneously glorify Him. I can’t buy whatever I want if I feel convicted that it’s wrong to spend my money on those things.

A list of rules of what to buy and what not to buy would make all of this easier, wouldn’t it? Not having to make these judgment calls would be a whole lot better, huh? But that’s not how living for Christ works. Instead, we have to communicate with Him and learn what’s right for us as individuals. So my not spending $385 on sandals is what’s right for me. But perhaps not spending $30 on sandals is also what’s right. I have to stop and ask – in either case.

My husband and I talked about how far the money being spent in that mall could go to feed the starving children we have held. But it’s not just the money in that mall, is it? It’s the money in my own two hands. Making it personal makes it harder.

It’s not wrong to spend money. But if I’m going to honor God with the money he has entrusted to me, I have to ask if it’s right. Quite frankly, I don’t do that often enough – and I think that grieves my God.

Maybe you’re thinking I sound incredibly hypocritical here. After all, we paid for a hotel room and a nice dinner out in this city. We did some shopping (although it was in less expensive stores). We indulged in ourselves while there are hungry and cold people out there. Yes, we spent money on ourselves, but no, I don’t think it was wrong. My husband and I needed to invest in our marriage. We needed to get away from some stress that has attacked us and reconnect in this season of life. It cost money, true, but the expense honored God as it strengthened our marriage.

There are rarely easy answers in a life lived for Christ. There are some very clear black and whites, but there is also a lot of gray. My desire is to honor my God – even in the gray.

January 12, 2015
Blessings and Curses

Sometimes we inadvertently reveal in our speech what is really hidden in our hearts.

Case in point: today on Christian radio, I listened to a woman talk about how, as a schoolteacher, God has blessed her this year with a good class. A teacher myself, I understand the ‘blessing’ of a good class, but as a word person, I started thinking about what she really meant. Her well-behaved class is easier to manage and teach than an unruly one, so she ultimately sees it as good. Good, for most people who call themselves Christians, is equivalent to blessing. Good = blessing. Good = easy? Good = what we desire? Good = the life we want? If God blesses us with ‘good’ things, does that mean He curses us with bad?

From a whole lot of Scripture and a whole lot of personal experience, I can tell you unequivocally that God does not curse us who are His children. He does not send us the “bad” as the opposite of the blessing. In actuality, the ‘bad’ often is – or leads to – the blessing itself.

The hard situations of life – the challenging times, the difficult people, the situations we can’t change or fix – these are not the opposites of blessings. These are not curses, though they may feel to be. They are exhibitions of His favor that we can’t yet see as blessings because our timelines are immediate and His favor extends into the unseen.

When I look back to the times I felt ‘cursed,’ I remember desperately wanting God to intervene with blessing. I remember begging for favor and yearning to know why He allowed such hardship for His child. I didn’t see any of it as good, easy, or what I desired. Now, though? I see. Now, I understand that the initial hardship led to the eventual good. The immediate pain allowed for the ultimate joy. The ‘curse’ of the time made way for the ‘blessing’ to come.

None of this is to say that difficulties are enjoyable. We shouldn’t wish for them, and I know firsthand that it’s nearly impossible to count them as joy. But in the midst of them, they become bearable when we remember – and believe – that anything that comes into our lives has met with approval from our Maker. He allowed it, has seen it to the end, and will use it for our good. We can rest in the knowledge that what feels like a curse now is simply a blessing that remains unseen.

November 19, 2014
The Imagined No

I never imagined the response I would get to a simple question posed on social media. I simply asked, “What do you think keeps people from doing what they would love to do and being who/what they’d love to be?” Apparently I struck a nerve – people sent me their responses electronically and told me their stories in person, and I was relieved because of what I felt was confirmed in their answers.

I am not alone.

“Time.”

“Obligations and responsibilities.”

“Definitely money.”

“Guilt for putting themselves first.”

“Fear.”

“Fear of failing.”

“Fear of the unknown.”

“Fear–of failure, ridicule, looking like a fool.”

“Fear of not knowing they would be able to succeed in what they love…”

“Fear of failure or fear of success.”

Over and over, the word “fear” was repeated in nearly every answer. Fear of failing, fear of what other people will say and think, fear of how life might change… Even the fear of success. I was blown away at the fact that so many of us want something else – might even feel called to something more – but stay where we are in spite of the feeling that we’re not supposed to be there. Our fear, its many shapes and sizes, paralyzes us. We remain where because of the fear that anything else will be a colossal failure.

Certainly there are responsible reasons why we deny ourselves and our longings. Having a family requires money to buy things like food, so sometimes a paycheck takes precedence over a dream. Plus, we need insurance, don’t we? And dreams require a significant time investment. Then some of us over-spiritualize and assume that we are not good Christians if we are not content in the current. We think there’s no way Jesus would want us to step out of the situation we’re in. After all, he put us there, right? So we don’t go, don’t change, don’t allow ourselves to believe that the dream deep inside is really from God. We convince ourselves that we are simply selfish and that pursuing the more – whatever it is – is an act that is wrong.

Sometimes we use our responsibilities as our excuses.

Sometimes there is comfort in the fear because at least it is familiar.

I’ve begun to see that we live in the disappointment of an imagined “no” to a question we’re afraid to ask.

That imagined and presumed “no” is the reason we don’t take risks. ‘Am I supposed to take this leap of faith, Lord?’ ‘Is this dream I’ve had since I was a little girl your true calling on my life?’ ‘Will I finally be content if I pursue this crazy dream?’

We imagine the worst, assuming that “no” is inevitable. We call it “responsibility” and “taking care of obligations” when sometimes it’s really just fear and excuse-making and – this is my greatest fear – we miss why we were created. When we deny our callings and just call it being selfless, we are denying this world of the gifts that only we have to offer. We are not doing what is noble; we are doing what is comfortable. We are not taking the path God set before us; we are taking the path of least resistance.

When we assume the answer is “no” before we ever ask the question – we are limiting the life we were created to live. We call it many things, but sometimes it’s just being faithless. It’s time we call it what it is.

I am not giving you carte blanche to do whatever you want; I am giving you permission to do whatever you’re supposed to. Can the misery of pretending that you’re fine in the place you are in be enough to move you out? Can the nagging feeling that there has to be more for you be what allows you to search for it? Can my urging you that your dream is your calling be what it takes to move you from complacency to complete abandonment?

It is not selfish to be what God called you to be. Rather, friend, it is selfish to deny the world of the beauty that you will bring when you are who you were created to be.

May we all believe that today.

November 16, 2014
To Those Kids I Taught My First Year…

Dear Students,

I met you guys 13 years ago this August. You were 12 – not quite little children, but not quite young adults, that awkward stage now known as the “tween years.” I was barely 21, a new college graduate with a head full of knowledge and a heart full of uncertainty. On the day we met, I was more nervous than I had ever been before. I had spent weeks shopping for and decorating our classroom, and to this day, I can remember exactly what it looked like. I remember the bulletin boards I painstakingly decorated and the curtains I hung in the windows. I had pored over the textbook, carefully choosing the stories I would teach and the projects you would complete. My lesson plans for those first weeks were impeccable, and my welcome letter to you was thoughtful and full of my hopes for our year together. In short, I thought I was ready for you. In fact, I have never been more wrong. Because, even though I was a magna cum laude graduate with a degree in Secondary Education who had aced the Praxis exam and received great feedback on my student teaching, I was not prepared. I had no idea what I was really doing, and I had no idea just what was really expected of me as your teacher.

You’re 25 now, perhaps college graduates with families of your own, and you might not even remember your 7th grade Language Arts teacher at Dutch Fork Middle, but if you do, this is what I want to say to you.

I am so sorry.

I feel now like I failed you.

It wasn’t on purpose, and I didn’t exactly realize it at the time, but now as an experienced teacher, I know the mistakes I made and the many ways I didn’t give you what you needed. I saw you as students, but I forgot that you were people. I focused on the content, and I didn’t consider your character. My priority was your performance, but I excluded your needs. Will you – can you? – please forgive me? I hope I didn’t derail your education and make you despise school. I made it all about the academics – and regardless of what politicians, Common Core standards, and high-stakes testing say – it isn’t. School isn’t just about what you learn, but who you become. And I did nothing to help you become what you were meant to be.

I am so sorry.

That first year, I did not have kids of my own yet, and as a result, I didn’t know how kids work. Sure, I had studied theories about child development and I had been lectured to about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, but I didn’t understand you. I never stopped to think about your home life and how it affected what you did in my room. I never considered that some of you were hurting or that you couldn’t learn because your bellies were hungry. I was so naive, and I assumed that some of you weren’t learning because you just weren’t trying. Now I know that maybe you couldn’t.

To you, sweet red-headed M, the first autistic child I ever taught, I beg your forgiveness. I had zero experience with autism, and you suffered as a result. I did not know what to do to help you. I felt helpless and scared. I pray that you are successful now anyway.

And you, little C.B. Your anger is what I remember all these years later. I never tried to understand where it came from, and I only added to it by staying on your case. I don’t know where you are now, but I’m hoping that you encountered a teacher who knew and therefore cared more than I did.

G.H. – I heard that you brought a gun to school after I taught you. Thankfully, you didn’t do anything with it, but I want you to know that I have questioned myself often about what I could have done to turn your life around when you were 12. It haunts me sometimes that I didn’t try harder for you. I know I don’t deserve the blame for the choices you made, but I wonder if I could have intervened back when you were in my care.

To all of you, the now-adults I will always picture as the then-children: goodness, do I wish I could have that year with you back. I would put down the legal pad of information I taught myself the day before I taught you, and we would just talk. I would ask about your dreams and tell you that they could come true. I would tell you about myself – the person, not the teacher. I would encourage you in your failures, not berate you for your lack of effort. I would care about your after-school activities, knowing that for some of you, they meant everything. I would be your safe place, because I know now that some of you didn’t have one.

I haven’t seen most of you since you were in the 7th grade, but I want you to know that my failures with you then have been the cause of some of my successes today. Anything good I do in my classroom today is because of the bad I did in yours then.

You might not remember me, but I will never forget you. You, my first students, deserve my apologies, but you also deserve my thanks. You changed me, and every student I encounter now benefits because of how you affected me. Wherever you are now and whatever you are doing, know that I’m thinking of you. I’m wishing you success, and I’m sending you “I’m sorry” all these years later. Learn from me now the hardest lesson I’ve ever learned myself – that the places where we fail and the times when we feel inadequate can also serve as the greatest stepping stones to finding where and what we need to be.

November 9, 2014