Monday, September 27, 2010

Floating Effect

There's a scene in some Spike Lee movies I always liked. It's the staple that follows many of his protagonists, watching them literally "float" down a local sidewalk. Denzel Washington floats towards his death in "Malcolm X" (and floats twice more, once in Mo Better Blues and "Inside Man"), Mekhi Pfieffer in "Clockers." Other movies include the "25th Hour" and "Crooklyn." Regardless of when it happens or why it's happening, it's the scene I most resonate with now. I think I'm currently in my own floating scene. Floating by while those around me are desperately trying to reel me in from drifting away. I can't sense any soundtrack except for my own frustration.

Now I'm the one to blame for this floating effect. I fully admit it. Could I be doing a better job with my devotions? Should I have been making better financial decisions over the past few weeks/months? Am I helping my body adjust to the stress and lifestyle with my diet? Have I been willing to make those sacrifices I know are good for me? I know the answer to all my questions, yet I'm the one refusing to adhere to what I know will help my feet touch the ground again.

I told my share group tonight that before I was a "Christian" (not that I was an atheist before, just uncommitted to anything but believing that I had everything to do with me), it was easy to be a jackass. The world values sarcasm, a commitment to oneself. You're an exhausted dad? Leave those kids and party! You deserve it! Save money? What the hell for, you can't take it with you, that's for sure. Relationships? I'd be lucky to remember your name, much less value any time I was going to spend with you. So now, as I see myself spinning aimlessly, doing the same things that I know aren't what God wants from me, and I honestly said, "If I didn't know what I know now, I could just be an ass and be okay with it."

And I chuckled, because I knew when I said it, that God never intended for me to be ignorant of his grace. He doesn't want any of us walking around not knowing forgiveness, and love and genuine relationships. He wants the best for me, for you, for all of us.

Today, on a Monday when everything worked at school, and the lessons had been prepared and the day ran without a hitch, a student told me if I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. so there it is, in my face, Jesus reminding me in the smile of a child, in that concerned face of hers, that I needed to cheer up. I immediately fought back with a "no," but I know what she was getting at.

So, tomorrow, let's wake up with a smile. Hug the kids and kiss my wife. Is there really any other way?

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Mindful Redirection

Three weeks into the school year and I feel like I'm a month behind already. I hate that this is my opening line to my blog. Way to be positive, right? Perhaps this is the therapy I need to get myself going into the right direction.

I told my wife today that perhaps the decision to go off my medication (for those in the dark, I started a round of Lexapro a few years back for the demons/immaturity of depression, with mixed results and have been off them since this past spring), not because of an outburst or because I'm losing my mind, but because of the lack of focus that has seemed to plague me over the summer. I routinely find myself driving back to the house to pick up something I missed, or driving home and forgetting that I had to stop somewhere (like now, I have pictures at Target to pick up). I start one project at school, and I stand up and realize that other things need to be done. I lay my clipboard down somewhere and freak out when I cannot find it. Perhaps I've been ADHD all this time, it would explain some of my boyishness as a kid, but then again, it's probably just an excuse. My memory is quite acute, as I could vividly remember past events as if they were unfolding before me. I forget names but not faces. Why is it I cannot remember where I laid my wallet?

In my refusal to read boring basals and stick with the old, I've been working on novels in Reading, which would explain some of my trepidation coming into this week. Along with a newfound focus on vocabulary, I feel like I'm generating new lessons every day. I create, I adjust on the fly and I evaluate. Thank goodness for that kind of leverage, and I surely wont go back to the old just to make myself more comfortable. My Monday, however, was pretty typical of what my mind must be doing.

I get a new student about five minutes in, no paperwork. Cleaned out a desk and got her to work. Phone rings two or three times, parent wanting work (he's recovering from a diabetic fit and a hospital stay, and thats what a parent wants? Seriously?). Computer is slowing down with every touch of the Smartboard. Music teacher comes in, suddenly other kids are reminded that they need to talk to her, lose five students. Afternoon comes, forget there is an assembly, lose 20 minutes. This bleeds into today, Obama speech at 1pm, lose 30 minutes redirecting sleeping students to sit up, remind them of their "personal code," which apparently has nothing to do with zoning out to streaming video of their president's motivational speech as it freezes and makes him look like he's giving funny faces ever half minute.

What am I looking forward to? Reading my student responses to their personal code of conduct based on their 6 levels of happiness (thanks to Rafe Esquith's "Teach Like your Hair's on Fire"). I'm reinforcing the why we behave and that it has nothing to do about rewards or incentives (which are great motivators of used correctly). Not a new concept but I'm working on making our room the place where acting the way we are made to act is safe and conducive to learning. Let the games begin!


Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Emmaus Gathering 4th Day Speech, September 8, 2010

(What follows is a transcript of my speech yesterday. I'm still feeling the after effects today, like a high still, of being called up to speak at church of all places. Who would have thought I'd ever be asked to speak at church. I will use this to undoubtedly fuel me for as long as it will take me.

As my nervousness wore off, I distinctly remember faces and expressions, and it felt as if I weren't reading at all. And I still recall my first ever speech class in college, when I dropped the course after I bombed the basic "introduce your neighbor" speech. God is great)


My name is Reynaldo Cordova. I attended the Reynoldsburg Men’s Walk #59 and sat at the table of Mark. I am honored to stand before you as a brother in Christ to deliver two messages for you today. One, what did the Emmaus walk mean to me and what have I done since then.

My experience with church and Jesus began as a four year old boy in Houston, TX. I am told that on that first visit, I began asking my mother what was church. And after given an explanation that church was a place where a man named Jesus lived, I decided to find out who that man was. In doing so, I shouted upon entering Catholic mass that Sunday, “Where’s Jesus? Where’s Jesus?” Little did I know that it would take me almost 33 years before I listened for an answer.

As a teenager, I surely asked where Jesus was in my life. I longed for that fatherly relationship from my dad I saw on weekends and rebelled against the step-father who was raising my sister and I. I tried drugs in high school, alcohol, questionable friends and unhealthy relationships. I questioned every moment and looked for the unfairness of life. Why would Jesus take my Uncle Richard, just married and handsome, so full of life? Sometimes I would think that Jesus only lived on the walls of that church growing up, a figure so distant and painful like the tears of a viejita at church, like the Jesus oil painting above my grandmother’s kitchen table that watched as I guiltily ate tortillas. My relationship with Jesus mirrored a church statue of the Virgin Mary that sat regal in a glass encased podium, no doubt bullet proofed and free from the oily touch of us parishioners.

But little did I know that all the turns I made in Texas would eventually lead me to Ohio. You see, roads in Texas are flat, straight, narrow. Five lanes of sameness. You make 3 right turns in Texas you end up back where you started. You try that in Ohio, you end up in Chillicothe. The roads here corkscrew and deviate from the norm that I was used to. I remember being frightened of hills that make your stomach churn, fearful for what was ahead. I know that to have stayed in Texas would have meant I was not to grow as a man, as a new husband, as a potential father and later, for my spiritual growth.

Recently, I struggled with one such road. I volunteered to drive my daughter’s softball team after a canoe trip in Hocking Hills. Because I had dropped them off the day before, I didn’t feel I needed the GPS to get back to the camping area. Once there, I realized I needed to be down river, and without any phone service, I raced down and found the girls had found other means of transportation. So here I am, ready to take route 33 out to anywhere but home. How embarrassing. This was just another scab on this summer’s résumé of being late to games, getting lost, the stereotypical man who won’t stop for directions. I began to drive back, ready to crawl into a hole. My phone rang then, and to some of my friends, the next part they will never believe I did unless they were there sitting next to me: I answered it. On the other line, Emmaus. In my worst moment, when my confidence was zero, surely not enough to stand before you today, God wanted me. He called. “Reynaldo, I’m here.”

So as a married man and teacher living here, struggling with selfishness, with pride, with the role of a man, I didn’t even know where to ask, “Where’s Jesus?” I even promised Jesus I would straighten up after fostering our now adopted daughter. Two kids later, he was still waiting for me to make good on that promise. Depression followed, and something a great friend saw in me led him to suggest an Emmaus walk. And when John Hack shows up with paperwork to sign, you sign it.

That Saturday night, the answer I had searched for since childhood filled my bones and soul like a fever. And like all good answers, it made me realize he had been there all the time, and that it was me who moved too fast to realize the answer. It was in the loving advice of my mom, the narrow escapes from troublesome situations, the guiding hand of my wife, the love and acceptance of my in-laws, to college scholarships that just happened to be discussed as I walked into the registrar’s office. “I’m here, Reynaldo, just accept it.”

What have I done since then? Since then, I see parallels to the game of “Perfection.” You know the Milton Bradley game. You take 25 random geometric shapes and place them in corresponding holes on a game board before an arbitrary timer springs the gameboard upward, spilling your hard work all over the floor.

Sometimes, I play the game like my 3 year old daughter. I spend more time fitting shapes into the wrong places. Like my lack of devotions or church attendance this summer. The timer suddenly goes off and I’m picking up the pieces.

Other times I play the game like my six year old son. He’s a little more advanced. Sometimes, he actually gets most of the pieces right, like bible studies, share groups and teaching Sunday school. Other times, just when I think I’ve won the game, the schedule erupts yet again. Softball practices, volleyball, meetings. Some weeks the timer doesn’t shake my world, and other times it does.

And sometimes, I play to win. And like most board games in my house, you realize there are missing pieces. Gifts I don’t have, my fears, my hangups. What I have realized is that the Emmaus community, and to a better extent, my church family, is behind me the entire time, rooting for me. Every hug, every positive facebook post, every phone call when you’re feeling down. That’s Jesus right there. In your face. “I am here, Reynaldo, remember?”

So friends, continue to gather, continue to join a share group. If you aren’t in one, find one. I’m blessed to have my buddies Ted and Doug, and sometimes Matt and Jay, meeting every Saturday mornings at Tim Horton’s. I’m beginning to love that place. As a people watcher, I love the families coming in, the soccer moms, the one guy with 4 boxes of bagels, the men that sit next to us that make the back of the room feel like a barbershop. Donuts and extra large coffees, and the best conversation one could ask for. I’m amazed of our similarities, from our teenage daughters to raising boys into men, from nerdy movies and fantasy football. We’ve come to understand that fooze ball can be considered a call to discipleship. Sometimes we even meet at the Waffle House, which means if you haven’t prayed over the sound of sizzling bacon and Flo calling out something “smothered and covered”, well, you haven’t really prayed at all.

Volunteer too. And when you feel it isn’t for you, try something else. Keep playing because the timer is going to run out eventually. The greatest thing is, you’re not alone. I haven’t been feeling much like a Christian lately, but that’s because my game needs a slight adjustment. Some refocus. Some new game pieces. I know God is going to help me find it, because of that answer I gave him that Saturday night. “Jesus, I love you and accept your grace.”

De Colores