The Cost of Nuetrality

Nothing really prepares you for teaching. This is a multi-faceted remark that envokes more than just one person's philosophy or pedagogy. It was obvious I needed more fine tuning of my classroom management when I first began teaching more than 10 years ago. I also had to work on my delivery, as yelling was my preferred method of control. Now many years later and I do not recognize the teacher I have become. I barely recognize the students.

My first teaching assignment was at Broadleigh Elementary. It is an east side school here in Columbus, nestled between the airport, a ghetto, an affluent Jewish community and a trailer home for immigrants and their families. It was a unique school environment, one in which provided the training ground for my methods and attitudes to be tested. My biases had to be melted away one by one. There were no teaching manuals or skills sessions that could have prepared me for the barriers we all faced.

When most problems arose, I yelled. When students stole from one another, I yelled at them. When they misbehaved in the bathroom or in the halls, I chewed them out. When they got into fights at recess, I got into their faces. I'm sure the Lord was looking at me and thinking, "I wonder if Reynaldo understands the irony of the situation." Especially when it came to bullying.

My first experience with bullying was with a student from Mauritania. He knew no English and had no background in schooling. Back home in his country, when students went to school, he stayed in the village and played soccer or ran with the boys. He could scribble, bob his head up and down and used a variety of simple phrases to get his point across. Two boys in room decided he was a vulnerable target. They harassed him in the bathroom and teased him at recess. Once I finally got wind of what was going on, I handled the situation like I handled all the others--I yelled. I made sure the bully boys had an audience when I did so. It was a rant so epic that I had one of them in tears. Teaching a bully not to bully by being the biggest bully of them all. Now that takes some special training! In a strange twist of fate, one of the boys in question moved. I used it as a way to conveneintly assert my authority. "Oh, you know what happened to Sam? He was expelled for bullying. Don't let it happen to you." I even had a student who contradicted that claim, saw Sam at the mall or something. "Mr. C, he said he moved." "When you get expelled youre not supposed to talk about it with anyone." Case dismissed.

So now what do I do in these situations? Just like then, the word bullying and the actual act of bullying resides in that grey area that's hard to pinpoint or evaluate. Everyone thinks they are being bullied. I always thought bullying was a continual and habitual teasing and threatening of someone over a course of time. I never considered what the kids do today as bullying. When you're making fun of one another's mothers, or your sarcastic comment about someone's shoes is met with the same sarcastic comment, it's not bullying--at least not to me. LGBTQ advocates used the word "bullying" as a way to garner sympathy to the effect it was having on gay and lesbian teenagers who were committing suicide at an alarming rate. What were we doing or saying to these children that was causing them to seek suicide as a solution? Christians took some heat too, as if we were the reason why these particular subset of kids were killing themselves. Had we been using the Bible to scare kids into conformity? Were we saying all the right things but secretly our fear and ignorance was being displayed on social media platforms. These kids who would normally go home to their safe environment were now being harassed 24/7.

Every counselor earned their pay on anti-bullying campaigns, posters, assemblies and lunch groups. There were Bully Free Zones set up in schools nationwide. People were beginning to have the conversation, and much of it was met with excuses.

Kids just need to have thicker skin.
I was made fun of when I was a kid and I did alright.
These kids today are pansies. Pussies. Faggots. Whiners. Anti-American pinko commies.

But kids were still killing themselves. And it wasn't just the gay kids. It was kids who you never thought would have been the target--popular kids, athletes, "normal" kids. It wasn't just the overweight girls we picked on, or the junior high girl who was called a slut just because she had a cup size, or the geeky spaz, the nerd. You know I was raised on a culture of movies that made it seem like making fun of nerds, spazzes, geeks and fat girls was okay. Revenge of the Nerds. Porky's. Ferris Bueller. Sixteen Candles. They all had their moment when we laughed at Joan Cusack (she seemed like she was in all of them!) for wearing a back brace or head gear for braces. But these students of mine have not seen these movies. Those movies are foreign to them. So why is the teasing and bullying so prevalent now than ever before?

Last week I reached out on Facebook on behalf of a student who has been a target all her life. She's the type of girl I would have made fun of when I was a kid. Listening to her story, I sensed more than just the usual they-won't-leave-me-alone phrases. I sensed a girl who was really hurting.

Mr. C, how can in just ignore it when it happens everyday?
My mom says their just jealous, just tell them "jelly" and walk away, but it doesn't work.

What was I to say? All the books and manuals are silent when it comes to these conversations you're having with a 5th grade girl, holding her hand while she cries. There's no chapter for that, no appendix. A girl who understands that fighting back isn't the only answer and that sometimes there are ramifications for those actions. Tough people like to tell me, "Let them fight it out. One punch to the bully's face and it'll stop." They were not raised in an environment where kids film other kids getting beat up on the street corner. They weren't raised where parents are not monitoring what their kids are doing, or simply don't care enough to realize what's really happening.

I looked at a blog almost two years ago. It barely mentioned one of my group lessons on staying neutral during conflict. I helped the kids understand that when Hitler came into power during WWII, there were those that suffered tremendously, too long, until other countries stepped up. Some countries joined Germany, like Italy under Mussolini. Japan took advantage of the situation to usurp their dominance by bombing Pearl Harbor. Other countries were helpless, like Poland. Other smaller European countries were waiting for England and America to pick up the fight. But Switzerland was something different. They remained neutral, but historians have proven that Switzerland had an interesting role. They refused Jewish refugees and continued to hold bank accounts for Nazi's. In a sense, these actions and inactions allowed Germany to reign with an iron fist.

I know this is a simplistic view of a complicated situation. But the point was made. When your classmates are being made fun of, are you remaining neutral, are you joining in or are you fighting back? So many of today's kids laugh when someone is made fun of. When my girl walks up in line, I have seen pockets of them move away like she smells, or that her presence alone is something of a disease. At lunch, they act like sitting on her row is something akin to washing a leper's feet. And all the while, the Switzerland's of the class watch it and do nothing. They know it's wrong, but to say something, especially when some of the hecklers are friends, would mean they too would lose something.

This conversation opened up the floodgates. Many of my Switzerland's wrote me notes and objected to excluding them from the Bully Free Zone lunch table later that afternoon. How many times has your classmate been made fun and you sat there and did nothing? My bullies claimed to be made fun of themselves. One bully said she didn't want to be one any longer, cried at my desk. Other kids wrote me letters that they had been teased too, thought about suicide. My principal thinks my students haven't made adequate progress when it comes to their test scores, and I'm in a sea of depression, wondering how I can counsel them through this time.

This saga is not finished. After posting on Facebook, I have several options I can now bring to the table to help this young lady. There's martial arts courses, church groups, middle school options and peer groups. The fight isn't over but I feel like I have more to offer. Yelling at the bullies isn't working anymore, if it ever did. These are a new breed of kids, ones who don't have work the empathy of their predecessors. If I can change the heart of one student, and provide a path to salvation for another, I can sleep at night. No test scores will matter in the end.

The God of Promotions

It's good to be home.

A conversation began a few months back as to the changes one goes through in life. One of my constants had always been journaling. I always have a small notebook with me at church. It has kept my scattered brain from focusing on the tasks that need to get done later in the day and my eyes off attractive woman. Those notes are like ones I'd make in a classroom. Sometimes I'd jot notes in my Bible depending on my devotion of the day, but that too, like my journaling habit, eroded into excuses and no-time-for-that's. I haven't blogged in several months. Why? I blamed lots of things, from not working with a keyboard (I have upgraded to an iPad Air), to the favorite of all Christian excuses, "I'm just in a down season." Christians like to talk about seasons and hedge of protections and travel mercies but we really have no clue what any of them really mean, or that none of them have any Biblical basis. So, dear reader, it wasn't a down season for me, just a life that hasn't been living to its full potential.

I was glad 2015 ended. I ended the school year on fumes, much more than I had ever felt any time previous. My rough week turned into a rough month and into a rough year. I chalked it up to having a "bad class" but that just sounded like something teachers' always said when they failed and were trying to cover up the stench of a career. On a side note, many of my students are struggling this year in the core subjects of math and reading and many of them had a teacher the previous year who was earning a paycheck and counting the days until her pension. I began to see that a year lost from their education, a year removed from good practices and a lack of motivation, had a detrimental effect on those that could least afford it.

But there were parallels in my story and theirs. In order to garner any kind of results from them, I too had to be motivated to grind. Just when I felt I had a grasp on this, in comes life like a thief in the night. Curriculum shifts brought in new reading and math programs. Now I was jumping through hoops to find some consistency in what I was teaching. And the lingering disease that was my 2015 year had not fully dissipated. There were still clouds in the horizon and I wasn't disciplined enough to see through them.

But where was my motivation?

Answering this question has further reaching ramifications than my classroom. I was forced to examine all my habits. I'm on the upswing of another weight gain. I lost probably 40 pounds since the beginning of the school year, then gained about 15 back. There's a constant fight between food, gym time and staying active. This is nothing new. I know that God wants the best for my health. He's keeping me alive this long! I know that the failures I've faced have more to do with Satan's schemes than God's dream. But the reality is, I have only so long before the other domino begins to fall.

Like my job for instance.

A few weeks back I was told I would be moving down from 5th grade to 2nd. I took the news as a demotion. Last year It seemed as if all my weaknesses and bad habits formed a perfect storm. I wasn't as confident going into this year, and there have been some humbling moments along the way. Although I can't ever say I have reached the pinnacle of teaching success, I at least felt competent. This was the first year I questioned myself, and when doubt creeps into your mind, it rarely ever leaves.

Any teacher knows what we're up against. This is the realm of computerized testing and value added evaluations. Metrics so complicated there's no solid way of knowing just how effective you are. America has become a test driven nation. We're bound by the scores given by the states that are funded by the federal government. How much time do I have to prepare for an online test? One hour per week, but the website for practice tests has a solid six questions. Six. An insufficient amount for a test that is typically in the 45-50 question amount. You would think what we do in class would translate but that's easy for you to say when you have a click happy kid whose reading at a 3rd grade level.

Let me dial back the excuses. I'm not the most organized teacher. What I have in excitement and engagement I lose in structure. This year I failed to hear the phone ringing from the office. Why? We were doing a science lab where my students were working on sound. They were tapping and banging glass bottles half filled with water to make different pitches. Some were listening to their partners speak to them through a can-and-string telephones. No one was just bonkers wild and loud, but it gave the impression I had no control of my room.

My test scores? They suck. On average my students were almost 30 points behind the benchmark in math and reading. Their middle of the year scores were atrocious. I could chalk two scores up to learning disabilities, one finally diagnosed and one in the process. While the kids who can read did fairly well and I did have some decent achievements, the ones who are behind seemed to fall even more so. This is nothing new. I've spent recess times working on intervention methods with the students and even after trying new strategies, their post test scores are maybe gaining 20-30%. I can't seem to get the results of my counterpart.

Perhaps I need to stick to one reading series. For example, our school is piloting new basal readers. I tossed out the old and I'm using the new materials, exploring their resources and taking chances. I could have stuck to the script, given the same old stories and the same old tests.  Math is changing too. I've been trained on the new math program the district is implementing. All last year I used NY Engage, a Common Core based approach to teaching math. So it's all new again. I could have stayed with the old, but I'm not becoming the teacher who goes to training sessions and refuses to try new strategies. I'm playing the game but I'm losing the late innings.

Still, the blessings continue to pour in. My colleagues are excited about my new assignment. I'm making classroom visits and getting to know my curriculum. I'm beginning to see that I won't have to deal with drama and aloofness. Stubborn kids will always be there, and I'm not sure what to do when they start crying. Perhaps it will be the move that jump starts a rejuvenation in me. It's the kind of jolt an active God does with complacent hearted men.

This weekend I get to serve on another Emmaus team. I get to turn off the noise of my failures and look upward for guidance and deliverance. Again, I'm awed at His timing and thankful for the grace I don't deserve. It couldn't come at a better time. What better way to know that what you're doing matters when the God of your life turns demotions into promotions. I'm ready to accept.

Sweeping the Egg Shells

It’s true that there is no sense worrying about the next day because tomorrow will worry about itself. This past spring I was worried about tomorrow based on the failures of the day. In my conversation with my principal I stated that last spring, I came home, napped, ate and did nothing else. It wasn’t until June was over that I finally began to realize that enough was enough. Was I going to do this to my body again? How will weighing over 350 pounds affect me this time? In my 40’s no less.

This school year hasn’t been the madness that was the spring. The Fall season isn’t typically a time for renewal, but for a school teacher, Fall means crisp new bulletin boards and cellophane-wrapped loose-leaf paper. Its new shoes, clean desks and fresh dry erase markers. I have 31 kids this year, one over my contractual limit. I had 33 at one point in September, but two students were sent to overflow schools. My one boy who left told me, “Thanks for being a great teacher for 6 days.”

It’s amazing how something can change in the matter of days. People move in and out of your life. The schedule offers no mercy for teachers, and even more so as a parent. There are objectives to reach and lessons to be learned. This is true of parenting as well.

I was thankful that school ended last spring simply because there weren’t any more chances for my son’s school to call us. No more tantrums with “unfair” teachers and “stupid” rules. Our home life was manageable, to a certain degree. I didn’t know that the bad habits that I had established as a parent months before, even years, would manifest itself so disastrously this fall. While school was being managed, nothing would prepare me for what was to come in September.

Any parent of an oppositional defiant kid knows how difficult it is to reign in a child who simply won’t be governed. Any parent of an ADHD child also knows the challenges that impulsivity and self-control have on your home life. We have both. A nasty cocktail of emotions and defiance. When your son runs out the house and into the neighborhood because he doesn’t want to do his homework, what would you do? Do you make a scene in the neighborhood? Do you begin to chase him and hope that he cowers on the curb like our dog would when he escapes from a hole in the fence?

The evidence of our struggles mark different areas of our home like a minefield. There are holes in the basement walls. In the living room, our ottoman sits lopsided. One of its stump legs has been broken from too many body jumps of a kid who thinks leaping from the couch is an Olympic event. Another jagged hole sits like a portrait behind the recliner. Upstairs my son’s room door doesn’t close all the way because the hundreds of slams went against the manufacturer’s intent.

A visitor wouldn’t know about the invisible egg shells all of step around the house. No one knows the screams and tantrums we’ve all had to deal with, on a constant basis, for the past several weeks. The questions of authority, the cries of unfairness.

Yesterday, I had to slam the door of the van and lock my door to keep my son from screaming at me. The problem? Does it matter? It was the only time in my life where I was happy to leave the house. I remember sneaking peaks at him in kindergarten, hoping he was doing well. I’ve coached him in several sports to keep him near. I followed his path when he first began to ride his bike, allowing him to feel grown up to go freely on his own, but still young enough to need me.

I went to school. Our class sang silly songs. I laid on the floor in the hallway to play a game with a reading group. I taught my ass off and succeeded, like many classrooms across the nation. But when the bell rang and it was time to leave, I felt anxiety of going home to my son. Who thinks this way? What parent doesn’t want to be with their kids?

When teachers call their students’ homes, they speak with the voice of someone at their wit’s end. Sometimes they hear a voice on the other end that is just as clueless as to the behavior of their child. It’s a voiced helplessness. Inner city kids get bad raps for this. They curse their teachers out. They throw things. But when those behaviors are happening at home, there is no one to call to ask for advice. There is no one on the other end of the line who just listens and feels just as astonished as you are.

So I called the only person equipped to help.

I date all of my devotions. On days like these, when there are no foreseeable answers to my problems, I find gaps between the dates. A week here, a few days here. It’s a reminder that I need to have that conversation on a daily basis. It’s not just saying “Yes” to Jesus every day, my salvation, but it’s also about connection. I noticed it had been 24 days since my last devotion. I had been filling my time with reading, tv binge watching, playing apps and flirting with a pornography addiction. Nothing in that last sentence will make me the father I need to be for my home.

Sure enough, God sent me to Philippians 3. Forget what is behind you and strain toward what is ahead. Press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God is calling me heavenward. Then James. Consider it pure joy when you are facing trials because the testing of faith develops perseverance.

In my commentary I read by J. Vernon McGee, he states that patience is the fruit of the Holy Spirit. How does one attain such fruit? “Patience comes through suffering and testing.” He goes on to say that there is much confusion, strife, turmoil and criticism in today’s church because many of its members have not fully matured. They are still babes in Christ. My church is my home. “God must send us trouble so that we learn patience.” I know there’s a lot in that one statement. On a theological level, you may disagree with McGee. But in my case, perhaps this is what is needed for all of us in our home to grow. We are babes no longer.

So today was a day of doctor’s appointments. Adjustments to the calendar came in the form of much needed rain. Otherwise we would have had practices for both of my kids, and a perfect excuse to not change anything. My son isn’t happy with the rules, but what kid is. It’s time to earn some privileges, and it’s time to sweep the egg shells out of the home. I know it already will be another test. He screamed earlier about how unfair it all was. I stayed patient. I didn’t raise my voice.

Tomorrow starts a new day. Doesn’t it always? I’ll say “Yes” to God and wear the clothes of a mature man. At least outwardly. The true test of whether or not I can dress in the true maturity of a growing Christian remains to be seen. But it won’t be another 24 days until I ask God to help again. I don’t have the time to wait.

 

Properly Equipped

Today, my son is spending his last full night in Texas. He's been there with my uncle and other family members for almost a month. I've been seeing the pictures my mom is posting, and we've kept up with all the ceremony of the event through text messages. This is the longest time he's been away from home and despite the hugs, kisses and photos, this will not be the last time he sees his Texas family. Goodbyes are sometimes like that. They carry more resonance because we want to preserve the moment. We know that the feeling of having our loved ones near us wanes after time, despite the phone calls, text messages and pictures. The smell of them around, the sound of their voice, the sound of their laughter--it all fades in time. And when it returns, it's the greatest sound we've heard. It's like picking up your favorite book, rereading a chapter and capturing that feeling of nostalgia within the pages. Every time my family visits Houston, it's much like this. It hurts to leave, and we make a mini-ceremony of the last day. But when I see my mom again after months away, it's just as sweet as when I was living there.

Some goodbyes feel like forever. On the various mission trips and work camps I've been a part of, saying goodbye is exhausting. We take huge group pictures and we hug the people who have changed our lives--all the while thinking we were changing theirs--because the distance between us feels so far. I have a friend that says he cannot wait to spend time with them in eternity. Human life is hard when you cannot keep all the people you love in one room. The families and friends I met in Oklahoma, Arkansas, Illinois and just recently in southern Ohio, have a special place in my heart and by knowing Jesus, my heart continues to grow. I think it grows to fit these special people in our lives, our loved ones.

I spent another week away from home on a smaller mission trip this last week in Wheelersburg, OH. The trip had its typical beats--the nights spent in a church classroom, aching mornings and dirty shoes--but the emotions and people you meet are anything buy typical. We were minutes away from a swollen Ohio River--thanks to almost a month of continuous rains here in Ohio--and surrounded by steep hills and tree-lined mountains.

We had a wheelchair ramp to build, and I began the week in worried anticipation. I have always felt that I am not prepared for work camp. I shy away from any kind of labor that demands the use of a tool. The thought of building a ramp with a group of junior high students had me second guessing myself. We did run into our share of obstacles--circular saws that skipped, running out of supplies, the rain that made the yard a soupy mess--but the main one was my attitude.

I had made the decision to leave the volunteer youth staff a few days heading into the trip. It was a difficult decision that I had been wrestling with for several months. My wife and I have been serving the youth in our church in some capacity for several years. Ultimately, it wasn't the forced conversations I sometimes had with the junior high kids on Sunday mornings, or the sense of frustrations I had when the same boys would rather play with bottle caps and Styrofoam cups than to actually open their Bibles that had me step away. These last few months have been spiritually dead for me. As I distanced myself away from my Lord and savior, it became increasingly difficult to serve the students, to serve anyone, without feeling the need to clean up my own self. Each Sunday, without the proper equipment of prayer or humility, I found it harder and harder to serve them.

On the last day, it became increasingly harder for us to finish. Our saw conked out, and the energy one has on Monday is all but gone on Thursday. The kids become more listless, as I did too. We found ourselves waiting for supplies, tools, wood, more water. Finally, it became time for us to make a decision on the crew as we were nearing the time for showers and dinner. At one point, my friend tells me, "I know you want to see this through," and I honestly wanted to just leave. Like literally drive off. That wasn't the goodbye God had in store.

There were 3 of us that finished it out. A good friend with a helpful knowledge of carpentry work, a high school kid who was our student leader and myself. We lopped off and edged up the corners, cleaned up the site and rounded off the edges. It was the best work I've been a part of in most of my adult life. With the attention we paid--we finished just before 8pm--we didn't get to take many pictures. My phone died and the camera was back at the church. Even the homeowners, who had been witness to the last day from the porch swing, left prematurely (her sister was having her 70th birthday party celebration). I find it ironic that on the day of goodbye, when we line up for the grand group picture, we were unable to solidify the memory in media form. We simply swept up the deck and made our way home. The satisfaction of goodbye would be for another crew that day.

The last Sunday I spent as a youth volunteer went much the same. My friend offered some very kind words, heartfelt, and there was clapping, lots of clapping. But in the end, I left the youth room like I do on most Sundays--down the grass onto the parking lot and back to the church to get the kids.

Perhaps that's why it doesn't feel like one of the goodbyes I mentioned above. This one feels more like a hyphen, a pause before the grand finale. I know that in mending my heart to serve my family, God will provide a path back into youth ministry. So I'm not going to share any pictures of fond farewells, dear reader. I will not quote my favorite book or end this blog on a philosophical question. My next mission is just ahead and it's nearer to me that a trip to somewhere else. It's home, my wife, my kids, my heart. God owns all the proper equipment. And I can't wait to get started.

The Metaphor of Geese

I'm admitting it now, I was obsessed with a goose. A momma goose to be precise.

Each spring the area from my home and my daughter's elementary school sees a spike in the geese population. We have a series of small, intimate open fields and retention ponds. We used to have ducks when we first moved in the area. They were brazen. They would fly into my pool in the early spring before I began cleaning it and adding chlorine. But the geese have moved in and kicked the ducks out.

And each spring the traffic slows when the geese cross the roads, and my kids and I gawk at the little geese babies waddling in the front of the school. By summer, most of the geese are gone and life returns to normal.

Typically we don't get close enough to see any of the geese hatchlings (let me stop now and remind you, dear reader, that I did not search geese.com to get all the pertinent and factual information or terminology regarding the Canadian geese population. All geese naturalist can send me an email) or their nesting places. Except this year. Our babysitter had relocated to an apartment right down the road, transitioning from her home until the house in South Carolina is finalized. In early May, we noticed one particular momma geese. She never moved from her location at the end of the curb. She looked like she was sitting on a treasure there among the mulch. Sure enough, our babysitting friend, Danielle, let us know that momma geese was indeed sitting on a few eggs.

But there was a caveat. Momma goose had been sitting on those eggs for some time. Perhaps the eggs were duds. Knowing that the momma goose was hell bent on staying there with her babies gave me some room for thought on an otherwise busy end of the year. School was nearing its end. Both kids were in their respective sports--my son was starting baseball and finishing lacrosse while my daughter was halfway through her soccer season--and both my wife and I were barely above water. But that momma goose. She got to me.

Everyday we came to get our daughter, it was a chance for us to stop by momma goose and evaluate her progress. She didn't move from her perch, and one of the reasons why we thought her situation was desperate was because there were other goose families in the area prancing around and flaunting their Darwinian prowess. Baby geese everywhere. Stumbling over curbs, stopping traffic, being cute. And then there's momma goose, all alone.

The one detail we noticed when we snapped the picture was that there were feathers. I wanted to lift up momma goose just to see what was there. What would I see? Eggs waiting to hatch? Hollow eggs? Eggs cracked open to reveal some grisly feat of nature?

I had this complete blog ready for you, dear reader, of how this momma goose and her relentless pursuit for a family. Somehow this was a metaphor of my own life, my own stubbornness to leave old habits die. Each day I came home, exhausted, and I'd open this here computer I'm typing with now and begin. And each time I stopped. Too many distractions. We had practice almost every night. Dinner, homework, lesson plans. In some ways, that momma goose was like my life too. And other lives. We've all found ourselves unwilling to give up even though everything around us is moving on. What about my past was I unwilling to let go? Momma goose wasn't forthcoming with any answers.

Weeks went by and rain or wind or cloudy skies, momma goose was there. We noticed the other baby geese in the vicinity were getting older. Baby geese were now becoming awkward teens. Their stubby legs weren't as cute as they dangled from their fur like twigs. Their yellow feathers were becoming less bushy. No one likes a teenager, not even nature.

My wife had looked into our goose problem. Apparently there was still hope. The period of time between laying and hatching could span up to 3 weeks or more. By the end of May, the subject of my blog changed. What if momma goose was right all along? She's sticking it out to the very end. The daddy goose was no where to be found (typical, right?) but she was holding down the fort. She would prevail. What a great blog that would have been for the end of the school year. Oh how it would have aligned with how I was feeling in school. A teacher ready to give up to a renewed sense of purpose. I could hear Arsenio Hall in the background, "Praise the lawd!" 

At one point, momma goose stood up, spread her wings and allowed us to see the gifts she was preparing. How magnificent they were. God's creation, just awaiting their lives. Who was I to say the eggs were duds. Hope reigned.

Sure enough, a week or so later, we saw momma goose had left the nest. We grew alarmed but she had left the area covered in feathers and leaves. That's one smart momma goose. The one variable that allows the geese to thrive here, especially in the Ohio suburbs, is the lack of predators. Dogs are leashed and categorized. If the geese had populated the area before, perhaps there would have been snakes and wolves and all sorts of nefarious Disney creatures looking to eat. Suburban sprawl has all but eliminated the predators. Most ecosystems in Ohio have no threats to scavengers like possum and squirrel and offer no deterrent to geese.

And the day finally came. The baby geese had arrived. We didn't care if we were late to work so we snapped a few pictures of the celebratory event. Sure enough, daddy goose had come back to the fray. There they were, five baby geese looking cute, stumbling up a curb, following their destinies.

Our family did survive May. My daughter's soccer team turned on their winning ways and won our bracket tourney. My son's lacrosse season ended without much fanfare and baseball was up and down but overall fun. Our school years ended with hugs and smiles, like they always do. Despite testing and the rigor of an everyday job, teaching students always ends on the relationships you forge.

What of momma goose? Her nest was quickly mulched over and gone. Most of the geese population have moved on. It's quiet in the suburbs again. Cars speed through intersections and our pool is full of chlorine. Summer has already transitioned into July. June for me was fairly lazy. It was part feeling sorry for myself and part vindictive relaxation. July has come. It's time for me to start stumbling over curbs, following the lead of my God once more. You see how this blog turned out? It's all a metaphor. Even a momma goose's story.

 

 

Two Sides of the Rainbow: Thoughts on Gay Marriage

It's interesting to see the dichotomy of newsfeeds and comments on Facebook. Little did Mark Zuckerberg realize that when he designed and created his social media platform that it would evolve into a political machine. Professions are lost because of ill-advised posts and pictures, words are taken out of context and the "news" is skewed towards our political leanings. In a span of a few hours, I can read left-wing diatribe/op-eds from Media Matters and Addicting Info and right-wring manifestos from Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck. It's not really news anymore that we ingest. Much of it is in the form of entertainment, sure, that's what drives ratings. But the news, regardless if you are right or left leaning, conforms to our worldview. The news serves us a heaping platter of info wrapped in our assumptions and stereotypes so that we aren't challenged into thinking otherwise. This has been even more evident in the current Supreme Court decision on same-sex marriage.

I have been reluctant to share my thoughts on the matter, simply because there have been some great reads that are much better than mine, and mainly because I didn't want to make a knee-jerk reaction to something so sensitive to many. To simply wrap up a lifetime's worth of thoughts and biases toward this topic in 160 characters or less is not only counterproductive but insensitive as well. In order for me to completely have an opinion, and to speak with love I must be able to go back and look at my own history. It is only by looking through this lens that I can start to apply my walk with Christ and what the world seems to want me to feel on the matter.


Like most families, I too have gay family members. The ones growing up in my life were confined to one particular group of cousins. Out of the 5 boys, two of them are gay. Both lived in contrasting styles. Cousin X (I'm saving his name because one day he can tell his story) lived with a man (we jokingly called him "Roberta") at the time my family visited him that Thanksgiving when I was a freshman in high school. Up until that point, being gay in my life was one of ridicule. Boys openly called one another faggot when we teased one another, or we referred to anything effeminate as "gay." It was a slur, and I understand why it's a slur now. You didn't want to be "puto" growing up in a Mexican family. Cousin X challenged this worldview.

To me, living a gay lifestyle meant you were flamboyant, sick with HIV or a derelict of society. X held down a relationship with a man, held a job, and could cook better than my mom. Except for the borderline x-rated jokes (especially at the expense of my step-father, who acted like he was going to catch the "gay disease" by just being in the house), it was like being with any other member of my family.

Later, when I was in and out of college, Cousin X moved to Houston (he was living in San Antonio at that time) and ended up working with me at the Harris County Toll Road. I was to keep his lifestyle secret (hence the nickname of his partner "Roberta" came into good fortune when talking about his life) for no exchange other than having an inside joke no one else seemed to know (except for the one gay guy who worked with us who was more out and wanted everyone else to know). X and I became friends. We went to the movies together, we enjoyed the crude humor of Howard Stern (his book, "Private Parts" had just been printed) and most of all, I was able to ask Eddie questions that made me curious. How did you know you were gay? Were you always gay?

X had once been married as well (I think in some sense, to extinguish the fact of his life he was trying to suppress), and when he came out to his father, he was met with understanding and love. Of course, I cannot speak for my cousin X, and his story is his own, but to me being gay was a choice. He was married, had sex with a woman, and found that sex with a man was better. There's wasn't Lady Gaga in the background telling me he was just born that way. And X never argued with me if I felt otherwise. While I was not homosexual, he never tried to persuade me otherwise. That was the other thing about gayness that was prevalent growing up, that all gay men were pedophiles and opportunist. Hang around with a gay man, you were sure to turn gay yourself.

X's brother Y was also gay, but he lived his life much differently. Y had a partner too, but they were outwardly more dysfunctional. Y lived more out as well. He had a nude picture of a man on his fridge like one would have magnets. Need a drink, see a penis. A very large penis. Y was the first to take me and my wife to a gay bar. It was there I realized that gay men at a bar are just happier than straight men at a local bar. I sipped Mike's Hard Liquor and sugar and YMCA wasn't blaring on the radio in a continuous loop like I had thought. And Y drank like no other. My family, who has a rich history in the art of liquor and beer, has nothing on him.

So I had these two views on homosexuality. One flamboyant and one reserved. One's choice vs one's seemingly uncontrollable vice. This went against my worldview on anyone gay. There was a kid my freshman year who was out when it wasn't okay to be out. He wanted to dress for PE in the girls' locker room. Everyone teased him but he came right back at them. He had effeminate ways and I looked upon him with general disdain. I never took the time to get to know anyone else on a personal level who identified with being gay. One man who worked with my mom cross dressed and was "crazy"--in terms of his lifestyle. Crazy being you drink and party all the time. I never was in the position to allow myself to get to know someone homosexual on a regular basis. It's not like I avoided anyone gay either.

Later, when I became a teacher, I was able to work alongside gay teachers and administrators. As an adult, the immature slurs and general disdain was smoothed over by my own self-conscious attitude towards my own actions and because I knew in my heart I was not to treat others with that type of disrespect. Becoming Christian, there was never a sense of "I must condemn homosexuals" wherever I went kind of feeling. It wasn't a priority. I had my own sin to worry about.

So when the Supreme Court upheld same-sex marriage, I had mixed feelings. I don't personally agree that marriage is between man and a man, or a woman with a woman. I wont use this blog to lay the framework from the Bible. That's not my job. Just saying the word "Bible" will probably illicit some kind of reaction that will either be positive or negative. You see, I know there are many that will use the Bible's words to justify just about anything--and both the righteous and the atheists will do this. This wont be that blog. That being said, this is what the Supreme Court's decision means for me in my household.

One, before I agree or disagree with someone on Facebook, I'm going to look within my own marriage. I believe that humans have destroyed the sanctity of marriage. How many divorces and annulments will we perform before we realize that wasn't God's best either? Growing up, there were so many movies and tv shows that put marriage in a bad light, it's any wonder why gays even want the hassle. I don't think many Christians can say anything when their churches are filled with divorced men and women, those having affairs and those living in sin before marriage. Cause guess what, homosexuality isn't the only sin in the Bible related to sin. It's ANY sex outside of marriage. That means no masturbation. That means no hook ups, no affairs, no living together before marriage. Many Christians are silent on this matter. We have a high-school nephew who is having sex with his girlfriend. This isn't God's best, in any form or fashion. When we see him we love him like if he wasn't living this way (and he has other behaviors that falls before God's best as well), but I do joke with him in a biting sarcastic kind of way. It's my one way of suggesting that what he's doing should not be looked upon with favor. Other people in the family will not say anything to him. As Christians we are so capable of allowing our loved ones to live in sin, and not just the sexual kind, but rail on and on about homosexuality. How many of our loved ones are we willing to lose to sin simply because we don't love them enough to speak truth in their lives, and conversely challenging ourselves to live better.

So allowing homesexuals to marry doesn't threaten my marriage. You know what does? Looking at porn, of which I have and still am not completely free from. I know I have a sin that will probably be with me forever. Being married means that I must extinguish that sexual sin. If I can't drop porn, and I'm betting many men who posted on Facebook recently about gay marriage don't either, how can we condemn someone else?

As a Christian, my marriage must be an example to the world that living into God's best. The problem is many on the outside see our lifestyles as not making a difference on the world around them. How many husbands love their jobs more than their wives? How many husbands are not the spiritual heads of their households? I've seen silly memes about how can we get so enraged over two men getting married when celebrities are married in divorced within days. But guess what, no one in their right mind should be basing their marriage on that of a Hollywood celebrity.

What else threatens my marriage? Not loving my wife like Christ loved the church. I'm not always a willing servant towards her. I don't always put aside my selfishness for her needs. No way I'm making some diatribe when I can't even be a better husband on a daily basis.

And lust. Lust threatens my marriage. My lust for a perfect classroom who pass all their tests so I can have a better evaluation. My lust for women I see on a daily basis, regardless if they are in yoga pants. My lust for food to satisfy my cravings. And same-sex marriage is a threat?

Perhaps gay marriage will only make Christians decide once and for all where they stand? Will they decide to love and work on their own marriages, making them the epitome of grace and servanthood. Or will they point fingers while their own marriages suffer? I know that the only way to be the best witness for Christ is to be willing to die to my own desires each and every day. I don't expect non-Christians to understand my feelings towards God and what God calls me to do. The Bible is my playbook, my outline for a life best lived with love. If this makes me a bigot in someone's eyes, that's their judgment. I hope churches can live on their standards without being forced to adhere to something they don't believe in. The Muslims in America don't have to, so why the outcry towards Christians? I know the issues are deeper than baking a cake for a gay wedding too. But I think that if I were to ask Eddie about this, he would say, "I'll bake my own ----ing cake."

God calls all of us to live to his will. This is a call to live a different kind of life. I try to surround myself with the types of influences that can challenge me to be at God's best. I grew weary more than ever this past year, but I'm not ready to throw in the towel. The Supreme Court decisions, and quite frankly, those of our president, governor, mayor or city councilman, don't carry much weight compared to what I read in my Bible. Marriage isn't a right to me simply because it takes two to marry. We don't have a right to much when God can snap his fingers and end us, end me. I wont let a Facebook rant come between me and my eternal gift, the gift he offers freely for all of us. Time to start dying.

Invitation to Canaan

In Greek, the word for "sin" is amartia. It literally means "to miss the mark." It's an archery term that refers to missing the gold. It's not missing the target, it's missing perfection. I was reminded today at my son's baseball game that missing the target and missing totally are two different things. Such is sin.

I'm thinking of it like darts. It's that lime green section right around the red target. Looking closely at a dart board you see where the marks hit the most. There's little dots covering the middle red, or the ring around it. It shows accuracy. I would see a Christian happy with those results. Then there's the holes you see on the outer edge of the board. Some holes are even on the wall (at least they did on my garage). What the hell happened that day? Lose you temper? Yelled at the kids?

Too bad sin isn't so easy to clarify, quantify and categorize. The world makes sins easy to forget by labeling them a disorder or a problem.  It's the whispers of gossip we pass from friend to friend.
He's got a gambling problem. We have clinics and support groups for the various addictions we face, from sex to drugs to alcohol. And if calling them disorders and problems don't erase the word sin from our vocabulary, we call some sins crimes. Crimes can be categorized and given a consequence. I have found that I try and base my sinful nature on the back of someone else's sin. It's not as bad as that guy, I think. It could be worse, I say. But to God, we all fall short.

My son struggled on the mound tonight. His small misses were within the strike zone. He knows that throwing the ball right down the middle is not smart baseball, unless you can throw it by them. My son is a nibbler. He watches the pros eat up batters with off speed pitches and hitting their corners. He had a few full counts on batters, walked two and lost a 10-pitch at bat battle by giving up a 2 run double. His worst miss was the first play of the inning. The first batter hit a comeback up the middle, and like most of the season, my son handled it and readied his throw. But instead of hitting the target of his friend's glove at first base, he threw it high. Eventually the runner scored.  Had he made that play early on, maybe he would have made it out of the inning. We just never know sometimes. Even in life, we make mistakes, some huge ones, and we get to wonder if you made that decision or made that change, how would have the rest of the day been? I've always been fascinated with the idea that the stench of sin can linger longer than we ever expected. Sure, we are forgiven by a just and powerful God. And we certainly aren't perfect. But do the sins we have ultimately lead to other events in our life that can stymy the blessings that God has in store for us? I believe God has given us those answers.

Early in the season, my son made the comment that another pitcher on the team "sucked." He's been vocal other times too about an error a teammate makes, always seeing fault in others. The umpires he saves for his biggest rants. After tonight's game, he vowed to never pitch again. Even God is out to get him. When rain threatened a potential cancellation, he said, "God hates me." Do I believe God is sending a message to my 11 year old? I don't believe God wants us to suffer, but I do believe he allows our actions and tongues to lay the red carpet for fate to intervene.

God has always had a plan for his people. The first people to see this were the Israelites. God promised them the land of Canaan, the land flowing with milk and honey. The Israelites, as you might know, didn't accept this with one accepting free cash. They mumbled, they grumbled, they grew restless and provoked God's anger when things didn't go their way. In Edwin Cole's book, "Maximized Manhood," Cole describes 5 sins that kept them from Canaan.

Lust.
Fornication.
Idolatry.
Murmuring.
Tempting Christ.

I don't have the blog length to go into all of them. I know eventually I will be journaling and giving some perspective on how they apply to me. But I learned something new on the last one. Cole explains that we tempt Christ when we expect God to intervene and bless us even when we fail to live up to the salvation he has given us. We want the pleasures of sin and the benefits of God's grace. This is contrary to God's will and inconsistent with his character, Cole says. We demand that God provide another way to the cross without having to live a life of discipline.

We cheat in our business dealings and wonder why the business isn't doing better. Children reject "the godly counsel of parents" and wonder why their lives aren't better. We demand social programs from our government, and from the pulpit too, but no one wants to live with the discipline it takes to make a lasting impact that could change a life forever.

I always thought tempting Christ was what Satan did to Jesus when he was in the desert for 40 days. In some ways we do the same. We live one way during the week but expect God bless our endeavors. Reading the book is like being hit with darts to the heart. I've been questioning God's plan for my family since this winter when faced with adversity. I want God to "fix" my family troubles but I'm not willing to do the hard work it takes, the devotions, the prayer, the living the right kind of life. When school was tough I questioned whether or not God was with me, but I was unwilling to make the proper changes in my life to allow God to work.

It's clear God allowed me to lay the red carpet of my fate. He's letting me run my mouth, letting me build my house on pleasures and disobedience, thinking that I'll get blessed on the back end because I play the part on Sundays. It's hard to admit defeat. Instead I have buried my head in my phone, my plate of food, my complaints.

I've been mad at God for so long, not realizing that God could care less about the hoops I jump through to impress others and myself. He wants my heart, not my stack of books I've read on Christianity. He wants my submission, to give over the control of my life, not a spreadsheet of boxes checked that make me an outward Christian.

God never said following him would be easy. However the doors of opportunity reveal the red carpet towards a new life. That's the life I want. That's the life worth living. It's an invitation to Canaan.