Indecisive-less

I have a problem. I'm not sure how big of a problem it is, or if, in fact, it is a problem at all. Even in that example shines the very essence of my problem. I am indecisive. I'm more than indecisive. I am maddening. Ask my husband.

I wake up in a cold sweat exactly six minutes before my alarm goes off every morning. I squeeze my eyes tighter as I wait for the rain of assailing questions. What will I wear today? Pants suit or black skirt? Eggs or cereal? Do I even have time for breakfast? Coffee before shower or shower before coffee? Peanut butter or tuna for lunch? Trust me, it doesn't end there. My indecisiveness has permeated every part of life from my majors in college ( yes, majors- I went from Music to Psych back to Music to Communications to graduating with an English degree) to the restaurant my husband told me to pick for our night out. Ethiopian or Thai? Italian. Italian's always safe. Unless...

Of course, I realize that my indecisiveness has a ceiling. I mean, I married after all. I had to decide on that. I choose the new car we drive without hesitation. I hands down know that I can't wear pink without a tan. So, why doesn't that part of me drift over into the other, more annoying part?

For several reasons, I believe. I tend to take the saying, " If you say yes to something, you're saying no to something else" quite seriously. And I am not a say-no-er. I hate to say no. To anything. (Unless it's directly related to physical activity. ) If I commit to taking French lessons, then I certainly can't take Portuguese. If I invest more practice time on the guitar, I won't have any time for the piano. If I say yes to the lunch date with a friend, I am a bad wife for not staying home to clean my disaster of a house. And so on. The second reason being, the typical people-pleaser answer. I've spent my life conceding to the desires of others, I'm not really sure I even know what I want. And, if I don't know what I want, how can I possibly make a decision?

So, be patient with me, friends, if I'm hesitant in suggesting a coffee house in which to meet. Or if I can't even decide what time would be best. I'm learning how to weigh the options and actually choose (that's the dead air on the phone, in case you ever wondered). I am taking all kinds of new steps in this new season of life. Indecisive-less, here I come!

Beloved

It was 12:30 and I called my husband at work on my lunch break with the sob story of my day. He listened patiently, reassured me through my hyper-ventilating that my day was over soon and that he couldn't wait to see me. An hour later when I called back with a relocation proposal, to Africa preferably, I heard him smile over the phone and say, " Take a deep breath. Meet me at the train. I made reservations for 6."

I'm ashamed to admit that I sometimes take my husband for granted. He tells me that he loves me everyday. He calls me and texts me throughout the day to remind me that he's thinking of me. He cleans up after meals. He does all the laundry, for crying out loud. He provides and cares for me more than anything I've ever experienced before. I had thought that these things are just things that husbands are supposed to do. Wrong. My husband isn't supposed to do these things. He doesn't have to do these things. He does them because he loves me. He loves me in a way I am only beginning to understand.

I hear all the time from women who feel neglected, taken advantage of or taken for granted by their husbands. I have no idea what they're talking about. However, it's a good reminder of how blessed I am. How I need to acknowledge my loving spouse every day and make sure I'm not taking who he is for granted.

I would certainly elaborate, but, I have surprise plans for 6 with the most incredible, dashing man.

Reclaiming Autumn Part 2

Lazy Saturday morning.....a long, leisurely romp at the Farmer's Market....scrambled eggs with cheese and grits at our favorite greasy spoon for breakfast....a long drive into the country air....a sneeze-filled hay-ride into orchard acres....apples still wet with dew plucked from trees and placed in plastic bags....14 lbs of juicy freshness to be eaten raw or in pies or in breads or in muffins....cozy, candle lit dinner with family....happiness fulfilled. Autumn is mine.

In His Image

It was second period this past Tuesday. There's nothing really redeeming about Tuesday. It's not the start of a fresh new week like Monday. It doesn't have the allure of "hump day" Wednesday. It's just kind of there, like partially moldy cheese-there's nothing really wrong with it if you can get past the green stuff and scrape off the edges. I was gathering my notes together before the barrage of gangly, strong smelling, chatty teenagers took over my room all abuzz with the excitement of sports commencements. This is the week my football, soccer, volleyball and basketball players along with my cheerleaders have their first games. They run around crazy-like in the hallways, decorating lockers with red and white streamers, painting their faces to show school spirit, baking cookies with players names in them. They come to school in suits either too small or too large for their ever-transforming frames, asking for help to tie their father's ties; slick with hair-spray, floating on European cologne. Even their smiles are different-some excited to be returning to the game, others petrified.

One of the downfalls of only teaching Juniors this year is that I occasionally miss some of my students from last year who are currently sophomores. I only say occasionally due to the fact that they seldom give me a chance to miss them considering they are in my classroom so often to say hello I forget that they are no longer students of mine. In fact, I had promised one of them that I would swing by his J.V. soccer game later on in the week to watch him in action, since I don't get the chance anymore in the classroom.

Anyway, back to Tuesday. I had noticed as they all got settled into their seats and reluctantly took out their notebooks that one of the boys who sat in the back was eyeing me in a peculiar fashion. Not uncomfortable, mind you. Just as if he needed to ask me something and wasn't sure how to word it. He stayed that way throughout the period. Usually having all the answers, he abstained from answering questions and when I called on him it was brief, one or two words at the most. I generally stop the class a few minutes early and tell them to get a jumpstart on homework, but it's really for me to be able to connect to each of them personally. I made my rounds and finally made my way to the back when I heard his voice.

"Mrs. Shannon? Alex told me that you were going to the J.V. soccer game on Friday to watch him play."
I answered, that yes, Alex was student of mine last year and I told him that I would come to at least one game of his this year.
The boy in the back puffed up his Varsity soccer jersey, shuffled his feet and with a bit more confidence asked-
"Are you gonna come to my games then, too? To watch me play? I'm captain this year."

This caused quite an uproar among the classmates. "What, you a footfairy fan Mrs. S? You not gonna come see me in a real American game? Football?" "How 'bout we get you the basketball schedule, will you come to those, too?" "What? Mrs. Shannon? You won't just go see the boys, will you? Our volleyball team plays Garfield next week...."

I taught pre-school where four year olds clamoured over holding my hand. Sitting next to me for snack time. I thought for sure after my experience in high school last year these kids would sooner egg my car then demand my presence at one of their functions. Needless to say, I appeased the masses Marc Anthony style. I assured them all (who meandered in with smirks and attitudes, laughing in my face and refusing to sit down or hand in their homework just minutes before) that I do not discriminate and will gladly attempt to make one of each of their games. That they are all equally as important to me. That they were all talented and I couldn't wait to see what they could do. They smiled. Their shoulders relaxed. They breathed. They gave me high fives on the way out. I was stunned.

After class was over I marveled quietly at my desk. It is true. We are all made in His image. We all truly want love, acceptance and support. Even smelly, disrespectful, snotty teenagers. Go figure. So, if you happen to be bored on a Friday afternoon depending on the week, I could gladly use the company of someone who knows anything about football...or soccer...or basketball...or volleyball....or.....

Threes?

I'm aware of the superstitious belief that bad things happen in threes, but I'm curious to discover if that applies to annoying things as well.

Case in point:

1. Our security alarm has seemingly developed a mind of it's own, therefore forewarning us of an obviously invisible attacker every twenty minutes. Though I am appreciative of it's vocal concern for our safety and outrage at any intruder (imaginary or otherwise), I fear our neighbors are considering a plan of attack themselves if it continues its cacophonous tirade throughout the night. Again.

2. As if incessant beeping wasn't enough to disrupt these last few nights of summer sleep, my toilet has been eavesdropping on my inner dialogue condemning my severe lack of exercise and has decided to make up for my reluctance for physical exertion by taking matters into its own hands. By running, I mean. For hours. All morning, in fact. Of course he is aware that in addition to the physical satisfaction he may be getting, he is also quite successfully running up our water bill. A fact, that, I've discovered in a brief exchange with him, he apparently doesn't value as highly as physical maintenance and extrinsic motivation. Honestly, he may have a point. A jog sounds like a brilliant reprieve from the deafening sound of rushing water emanating from my bathroom.

Thus, I am just the conductor in this symphony of audible intrusions, and almost afraid to wonder if this mysterious law of threes does in fact apply to things obnoxious in nature, what could possibly happen next?

I'll be sure to let you know.

Grin and Bear It

It has finally come.  Glancing over at the alarm going off in our bedroom to signify that it was time for Rich to get up, I rolled over with deep indignation.  In less than a week, I will be waking an hour earlier than him.  Walking zombie-like into the kitchen to make the coffee.  Turning on the hot water, then the cold water.  Dancing around in the bathroom waiting for the water to regulate.  Sleepily making a lunch that always seems to be missing something-like, the sandwich- and joining the rest of the working world in the that blasted line for the parkway.  

At precisely 7:35 I will be staring at the inside of my classroom instead of the inside of my eyelids.  For those of you who scoff at the notion of a teacher complaining after she has gotten nearly three months off, let me explain something to you.  I was unable to unclench my fists or my jaw until mid-July from school stress.  I finally began sleeping through the night toward the end of the second week of August.  And then, in the third week I was back to organizing, preparing, studying and stressing over going back to school.  Total vacation hours? TWO WEEKS.  Woe is the life of a teacher.

I have applied to more jobs that I could count over the summer.  Jobs with the allure of only working 6-8 hours a day and leaving the work THERE before coming home.  A job where what I do would be appreciated and respected by functioning adults.  A job where I would look forward to going ...where I would feel called to be...where I could utilize my skills and talents...where I wouldn't have to be concerned if that student I failed would be waiting for me by my car...or outside of my door...with a weapon...or a chair...or worse...a parent.  Where I could drink a cup of coffee, for goodness sake and wear open-toed shoes.

Alas, here I am, public school teacher. Again.  

So, rather that let this simple fact overshadow my life this year (those of you who know me understand that last year I'm pretty sure "myself" disappeared into a bundle of self-deprecating, second-guessing, stressing, sleepless, panic-attacking mess) I have already decided to approach this school year with a new vision and manner in mind-and am pleading your help in this mountainous endeavor.

Fact: I would rather not be teaching.

Fact: Regardless of how I feel about it, I WILL be teaching.

And sooooo, I am determined to grin and bear it, so they say.  Make the best of it.  But am praying for even more than that.  I'm not sure why God wants me in the classroom, but it's apparent that he does.  So, with that knowledge, I will do my best to wake with a smile, leave my stressing at the door, approach the day with something I love in mind.  I will plan things to look forward to every month...every weekend...everyday-that's where you come in, if you choose. Dinner with a friend, a movie, a new book, a weekend away. I will thank God daily for the job that I have that provides the support our family needs and a fresh supply of spit-balls in my purse.  

At work, instead of being a grammar pusher, a paragraph stickler or a homework nazi it will be my main daily goal to make my students laugh.  To teach them that being who they are is awesome enough-they don't need to be anything else.  To revel in their differences instead of beating each other up over them. To encourage them that the world stretches outside of their city boundaries, to read the newspaper, explore their own thoughts and ideas instead of spewing out everyone else's without even thinking about it, to communicate effectively(preferably without the F-word) and be normal, civilized human beings who will (hopefully) be able to write and read.  Doesn't sound like a tall order, I'm sure, but you haven't witnessed a classroom full of thirty hungry, bored, tired and hot seventeen year olds who amuse themselves by seeing who could hit me first with a paper airplane.  Yes, they still make those.

I, of course, will document my progress on both the attitude adjustment and the paper airplane problem.  Like I've said in previous posts, I am attempting this thing of not letting circumstances decide my future- or take my joy.  So, if there's anyone interested in a hay ride and a pumpkin picking excursion, my September fun-day slot is open! 

Sacrifice and Surrender

I'm an addict.

I'm told that the first step toward active recovery is to admit the problem. Therefore, with pause, deep breaths and morose confidence, I am laying it on the line. I am addicted to sacrifice.

Don't tell me that you're unaware of what this means. I love to sacrifice. I live to sacrifice. I used to like to disillusion myself and call it part of my selflessness. My husband calls it "Baptist Guilt".

Though not my vocal belief if anyone were to ask me, I seem to have lived my life according to certain rules.
1. If I sacrifice my desires, it will be pleasing to God and I will be rid of guilt.
2. If I sacrifice my opportunities, it will be pleasing to God and I will be rid of guilt.
3. If I give up on anything and everything that has the possibility of bringing me any happiness, I've got a first class ticket on the freedom train and be rid of my guilt.

Please don't misunderstand. God does call us to make certain sacrifices, all pleasing in his sight and biblical when our hearts are motivated properly. But, did you notice a pattern in my aforementioned rules? My whole life has been motivated by eradicating guilt.

Does that even make sense? Would people be lining up and around the corner to sign up for a God who takes pleasure in watching you suffer? Who requires you to forsake all that stirs your heart and forces you to settle for something that will never make you happy? Who would dictate that unhappiness is, in fact, the very sign that signifies what a good little Christian you are? I certainly don't believe that about the God I serve, but the way I have lived my life has reflected something different entirely.

People use the words sacrifice and surrender as if they are interchangeable, but in fact they are worlds apart in ways that I am only beginning to discover. Sacrifice means to give something up for someone else. It invites images of suffering, of pain, of loss, of struggle. I've relished this image and adopted it as my living blue-print. But surrender, oh, surrender means to let go. To offer it up. To lay it down. To hand over the control. That's different.

I am slowly learning the joys and depths of surrender. I am lethargically remembering the verse where God promises the desires of our hearts. That I should know the plans he has for me. Plans to prosper me, not to harm me-plans to give me hope and a future. I am carefully prying finger after guilty finger from my view of God. Guilt is selfish. Holding onto my guilt is selfish. Believing that if I give up everything I might have been called or created to do, I will be saved is selfish- and not aligned with my core belief in Jesus at all. I'm praying that God replaces my definitions of sacrifice and surrender with his own.