Snow Days

I'm not sure why, but I'm not an excitable person.  I mean, I think I'm relatively happy most of the time, but it's in a reserved kind of way.  I'm not prone to dancing happy jigs, squealing in unnatural octaves, clapping my hands.  

I greet Christmas with a deep breath and a sly smile.  Birthdays?  Shy and averted.  Anniversaries are a brilliant mixture of heart-felt cards, really good food and a few loving glances.  But, Snow Days?  Snow Days are a different story.

There's something completely magical about a snow day that truly compares with nothing else.  It's as if God had decided to turn the entire world a different color just for me and had informed my place of work about the importance of my ability to capture every second of it uninterupted.  And I do.  I literally set up shop in front of my big bay window with a cup of coffee (the second pot brewing, because I have time to actually enjoy it) put a pot of soup on to simmer and just watch the sky.   Snow Days are  big, bright packages of restful sanity.  You can't go anywhere.  You have to reach Wolfgang Puck status in creativity with whatever's remaining in your fridge.  You must clean behind the bookcase, because, when else are you going to be home all day?  The new bubble bath gleaming on the side of the tub is calling your name.  

But, my favorite kind of snow day?  This one.  The anticipation of waiting for the snow to fall.  The Christmas with the Rat Pack album on rotation.  The ingredients for Mocha Crinkle Christmas cookies spread all over my kitchen table.  The sweet scents of cinnamon emanating from my bread maker, already working on that cinn-raisin-honey bread I'll be eating hot with butter for lunch with some soul-warming chicken soup.  The guitar silently whispering that it's about time we spent some time together.  The christmas lights twinkling on the tree that consumes my entire dining room.  The fact that my students are all giggling about how they got out of taking their test on Animal Farm today.  Good for them.  I'm giggling, too, thinking how I got out of grading their Animal Farm test.

Snow Days are magic.  Plain and simple.  It's the reassurance that God can do amazing things.  Things beyond your comprehension.  Things that will dazzle and excite you.  Because He loves you.    Because you're worth it to Him.  

When you were in school, how did you spend your snow days?

Poem

Long before I wrote anything, poetry was the medium I always defaulted to.  I drew away from it for a while, but my roots have recently been drawing me back so I thought, here is as good of a space as any to share.  

Finding Who You Are At Twenty-five

Freedom gained or freedom earned

To which extent have the people learned

Whose lovers should be left unspurned

As the jilted axis turned.

The life that's left has left to give

The right to "live and let all live"

Right's don't hold in a human sieve

Tripping over pebbles, "Unite" "Forgive"

Soundless

Wordless

Waging matters

As confidence of breathing shatters

Tar beneath the tire splatters, ingenious beneath the pitter

Patters...

"Where is Art?"The old man asks, his desk adrift between his tasks

And allowing in his gaze, I bask

Politely say beneath my mask-

"Under here."

Learning Curve

I must be off my rocker. I spend a great deal more than half of my day in a place where it is impossible for me to use the bathroom when the need arises, where a coffee cup is one of the first signs of insubordination and where "Salud" has taken the place of "God Bless You" for fear one of my Muslim students might take my politically incorrect ass to court. After all of that, fighting off screaming kids in stupid holiday dresses with pins that light up and sing "We Wish You A Merry Christmas"lined up to meet Santa at the mall, dropping an incredibly over-due check off at the dentist's office in hopes he'll take pity on our pathetic souls during the holiday season, trying desperately to manuever our Hulk of a tree that has clearly claimed the dining room territory for it's own, all the while juggling papers my students have written over a week and a half ago that I haven't even breathed on- only to stare down an application for Graduate school.

Don't I complain about having to be in school ever day????? I want to now PAY to go there? Again? As I said, I must be off my rocker. A few more than a few screws are loose. Please insert yet another terribly cliche saying here_________________________________.

It wasn't that long ago that graduating from High School was seen as an incredible accomplishment. You could go far with a diploma. Then, all the emphasis was placed on four year colleges. Without a bachelor's degree, you were one step closer to getting acquainted with burgers and fries or Mailboxs Etc. Now, a B.A. is a dime a dozen and the real winners are the ones with cool adendems at the end of their names. What the hell? The world's view is so complicated. It's not enough to just go back, you must go back for some "higher" purpose-generally, wealth or status. Where's the redemption in acquiring an M.A. in Studies of Indigineous Tribes and Their Cultural Holiday Practices?" I'm quietly, but defiantly, murmuring my reply.

Learning is awesome. On some level in order to be even a half-way decent teacher, I have to believe that. Learning what you love to learn, however, is unparelleled. That's why, after smelling like erasers and cafeteria sloppy joes all day, I can come home and still approach an application to Grad School with wide eyes and a frantically beating heart. I could get an M.A. in bread baking, did you know that? I could go back and set myself up to be tri-lingual- (how do you like me now, U.N.?) I could primarily study voice and actually accrue a degree as a Vocalist-tell me thats not the coolest thing you've ever heard. I could get an M.F.A. in writing kids stories...yessss...

I love that as I get older, I get more comfortable in the skin God placed me in. I love that as I get older I'm able to grasp more firmly that my identity is in Christ, not in what the world has to say about me, so I can go ahead and study those Indigineous tribes I was talking about. I am free to be who I was created to be. Grad school is just another avenue in my crazy life where I can reclaim what I've given away. My decision will not be based on someone's expectations nor anyone's belief in what I "should" be doing. If I'm going back to be a baker, I'll be a damn good baker-even if I don't make one red cent off of a honey-cinnamon-raisin loaf (though, seriously, they're so good I'd buy one from myself). If I'm going back to be a writer, I'm going to enjoy every second of assessing, analyzing and spinning tales that will change my life-if not anyone elses. If I'm going back to be a singer- heaven help anything that stands in my way. This time, whatever I go back for, it'll be something I love, not what might pay the bills or allow me to add some cool suffix to my name plate. I already have my identity and my security in Jesus....the rest is gravy.

I'm being observed tomorrow. For those of you not accustomed to teacher-speak, I'll clue you in. Non-tenured teachers are watched like hawks while they are teaching at least 6 times during the year by supervisors who pick apart every thing you do. They like to point out things that you have no control over, such as, a student breezing into your room 10 minutes after the bell and giving you a high-five as if there's nothing wrong with his tardiness. (Because, if your supervisor wasn't here, there wouldn't be anything wrong with it since you sanctioned him a be-late-for-free pass as long as he handed in all of his homework). They glare at you from the back of the room, pausing to slowly write something lengthy down on their little yellow pads while you sweat and try not to swear, quizzing the kids on the main characters of "Animal Farm". Needless to say, I've been stressing about it all weekend. Every night since Friday as I've laid down to sleep, I've dreamt of my classroom and my students' faces slowly taking on my supervisors features-and laughing loudly-and cynically. Until tonight.

This evening I had the privilege of sitting around the kitchen table with two lovely ladies. We gabbed about all kinds of things from husbands to dishwashers to God, sharing stories and laughing, encouraging and edifying each other. We all seem to be in a season of waiting where the Lord seems to be trying to teach us to be patient. One of us has recently had to go back to her old job after an attempt to go into business for herself didn't quite turn out the way she expected, one of us has begun her own business and is just praying now for financial backers and practice space, and then there is me who is back in the classroom without a really clear idea as to why. We're all suspended in these spaces and, in hashing it out tonight, have realized that God is speaking to us clearly after all.
This year I've learned that nothing is successful without the Lord. That the word success, if not directly related to Him, is empty and meaningless. I've learned that if I spend all of my time writing the best lesson plans, stressing over classroom management and looking good in front of my supervisors then I have yet, again, missed the point. God has revealed to me through the words and laughter of these women that He has brought me back to the classroom to relearn some basic things. I love teenagers, I love to minister, I love writing and literature and I love music. I am completely called to do all of these things. That being the case, I am called to use those things wherever I am. Being, the classroom. But it doesn't stop there.
Deeper than that, He has taught me that when my supervisor thinks my lesson plan sucks, He still thinks I'm the greatest. That if the choice is between spending time with Him and doing extra school work, He wants me to choose Him. That if my kids walk all over me and wreck my classroom, but in their hearts, know truly and deeply that I love them, then I have done the best job I could have. I was really stressed out a few weeks ago as I was working on yet again, another lesson, when I heard God audibly say, " Aren't you tired? Aren't you tired of trying to be the best? Of trying to be perfect? Aren't you tired of having to worry about things? Give it up, Jen. Let me take care of it."
I'm slowly learning to let God take care of things. I'm slowly learning that being God's daughter means that He more than has my back-He wants me to be happy, healthy and totally in communion with Him. I want my only desire to seek more of Him. I cannot believe I'm learning how to do that in the very place that represented, what I thought to be, God's unfaithfulness. I may not have gotten down the whole "identity in Christ" thing yet, and I'm sure I'll still have butterflies tomorrow, but I'll sleep well tonight knowing that I have a Father-God who is smiling on me, who is proud of me and who loves me completely.

I don't want to love my students. The way one of them knocks on my door every day at 12:16 just to wave to me on her way to the cafeteria. The way one of my rather intimidating looking students did a jig before turning in his first piece of homework for the year. The way they tip-toed hesitantly into my class today because I had lost it on them yesterday for slacking. The way one of them stood up and announced that he wished to speak for the class and apologize for their behavior, and that they would all try to do better. The way I have to hide my giggles when they're inappropriate-or when I can't hide them at all. The way they ask me for relationship advice and parental advice and fashion advice-though I would be more inclined to ask them the latter. The way they take for granted that I will always be there, to help them, to fight for them, to defend them, to care for them for as long as I can. The way we have inside jokes. The way they ask me to come see their games and their plays. I don't want to love them. It is often too hard, too draining, too emotional, too much. I don't want to. Unfortunately, as I have learned, you can't always get what you want.