The Fire Within

"If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special."  Jim Valvano

Did I cry in Oklahoma?  You bet.  Laugh?  Well, yeah.  If you would have told me that I would have ever laughed so much in front of a pastor and a pastor-to-be, I would have uttered some profanity.  Much of the camaraderie shared between the guys and I will probably best be unwritten.  I spent 4 days of the trip in a van with a great man of God, a blessed father, and 7 high school teenage boys.  In-jokes and foolishness don't always translate to paper.   How can I express the laughter from speaking in bad (mainly mine) British accents, how we busted each other's chops about ball sacks and how much we smelled, or teasing our youngest one about how obsessed he was over Carrie Underwood?  

My wife, at one point during our various text messages while I was gone, asked me, "are you on vacation or a mission trip?"  I doubt there's many trips where you get homemade Lasagna, fillets and brigole.  The adults and 2 of the college aged young men spent our nights in a small chapel of a larger church.  It had red carpets, a stained glass Jesus behind the pulpit and paneled walls.  Apparently the church had spanish speaking services in that chapel and indeed it reminded me of being at my grandmother's house.  I joked that all the room needed was a calendar from the local taqueria, a candle of the Virgin Mary and one of those large spoon and fork wall hangs to be my grandmother's living room.  

Since I needed an outlet for my CPAP machine I slept on the small stage.  I had the largest air mattress of everyone there, and being on the stage made me feel like I was on the second floor loft.  Over the course of a day, some of the air had released so whenever I moved on the bed I sort of felt like I was on my parent's old waterbed, stuck and unable to free myself from the plastic.  One night I must have flopped a bit too far, and fearing that I was falling, I stood up and tumbled off the stage.  I knocked down this huge speaker and awakened one of the guys.  The rest of the week I was reminded I had almost "killed" another since his head was just a few feet away from the landing zone of the speaker the night before.  

In my fumbles, the machine never came off.  So after getting myself situated to sleep I couldn't find the machine.  A year or so ao, I had broken one of my CPAP machines when it fell off the dresser and became water-logged.  I feared that the rest of the trip I'd be snoring loud enough that I'd need my own floor or that I'd be even more exhausted.  In this 3 am darkness I'm fumbling for my machine, pulling my air tube like it was a garden hose stuck around a chair in the yard.  Apparently when I stood up the machine went under the air mattress so here I am pulling this machine in the night.  Cell phone lights began turning on as I was awakening the group.  When I finally settled in and turned on the machine, I realized too that the nose piece had loosened.  The air was escaping from the hose and it sounded like I was in a dentist's office getting my teeth crumbs blown from my mouth.  Mission trip fail!

Other stories too.  You probably think it unusual that each time Tim, our youth pastor, would approach us, we'd act like we were just saying a prayer or changing the channel on the radio.  "Quick, make sure it's Christian!"  I always thought that being a Christian meant you had to be weird or really uptight (and there's a few of those at our church, and in the world in general.  What would we do without them?).  Who knew that my wacky, Airplane-movie inspired, family-bred style of nuttiness would be so much of my faith walk.   I had a pilgrim from yesterday's Emmaus walk tell me, "How can you not like this man, with his smile."  It was a moment of humble awareness.  God speaks to us in many ways, and sometimes it's from the lips of a new friend.  One of the men asked this weekend, "How do you know if it's God talking to you or your own consciousness?"  Jesus will never steer us to anything that would harm us.  Surely he'd like you to feel His love for you from the mouth of a follower.

Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.--1 Peter 3:15

During the week of VBS a week later, we met the new pastor coming in to work with our youth.  Every time I see her I want to joke and laugh.  Such as it is with my faith walk.  Over and over again, we are to use our spiritual gifts to help us respond to the tidal wave of grace that we've been given and entrusted with.  Many of the movies depict Jesus as a somber guy, and there were many times that he was serious.  You can't dispel demons into pigs without a sense of clarity and focus.  But I think there were plenty of times for laughter and smiles.  On the Emmaus road Jesus appeared to 2 travelers who didn't even realize they would be breaking bread with their savior until it was too late.  I bet Jesus smiled plenty.

Or sitting in the boat as it tossed and turned from the storm as the disciples are vomiting over the side and hoping for a miracle.  You don't think Jesus opened his eyes from the nap and smirked or gave a little wink?  Or when he reached out to the Samaritan woman whose guilt had eventually woven itself into shame?  Jesus was a man of many emotions.  Each man has the heart of Jesus within them, therefore they have access to those emotions as well.  Sympathy, Love, Ache and Pain.  It's sin that continues to disrupt our hearts from being in tune with the Spirit.

"Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters--one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah."--Peter

And so it was last evening.  The end of another Emmaus walk.  Another unique, God-inspired 3 days with men.  Cameras and phones and technology aren't a part of the experience so even those stories will forever be shared among friends.  Out of context, any one sentence from the weekend doesn't give credence to the experience and story behind them.  Like watching a young man eat a lasgana sandwiched between two slices of toasted garlic bread.  A man in a dress during a skit about christian action.  Clapping off key and adding lyrics to songs.  

I'm back home to a chorus of Daddies and sit-on-lap requests.  Fourth of July is around the corner.  I can't imagine the fireworks having anything on the fire that sits within.  

Ruptures

There is something about sitting under the heat of an Oklahoma sky in waist-high wheat that will rupture your heart.  I've tried to come to terms with what God was saying to me, what he was whispering, shouting.  At times He grabbed me by the shoulders and others He would gently tap my shoulder to look past the peripheral.  I eventually came to the understanding that what I'd learn from the experience in Moore and El Reno would embed itself into my conscious much like the numerous boards and metal scraps that were found impaled and twisted upon the ground.

This journey began years ago when we my wife and I first delved into youth ministry.  We had just became "new" Christians, and the urge to serve anywhere overshadowed what our hearts were trying to say to us.  We knew something of our "spiritual gifts" but had no idea how to apply them.  True also, I wanted something "safe."  No way I was stepping into a prison ministry, or something that required actual face to face contact with anyone else.  Sure, the Emmaus walk did rupture my heart the previous year, but after coming back down to earth, Satan comes in and makes you feel like you're insignificant.  For the past 4 years there's been this battle for my soul.  I always thought that the Devil was working just as hard as God was to win/lose your soul for whatever was your weakest sin.  But what I realized was that God's love for us trumps any schemes meant to sway us towards a wider path.

We were both teachers, and helping at Sunday School would serve a two-fold purpose.  It would get us to serve in a "safe" environment--mostly suburban kids whose parents had been Christ followers since they could ever remember--and it would get us on the map of those working in the church.

Fast forward to two weeks ago.  There's nothing safe about seeing a neighborhood erased from their foundations.  There's nothing safe when you see the crosses of 7 kids from an elementary school that only exists on google maps.  There's nothing safe about being on your hands and knees praying you try to retrieve a jewelry box in a wheat field abandoned by shade and wind.  But then again, when Jesus moves in, he doesn't just sit on the old furniture of your house.  He's going to throw some things out, rearrange it, bring in some new interior decorations.

Sometimes it's more drastic changes.  It's akin to the wheat field scenario we were in.  Across the road sat one house whose frame was still standing after the tornado.  Its contents had been flung across the wheat field as if a vacuum were taken to the house and sucked them all out.  Among the debris and twisted metal were wedding pictures, garage tools and toys.  Among those remnants were the remains of a barn built in the 40's, now completely obliterated.  Farmer Don's wheat field was the lasting vestige of his 75 year old life.  He didn't speak much when our group first met him.  His tanned arms were darker than mine.  We did come to learn he had lost his wife years ago, both his son and daughter lived in houses on the horizon, theirs too ripped open and battered.  The house Farmer Don grew up in barely remained.

We also realized that without insurance and American pride, the wheat field of his would have sat unharvested.  Many of the people in El Reno faced similar situations.  Many without insurance, without much else beside a rolled over trailer home.  Banner Elementary serviced the kids in that area and 41 students would perhaps find another school next year to call home.  Literally, these are kids that fell not through cracks but through a rupture in the ground itself.

This was just a moment of many.  Not having my computer with me, which was a good thing, reminded me that perhaps many of the stories will lie in wait until the precise moment. I've jotted notes down during my visits.  Still, the images remain like a still standing fireplace among the rubble.

 I do miss my time there.  The stench of a van full of teenagers and man-sweat.  The wind swaying the wheat field just beneath the reach of my fingers--I did think I was Russel Crowe in "Gladiator" more than once--and the church family which served as our host.  On the only Sunday we shared there, we filled a section of the church for service.  We were greeted by many, and at one moment two youth groups stood among one another as one.

Then the mournful tunes of a fiddle broke through the music.  In one instant, my heart swelled for the west, for the wreckage we would witness later in the day.  It reminded me of the countless movies I'd seen with my dad, country music when I was a teenager in love with nothing but myself.  You can sing the same song, but the arrangement can transport you to places you didn't know existed.  It was the theme song of my week.

The Festering Beneath

It's been a week stay in the hospital for my wife.  Last Sunday she was suffering through a boiling fever and the pain of needles.  Her skin felt as if lava would erupt from her pores.  To watch her lean on a bed of warm towels as the doctor tried to perform a spinal tap was one of the more excruciating moments of our marriage.        You feel completely overwhelmed and helpless fighting something you can only guess lies under the surface.  Having the flu is a diagnosis.  Chicken soup is a remedy.  The festering beneath is something you release control of because you have no choice.

The first release of control became the role reversal.  I did not realize how much my wife serves me throughout the day.  I don't mean that in a chauvinist/sexist way.  We play our roles rather complimentary at home.  To list them in detail would undermine the work we both do, and sometimes I consider it as jobs to do instead of serving the common good of the household.  I do them because what else would I be doing?  My wife sees hers as a way to serve all of us, kids included.  Just the day before she fell ill, she was making Mother's Day gifts for various friends.

The second release was the schedule.  Our oldest completed finals on Monday, so there I was driving madly to Canton with my wife sleeping through a fever.  I pulled next to Fox Hall with my daughter surrounded by a group of softball teammates and friends who all chipped in to bring her various totes, pillows, bags and clothes.  I know the worst part of being bed ridden for a week was not being able to serve her daughter.  No Sunday Open House with cake, no charcoal flamed steak.

The little ones changed their schedules too.  Monday dance class for Milly, a baseball game I didn't attend, shuttling them back and forth from friends to take them to church on Wednesday.  I don't believe Cruz did any of his homework all week.  He cried foul and the unfair card all kids use knowing Milly was not going to school.  He explained to me that since he was above grade level, what was the point of going to class?

Other meetings and agendas were wiped away from the dry erase calendar.  Gardening was put on hold.  Grocery store lists went unpurchased.  Lesson plans at school were printed for the substitutes   My students sent me text messages, FB prayers and questions to predict my return.  No one really mentioned what the atmosphere of the room might have been for a stranger.  While chaos may have reigned, I decided against retaliatory strikes and scare tactics.

Daily routines now became a different sort of commonality.  I watched from the window each morning as my son played kickball with the bus stop kids.  Watched him run to the stop, pick up his book bag and walk on the bus with his 9 year old confidence   He doesn't even look back to wave.  I arrive to my wife, slowly recovering from the unseen.  She couldn't bathe, so the only way to refresh her was with washcloths and generic soap.  I read while she napped, charged my phone to play a series of games, charged the phone again and read some more.  Those first few days weren't conversational.  The exercise of the day was unplugging the i-v monitor, walking her to the bathroom and helping her in bed.  We began to trust in the "couple of days" scenario given by our doctor until a couple of days stretched into the weekend.  I think she cried Saturday when she couldn't come home.

At home, the weariness crept into my personal life.  I ditched my daily devotions.  I figured the prayer and support given by my friends would sustain Delcina throughout.  While I didn't lose faith that he would heal her, I released control of my own responsibility.  While freedom and faith are a choice we all make, God expects you to respond accordingly.  Again, my experiment to rely on only myself only revealed that I'm completely helpless.  Having my wife away, left to my own direction, again proved my undoing.

While sin, reluctance, guilt and excuses form the crust of separation, God readily keeps pursuing.  The moment we say "yes" is not a release from the reign of our hearts.  He uses the people around us to have your daughter over for dinner and ice cream cake, their photos outside of their home could easily be that of my own.  Or they are in the form of visitors who bring balloons, bags of candy and hugs.  Sometimes even the radio plays the perfect song you need while sitting in lunch traffic.  God coordinates and centers all focus on you.  Nothing is wasted.  While my flesh says no, God continues to remind us that, "yes, you can."

Of course when I return to my devotions this morning it's Romans 7:21--...."although I want to do good, evil is right there with me."  Paul goes on to say that there is a war raging against his mind for control of his flesh.  You think the men who wrote the Bible, the disciples, would have been free from these sentiments.   What confounded Paul so much as to write these words generations ago?  Was it the look of a woman?  Was it greed?  Was it patience of the crowds?  I only know that the sin that confronts me daily is not unlike other men.  Each day is a choice.  The flesh is and always will be weak.  It doesn't mean that sin wins, although the devil would have you believe otherwise.  The Great Accuser always stands at bay to snicker at you when you are at your weakest.

I know that the lessons from this week may be forgotten by the end of the month.  The new routine of having my wife home and relaxing will undoubtedly change the landscape.  New challenges will await, and new schedules will undoubtedly be written and abridged.

I skipped church this morning to be with my wife, unbeknownst to me that the church was in me all along.  It's in the scriptures, the smiles of my friends.  It showcased itself in the form of a friend I had not seen in months, walking into the room to chat with us and offer his well wishes.  I gave up on him months ago, but God doesn't erase their story lines.  Church was in that picture of my daughter and her ice cream cake, and it was the church that was behind the camera snapping the picture.

The church was in the heart of a man who walked past a patient's room.  I had seen her bedside.  No visitors.  No look on her face but despair.  I didn't want to look away.  The church in me wanted to intervene.  The church was the steps that brought me into her room, covering the awkwardness of her look at the stranger.  "Hi, my name is Ray.  Can I get you anything?"  The church speaks too, and it moves forward one person at a time.  Awkwardly appealing. 

Written in Dry Erase

These past few days have been a fog of fevers, chills, cloudy skies and scenic landscapes.  Events have occurred in linear fashion, sure, but in the mind, they occur with a sense of immediate calm.  Clarity comes after the moment.  After the breath you take, after the time you take to stop when interrupted, and when you're resting on a couch thinking of all the routes and highways that lead from one direction to another, one decision to the next.

There's been what I have been calling a "calm freaking out" moments this week.  Like when a doctor comes in to tell you he's going to perform a spinal tap on your wife.  Or when I made the terrible decision to self-diagnose my wife's skin infection with my own google-infused research.  I felt the calm freak out when my daughter calls me to warn me about my son's potential meltdown at his first baseball game of the season.  On the drive to get Lisa in Canton, I calmly freaked out talking myself over the bend of the highway, the gas sign on empty, recalling the last time I ran out of gas--wondering who I was going to call to help, what explanation I would use for my predicament.

There hasn't been one special ending of the week that I can pinpoint.  Perhaps you can envision my son stealing the bases at every opportunity during his game (he did not have a meltdown after all), his red socks a streak under the lights.  The dunking of chicken tenders in gravy by my little daughter, with her too short dress and scabby knees.  Some of the week can be describes in the wire tango my wife and I performed every time she had to use the bathroom.  I followed her around with the I-V, the shuffling of my feet in sync with hers in some recovery symphony.

Sounds.  The I-V cart's refill beep.  The call buttons and the patient next to us who used hers like it was a microphone like she was a fill-in for Run DMC. Our room was just outside the elevator, so I used the time to eavesdrop on conversations, employee banter and the wheels of service.  It was the sound of a youth baseball team reciting dugout jokes, or a ball settling into a mitt.  It was the drip of washcloth water on my wife's back.  Copying machine monotony 

Feelings too.  The way my hands absorbed my wife's feet into mine.  Pinching my little one's behind in the elevator like some juvenile secret.  The spasm of a back from the contoured-hindered hospital bed.  The way you hold someone's hand during prayer.  A hug.  A handshake.

Currently my wife is on the downside of a bout with sepsis.  Her hospital stay had been a thorn in an otherwise busy and eventful week for the family.  Lisa, the eldest, finishing her first year of college.  My son's first game.  Team pictures, teaching Sunday school, interviewing team, staff meetings, share group and mowing the grass.  The only commitment I have said no to has probably been my family.  Neglected by a screen--computer, iPod, TV, life.

The infection that spread like red inconvenience wiped clean the agenda written in dry erase.  There was something else at play.  Like a question from a junior high girl at church on how to handle her friend who was fighting bullying and awkwardness of labeling herself as gay (my advice?  Love, be a friend, listen).  It was the coordination of friendship, prayer and love.  One in itself are great.  The three combined are just a fraction of what the Holy Spirit equips us with.

So the week continues.  Much has been learned and there is much to be done.  Sometimes the only thing to do is wait, be still and listen.  I think I'll do mine next to my wife, reading a good book, listening and loving.  Sometimes, that's the most important job of all.

Home Training

Whoever made it it mandatory that you sit in some controlled, bubble-environment row seating for 2 and a half hours of silence did not have kids.  When we take quizzes and short cycle tests in class, the students stand, they lay on the floor, they sometimes listen to music and the door always seems to let in some hallway scream.  During the test this past week,  they aren't allowed to stand, lay the floor or accept even a non-verbal cue if we notice they leave an entire page blank.  My kids will hold up hand signals for the bathroom, extra pencils and kleenex.  There is a booklet laying on my desk somewhere for the proper procedures to follow in case of student sickness or if a cell phone happens to ring.  I am not even supposed to have my phone on, nor the computers.  Someone must think the scrolling of desktop backgrounds will somehow remind a child that the answer is in fact B instead of C.

Test anxiety must also be the culprit for the mood of my fifth grade girls.  There's arguments, feuds, switching of allegiances and the sullying of mothers.  Reportedly, a snippet of hair was cut from a student's hair.  I received a note from my principal (An applicant actually used the other "principle" when referring to ours.  So much for your interview) that I should monitor my students better.  Based on this paragraph, you'd think I don't.

In past years, the test leads to a cacophony of booklet drops, worn pencils, bathroom breaks, a few sleepy nods and several blank stares.  I haven't had much drama during a test.  Despite the fear from politicians, the idea of drill and kill and other educational bastardizations haven't yet consumed me.  There will always be some kind of examination.  There will always be a test.  Michelle Rhee isn't so much to blame as our ambivalent nation.  We continue to base learning on standards and rigorous mandates, but we fail to see the overall decline in what a parent called today--"home training."

Not to say our "home training" is any better.  My son came home this week with a not to sign about him cursing in school.  He emphatically denied it, but he doesn't quite understand that even his "frickins", "what the fudges" and other close calls are too similar to the real thing.  My own cursing has been freely flowing as well.  I decided to use the coin jar method to deter us from using any language of the type.  I put in a quarter, Delcina a dime and Cruz a nickle.  I should pay more if the problem stems from me in the first place.

There probably wasn't much interest in any test I took from my parents.  Not that they weren't invested in my future.  I had college bred into me, it was just a matter of where.  Perhaps much of my focus on school was disciplinary in nature.  My dad expected me to read the lips of my teacher under any and all circumstances.  I realize now that there isn't that much a difference between cultures when it comes to respect and upbringing. We like to marginalize ourselves into political brackets, racial lines and boundaries, talking points.  Good parenting and a conservative outlook on life is universal.  Of course I screwed up, of course I played around in school--but there were genuine consequences.  It mattered at home.

In my experience, the parents and kids haven't necessarily gotten worse.  I old-man myself when I claim it to be in public, but I have always had dramatic girls, wanna-be tough boys, ADD kids and clingy kids too.  There has always been poverty, good teachers and bad, good parents and poor ones.  However, we've sealed ourselves off from anyone around us.  No one knows their neighbor.  No one really cares to.

There's more of an incentive, or a decentive if that's even a word (which it isn't since Google is underlining the word in red which screams "spell me correctly") to stay inside.  While there has been a spike in youth sports, there are more reasons to glue oneself to the tv, computer or cell phone.  The devices made to make our lives easier are now time-sucking these opportunities away.  So we have tons of kids shuffling through the school system who need play, who desire play, but are told to sit still, face forward and shut up.

Their home training is different.  Parents continually tell me they don't feel safe to let their kids outside.  Perhaps being safe is relative.  How safe was my neighborhood(s) growing up?  I found porn behind a trash dumpster.  A man killed his wife who lived next door.  My grandmother had a sliding gate built outside her home to keep out the "negritos."  A home down the street ended up being a safehouse for one of the biggest drug busts in a suburb (at that time).  Perhaps all parents say those words to their teachers.  "It isn't safe anymore."  Perhaps it's the fear and anxiety we carry around with us.

So it came to no surprise I was buzzed by the office this morning.  I've spoken with tons of parents.  It should not have come to surprise me when the mom told her kindergarten son he should "kick their ass" to any kid who put his hands on her son.  Ignorance isn't just a black problem, a brown problem or a white problem.  Ignorance and fear builds walls between us.  It tells parents to tell their kids to fight first and ask questions later.  It tells them to stay home and play their x-box.  Fear tells us that no other parent is "home training" their kid better than you.  "Kick their ass."  That's the remedy.

When Jesus Moves In

Liminality.

I love to teach vocabulary.  Besides getting a chance to teach kids how to appreciate the words and the author's choice of visuals and figurative language, I have always been one to seek out terms and words.  I remember in college reading Tom Wolfe's A Man in Full--confession, I never actually finished it--and would stop every so often to highlight words, look them up in the dictionary and tried, unsuccessfully at times, to incorporate these new phrases into my poetry.  I know there's a journal in the crawl space collecting dust with my creativity by means of a dictionary failures.

Being a Bible reader now, I've realized words can have emphasis and new meanings.  Take the word zealot. Nowadays, if you're labeled a zealot, you're either a terrorist, someone in the Westboro Baptist Church holding signs at funerals or some crazy man straight from an 80's movie, ringing a bell and wearing one of those cardboard signs--the end is nigh!  But in the time of Jesus's time, being a zealot for the Lord was what the disciples were.  Damn right I want to be a zealot!

So when our youth pastor gave us a new word to digest, I quickly fell in love with it.

Liminality is the condition of being on a threshold at the beginning of a process or a rite of passage.  In essence, the state of liminality is that awkward moment when you are unaware of the social norms of the group or community.  It's a kids' first day in junior high, that first day on a new job, the day the new boss comes in and issues a staff meeting.  As the youth around the room gave examples of their experiences, I began to think that much of my whole life has been geared to hear this one word, to be in that exact place.

That Sunday, we were supposed to have been at my daughter's softball doubleheader. The games had been moved and rescheduled due to a spring/winter storm.  We didn't go.  My son did not want to stay for programming after choir, so my wife did not come in to sit with the youth that morning.  Just me, with my thoughts on my phone games, lunch and the prayer that we would have a snow day on Monday (we didn't).

I've said on this blog many times, and it was a running joke for any who know me from my childhood days, that I had a new school for each year of my elementary and secondary education.  We were urban nomads.  From apartment to suburbs, to condominium, that feeling of liminality--I didn't have that word coined as of yet, that feeling of sleeping in a new bed under a strange roof--had always been as central to me as my personality.

The structure of the summer move led me to sports, to use humor as an ice breaker and provided me with an observer's point of view in just about any group I was in participate.  I was the follower.  I had leadership qualities--I always landed in the middle of the road on personality quizzes--but I sometimes chose to remain back to where I can see the entire picture.

Eventually, this life in which I thought I could control, led me to Ohio.  Again, I found myself in this liminal state.  Then God shouted and pursued me enough that I was forced to listen.  Now I'm sitting in a room full of youth describing what it means to love God, to worship Him and to live a life that He's calling us to live.  There are no accidents.

Tim later talked about how being in youth ministries is different from talking with the adults.  Youth aren't so much set in their routines--my Lisa overly used the word "random" enough when she was 14--as adults.  I pick up the same cup of coffee from the same coffee shop each day on my way to work.  I walk down the same hallway to work, the last door on the left.  There's a butt pad on my seat, the DNA of clutter surrounds my table and work areas.  Being random means stopping for ice cream, singing songs with the kids.

And I'm then, at a crossroads.  Life in Men's Ministry is wooing me and I know the seas will be difficult to maneuver--we had an event that drew 150 last year, but drew only 85 or so this year--not so much for reaching out to men and what spiritual cleaning will do to me.  When Jesus moves into your heart, He begins to rummage through those dusty journals you leave in the crawl space.  He begins to rearrange furniture, adding events to your calendar in permanent marker.  Pretty soon you realize the heart you once called your own isn't yours,that it never was to begin with.

But that's okay.  Wherever God is leading me to, I go willingly.  He's been preparing me thus far.  The least I should do is step into the threshold.  Make it my own.  Make it ours.  His.

God Seeps In

I was asked today, "How's your year going?"
Like some Christian Terminator, I ran though several suggestions in my mind of how I wanted to respond.
Oh, It's one of them years.
I teach fifth grade, so, yeah, you know.
If it weren't for my boss....
Any of the responses above could be true, depending on the train of thought.  That's the scary thing about sarcasm.  There's truth in the barbs, whether you're laughing about yourself or making sly comments about someone else.  Being at church, I decided it wasn't the place for such things and I answered with," It's beginning to calm down."
My friend chuckled and said, "Ray, it's almost the end of the year."


True, I'm in the final quarter of my year.  I have about 5 good weeks of teaching max, one week of testing and about 2 weeks or so of prep work, 1 week of parties, and 1 week of maintenance and fifth grade graduation supervision.  And Mondays.  I have maybe 6 Mondays to go.

Now, I don't hate Mondays.  In my response to grace, I've looked at Mondays as the test of what I take notes and digest from Sunday.  Putting it into practice.  I meet people daily that sigh when you ask them, "How is your day?" They post disparaging pictures and posts as if Monday was personally responsible for losing a limb.  Then the cycle continues.  By Wednesday, you're happy because it's "almost Friday," and then on Friday it's all smiles because the weekend offers some grand illusion of the life you were supposed to lead.  To me, the life that we are supposed to be living is NOW, all week, everyday.

Mondays are particularly important.  I've been taking the extra time I don't use from having a "special" (Art, PE, Music or Library) by devising silly competitions and building character.  They have been their most active and attentive singing, "Lean on Me," or "Hold Us Together," playing clipboard volleyball and wrapping teammates in toilet paper.  Afterwards, we discuss subjects like bullying (and before you roll your eyes and say the word has been overused, well, it has), getting along with others and setting goals.

In a response to my church's "Be Kind Today" campaign, we have been incorporating a "Room 160 Random Acts of Kindness."  Simple tasks such as:
Don't laugh when someone gets made fun of
Take someone's recess detention for them.
Leave a quarter in a cart at Aldi's or a few in a Coke machine
Give a random stranger a compliment (with a parent toting along).
Say something nice on Facebook.

Their responses have been interesting.  A few of the kids told me they got in trouble for giving money to strangers or a homeless person outside of a business.  One kid was torn because he felt his mother got mad at him in the same magnitude as when he does something wrong.  Others told awkward stories of stranger befuddlement at getting a compliment.  I told them that wherever they are, no one is used to being nice (perhaps that's not always true, in hindsight).  But I gave them a litmus test.  I asked them the next time they are in a long line, say something nice or start a conversation with something positive and see the reaction.

Some of the tasks are oriented more for personal growth from information we gathered in previous sessions.
Don't watch an R-rated movie, even if it means being alone in your house.
Try not to curse for one day.
Turn off 107.5 for one night.

Most of my kids readily admit their parents don't make great choices with their entertainment.  I get that.  Once, as a kid, I watched Scarface at the foot of my parent's bed until 5 minutes in the cursing drove them to  kick me away (I watched it later that week by myself in the middle of the night).  Cruz has even taken me to task for the few PG-13 words in Beetlejuice as his ticket to swear at-will.  This helps me place my students in the proper perspective as well.  I fight against the culture each and every day I ask them to sit quietly and read a novel.  I get accusations from parents who think I send their kids to detention for not being able to see the board.  It's true that many of my parents probably had less than desirable academic careers.  The parents in my Life Group, or the ones I see at my local church, drive their minivans from youth sporting event to bible studies and dance practices.  My parents are probably working, driving to their second job.

When my church first offered the challenge of doing Random Acts of Easter, I jumped at the chance.  I grabbed 5 yard signs (distribute 3 with possible destinations for the others) and several business sized cards in hopes I would free the world from itself.  I have only given a few out.  If my pastor were counting cards like some Glengarry Glen Ross-Alec Baldwin quota robot, I'd be getting a set of steak knives right about now.  Luckily for me, grace doesn't quite work like that.

You see, God seeps in.  He knows.  He had me at church this evening in a meeting, allowing me to share my God story sitting next to my wife, holding hands in prayer.  At school, my student answered a question today in class, the same kid who was in trouble for giving money to a stranger.  I asked the class, "What type of reaction would Atticus have towards Bob Ewell's threats?"

"I think he'd pray for him, Mr. Cordova."

Amen, brother.  Amen.