I am not an Orphan

So, I'm going to be 26 on Tuesday.  I know.  For some, that may sound terribly young.  To my students, it sounds like I should be driving a mini van and tucking my Hanes tee-shirt into my Mom jeans (which are, hysterically enough, wide-leg dark denim as I was informed by a young girl wearing jeans that could only have been painted on to her chop-stick legs.)  Regardless of what it sounds like to people, I know what this specific birthday sounds like to me.  Awesome.

Generally speaking, 26 is a fairly anti-climactic age.   No one makes black tee shirts with headstones for the big 2-6.  I think it is safe to say that I will not be surprised with a party, wheeled in by a wheelchair, or  pelted with any "over-the-hill" paraphernalia.   I have, however, hit a huge milestone.  I finally, deep down in my soul, am comfortable with myself.  I would even go so far as to say, I really even like myself.  Like, a lot.  In a not Uncle-Jesse kinda way, of course.  Now, a lot of credit is due to my husband who constantly reminds me how awesome I am (and after 3 and half years, I've slowly begun to believe him).  He has been the most encouraging, supportive, inspiring force in my life.  But I think it's even deeper than that.

I was on the phone with a good friend of mine not too long ago and was explaining this phenomenon to him.  I kept saying, "It's like, I finally figured out that I can just do what I love because I love it! Not for any monetary or social gain.  Simply because I love it.  And God's totally cool with that! I think he's even proud of me for it!"  For the first time in my life I have openly and willingly accepted that I am not alone.  I don't have to feel any guilt about not pushing my gift hard enough for it to make money.  I don't have to beat myself up for being too afraid, too lazy, not good enough, etc.  God will ensure that I'm taken care of no matter what I do! It gave me the biggest rush of freedom I've experienced in a long time.  (Almost akin to the "Wild Abandon" blog.) 

As I gushed on the phone in the car in traffic, my gracious friend inserting a few " uh huh's" and "Ah's" and celebratory, "Yes!' 's I finally paused for a breath long enough for him to say something that I'm sure I will remember forever.  He said something to the effect of  (forgive the paraphrasing- talking on the phone while driving is seriously illegal in New Jersey and I was trying to listen and watch out for blue lights at the same time),

"Wow, Jen.  You finally stopped living like an Orphan and started living like a Daughter." 

Again, paraphrase.  Those may not have been his exact words.  But those were the words I heard in my heart.   I'm not an orphan.  I'm not an orphan.  

I think living like an orphan for 25 years is more than enough.  I am so ready to start this next chapter in my life exactly as who I am.  Sans Mom jeans, thank you very much.

Wild Abandon

I was eleven years old. It was the first week of August. The old, blue station wagon had already been packed the night before with juice boxes and cheez-its. The "turtle"- remember those things?-was strapped onto the top of the car straining to retain our luggage. I always had trouble sleeping the night before we left for our annual trip to New Hampshire and that year was no different. I was already sitting straight up in my bed when my mother walked into my room at 4:30 a.m. to gently prod me into the car. Little did she know, my backpack was packed, I was dressed, and I even had my shoes on by 3:00. That year more than any year, I dreamed often of the cool, lake water lapping on the shore, up and over my knees. There was something healing about the water. Something magical. For whatever reason, I knew I had to feel that water, be immersed in it, drink it in, splash wildly in it as soon as possible. I began to tick off the calendar days until vacation.

That morning, at 3 a.m., I knew that I had to be ready. As soon as Bessie's tires hit the sunlit dirt road at Lane's End, I had to be prepared to meet the water's edge. All obstacles needed to be removed. That was when I had the most brilliant idea. I would wear my bathing suit under my clothes. In the car. For the 6 hour drive. Just so I wouldn't have to waste a fraction of a second getting to the one place I knew I belonged.

I don't have to tell you how uncomfortable it can get, wearing a bathing suit underneath your clothing in a car with no air conditioning in August. I sweat profusely. The sweatier I got, the itchier my bathing suit became, the more I scratched, the more I irritated my skin, the more I sweat, and on and on in an endless 6 hour cycle. But as soon as we made that sharp, right hand turn next to the old, wooden sign with a duck painted smack in the middle I knew I had made the right decision. I told my mom to stop the car. I could barely make out the water's edge, but it didn't matter. I would run the rest of the way.

For the first time in my little kid life, and perhaps ever since, I knew what I needed and didn't care how absolutely ridiculous I must have looked, running down the path, tearing off my clothes like Tarzan, grinning like an idiot. I had to get in the water. I kicked off my shoes on the way. My tank top and jean shorts scattered the sand. I ignored all the friendly greetings from friends. And dove. Head first. Into the cold, clear, beautiful water. With wild abandon.

It was entirely out of character for me, which makes it amusing that it is one of my most defining memories. I gave myself over to something without worrying- no, without caring about the consequences. I surrendered. I let go. I didn't care how crazy everyone thought I was. How I must have looked picking up pieces of my clothing that had scattered along the pine trees from the wind. I never even had one, solitary wave of embarrassment, inadequacy or guilt. As I floated on my back, staring up into the sky, I knew that I had done something significant.

We're going again, most likely at the same time, this year. Except, I'm older, with a husband, a full-time job, worries of mortgages and bills and borders and boundaries. I have the beginnings of crows feet. And I wouldn't be caught dead in jean shorts. But, for all of it's awkwardness, I just might wear my bathing suit underneath my sun dress. Searching for that one moment of liberation. The wild abandon.

Moving on...

We've lived in Montclair for 3 years. I know that to be true, but to see it in writing is quite something else. I can't really imagine living three years anywhere, let alone living for three years with my HUSBAND- and yes, even after three and a half years that word still sounds funny when I say it out loud. I'm not quite used to Mrs. Shannon yet, either, even though that's what my students call me everyday. Anyway, the time has come for us to pack up our things and move on. Trouble is, we don't know where we're going:)

Our landlady sold our house and we figured it would as good a time as any to explore some options. To think things through. Our goals. Ambitions. Desires. Should we buy a house or move to Europe? Should we really invest in the community we live in or seek God's face about going elsewhere? Should we pursue dreams or higher education or both? Are we ready to have children?

This is probably the first time in my life that I've allowed for possibilities. I'm not counting anything out. We're looking for houses. Have even visited a few we liked. We're looking at schools- Rich and I have different tastes and callings, but our desire to learn is quite the same-and not really worrying about where those schools happen to be. We're looking into the Peace Corps and traversing up and down the Spanish countryside- and perfectly open to settling down in West Orange and having a clan only to be rivaled by our friends, the DeMarcos. All possibilites, and for once, it doesn't scare me one bit. I know we'll go where God calls us. I'm going to stop helping God across the Street like a little, old lady and start believing that He is the God he says He is. Which means, I'm in terribly good hands even when I know nothing at all.

Tight Tights

I've neglected to partake in many fashion trends over the years deeming myself too old, too "un-cool", too mature.  Though, there has been one lately in which I secretly have held a desire to experiment with.  I'll admit it.  It's the tights.

I've witnessed this phenomenon steadily climb up the trendy meter with awe and wonder at those who prance around in a rainbow array of legs- pink, green, purple, brown, black.  Paired with long sweaters and boots, ballet flats and scarves it's a fashion movement meant to be unrivaled.  So, I pushed all of my insecurities aside and took the leap.  I was advised by my younger and more fashion-conscious sister to begin slowly; perhaps just a nice pair of black ones to usher me into the world I've so longed to explore.  On a windy Saturday morning I marched right over to Target, credit card wielded high like a sword, and placed a pair of simple, elegant, black tights on the belt. (well, you could hardly see them since I had hidden them underneath a sweater, but they were there).  I left feeling mollified, almost proud, swinging that white and red bag into the trunk of my car and had laid out the outfit I would present myself to the world in later on that evening.

Nothing could prepare me for the shock.  I did everything right.  I triple-checked with my sister to make sure I had not overlooked anything vital.  After an hour of staring at myself in the mirror, I succumbed to the horror.  I was naked. With very dark, midnight black legs. Flash-backs ensued of a young girl (who will remain nameless considering I have so many readers) in my second grade class who's father had carelessly dressed her in Barbie stockings and had neglectfully forgotten to pair them with a skirt before he sent her off to school.  I could not go out into public in this manner.  You could see the outline of my butt. No one wants to see the outline of my butt.

After another wardrobe change to a top that more than came to my knees, the tights and I made peace with each other, when they were well hidden( where they belonged. ) 

Perhaps we were never meant to be.  Alas, I'll resume my wary fashion eye and stick to the jeans that my sister lovingly exclaims gives me saggy butt.  At least, you can't see anything when I wear them. 

School

Splinters

Before I was a high school teacher, I worked as a behavior therapist for the Early Intervention program. One of my clients was a 4 year boy who was on the lowest rung of development on the autism spectrum. He had limited (if any) spontaneous language skills. His motor planning and fine motor skills had never even begun to develop. I was told before I began that if I could teach him to use a spoon in the 6 months I was supposed to be with him, it would be as if I gotten him into Harvard. Every day with Shmuel was a challenge. He would bite. He would kick. He would wail. He would take off all of his clothes and run straight out of the door, down the block. He would play in the toilet. He would put anything and everything in his mouth (including things I cannot mention out of respect for those of you who are eating). But out of the two years I was with Shmuel (yes, two years- I fought to keep him and the agency finally agreed to fund my work with him due to his progress) I am quite certain he taught me more than anything I ever taught him. One of those lessons I recieved from him came back to me today during church and I thought I'd share it with you.

Shmuel never wore shoes. He hated shoes, in fact. On rare occasions when I would take him to a store to try to teach him about proper social behavior, he would sit down in the middle of the large, glass doors, point to his sneakers and defiantly pout, "OFF". If I did not concede, something far worse was sure to follow. He would knock over racks of clothing. Break bottles of lotion. Run up and down the lines of people trying to find someone eye level to hit. Needless to say, Shmuel was often barefoot due to the weariness of his mother and his insane ability to out-run us all.

Being barefoot, however, has it's disadvantanges. For several days in a row I had noticed that Shmuel had been favoring his left foot. This was rather interesting to me, considering that I had just (Victory!) taught him how to use a spoon and he always used his right hand. Feet usually followed suit. I watched for a few more days until one day I arrived to watch him limp around his bedroom. I asked his mother about it and she said that she hadn't noticed. I convinced her to hold him in her lap while I took a look at the bottom of his foot. There, poor little boy, were five splinters so imbeded and festering that they left sore, red spots in his soles. No wonder he was limping. His mother called the doctor immediately, who, avoided all contact with Shmuel whenever necessary and told her that splinters were not something to bring a child to the doctor for and that she should just take them out herself.

And the dilemma ensued. Shmuel was uncommonly strong and very difficult to detain. He was stubborn and never concerned with whether or not he hurt others. But deeper than that, my heart ached that there was no way to communicate to him that something that was going to hurt him needed to be done in order to prevent something worse from happening. I couldn't even explain to him why his foot hurt so badly. I couldn't express how much better he would feel once it was all over. He didn't speak my language.

I held him while his mother took over the task of removing each splinter. My legs were crossed over his to prevent him from kicking her and my arms were tight across his to avoid flailing. His fingers pinched into my arms so hard I had little purple bruises. I rocked him and sang as he wept like only a desolate child can cry. As if something awful is happening to them and they are powerless to stop it. He would clutch my arm tightly in a hug, then bite it, then clutch it again as if he wasn't sure if he should hold onto me for comfort or punish me for allowing this to happen to him. I kept whispering in his ear, "I know you don't understand this, but I'm allowing this to happen to you because I love you so much I want you to have the best life you can. That will only happen after this is done." I cried with him as he called my name, one of the first times he ever used it properly. It nearly broke me in half to have to be the one to hold him down.

This morning this memory came back to me as I was praying. I am so much like Shmuel. Kicking and screaming. Feeling alone and lost in some dark place where I am powerless. Confused as to why this is happening and longing to hear a clear, audible explanation. It humbles me to think that God must feel an awful lot like I did. That God's heart is breaking as he's holding me down as I'm flailing. I almost heard him whispering,
"I know you don't understand what's happening to you right now but you have to trust me that I'm allowing it because I love you and it's all going to turn out so much better than you've ever imagined."

I have some serious splinters, but I'm so glad I know and trust the one who's holding me down.

Mental Health Days

It's a term that people throw around in jest at the bar or coffee house. I took a "Mental Health Day" basically means that you played hookie- skipped out on something you were responsible for whether that meant you stayed home from work, school or dropped the kids off at your Mom's for a while. They're seldom taken seriously , generally laughed about like you used to laugh about cutting your Math class in high school- something forbidden but not detrimental. However, I seem to be from an entirely different camp when I utilize the term Mental Health Day. Not only are they crucial to my sanity, identity and over-all well being but they are essential and must be taken regularly in order for me to be an effective, productive human being.

So, this week I waded through a pile of 107 midterms all with 3 essays each to grade, I survived a new driver drilling into the back of my car without injuring him and all the while wondering why my head has not ceased pounding, my heart not back to a normal rhythm and I can't think clearly. Then, it occurred to me. I have yet to take a Mental Health Day. I have not had a day to recuperate. To gather my thoughts. To spend hours in prayer. To bake something sweet smelling all day. To read a book. To not have to think about jerky kids and pse&g bills and oil changes.

I've denied myself too long. The time has come. I won't say when, but it's coming up soon. In order for me to do what I need to do best, a Mental Health Day is in order. I encourage you to embrace your need for a mental health day. It's not a cop out, nor is it being lazy. It is totally and completely necessary.