Confession 26: Motto to Live By

I decided this early morning that since it was Friday, and I was just completing my second full week of teaching, and my husband has been in Ecuador for almost a week on a mission trip leaving me alone with our 15 month old son, that I was going to treat myself to an iced mocha before departing for work. It's been a long few weeks. In the past five years, I've forgotten how all-consuming a task teaching can be, especially in the Monett school district which prides itself on maintaining high educational expectations. I think this is a wonderful thing, and one of the reasons I took the job here, but high expectations can sometimes fall very heavily onto the shoulders of teachers who are expected to carry them out. It's not the fault of the school district really, but more the fault of a national education system in serious need of an extreme home makeover. In any case, I was tired, anxious for the weekend, and wanted a cold, chocolaty treat before heading into the trenches.

There's a great little coffee shop in Mt. Vernon called the Keen Bean. It's really one of the hidden jewels of the town. The owners roast their own coffee beans and have a wonderful array of baked goods and small lunches to choose from. As I was waiting for my mocha this morning, looking around at the tantalizing treats on display, I noticed a sign I hadn't seen before. It was a wooden board on which was printed, "Motto to Live By". As I read it, I felt it spoke to many of the things I've been thinking about recently. About the importance of living life to the fullest, of not being all-consumed by one aspect of your life, of not forgetting that our stay here is, in fact, very brief and we should make the most of it. I can't recount it word for word, but this is the general gist. "Life is not a journey to arrive at the grave very attractive with a well-preserved body. Rather, we should come skidding in sideways, chocolate in one hand, a latte in the other, with a well-used body screaming at the top of our lungs, 'Whoo-Hoo! What a ride!'"

I know my work is important, and I want to do my best. I know that I need to be in better shape and I want to be healthy. But I also know that life is short, and I want to make the most of it. There's balance in everything, it's just a matter of finding the right one:)

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Confession 25: Radical Hospitality and Anti-Social Tendencies

My husband told me the other night that I was anti-social. The comment came after the annual faculty cook-out the high school I'm going to be teaching at hosts each year. I signed us up to go with the thought that as a new teacher in the building, it would be good to go and put in an appearance, meet a few people, and let my husband see where and with whom I would be spending a lot of time in the upcoming months. I don't like big social gatherings, especially when I know relatively few people, so the whole thing was, in honesty, somewhat of a disaster. I regretted the decision to come almost instantly. A few people I had had contact with said hello, and one of the other English teachers introduced us to her spouse. Yet, aside from that, no one really seemed interested in speaking to us. So, I focused on my food and we used our son as an excuse to abandon the rest of the mission. As we were walking out the door, my husband looked at me and said, "You're really anti-social, aren't you?"

Now, in my defense, I am brand new to this district, and I did hardly know anyone, and the conversation at our table revolved around people and places I knew nothing about, so there wasn't a lot I could add. However, in retrospect, I probably could have tried a little harder. This is a problem that has plagued me my entire life. I've never been an overly social person. My nickname growing up was "Bear" because I liked to hibernate by myself. I've always had a handful of really close friends, many of whom have been in my life for 10+ years, and have been content to visit with people in small group settings. I don't have a big personality, so to speak. My sister got all of that. And I'm horrible at small-talk. I just never know what to chat about. It all boils down to a lack of confidence on my part, although I couldn't tell you of what exactly. But, as I get older, and my husband has more responsibilities in his ministry, I realize that being anti-social can pose some problems. I think it all boils down to the need to be radically hospitable.

Radical hospitality is one of the five principles Bishop Robert Schnase is calling the Missouri Conference of United Methodist Churches to exhibit. Radical hospitality, in my understanding of it, involves moving beyond your own comfort zone to make welcome all those you meet. It involves accepting others for who they are, making them feel o.k. about themselves in your presence, making sure they are comfortable and that their needs are satisfied as long as they are with you. The church we've recently taken up appointment at, First United Methodist of Mt. Vernon, showed us radical hospitality when we arrived. The members have been extremely open in receiving us, and make us feel each day how glad they are that we've come.
I've been waiting for the same treatment at the high school I'm working at. I've labored under the assumption that since I'm new, people need to talk to me and make an effort to get to know me, not vice versa. In thinking about radical hospitality, I realize that I've gotten it backward. Maybe I'm the one who needs to put out the effort to introduce myself and get to know people. Maybe I need to be more welcoming and open to people I meet for the first time. Maybe I need to spend less time focusing on my own internal struggles with inadequacy and self-doubt and put that energy into focusing out on the needs of others, say, my students for one. I don't expect to completely change the whole of who I am. I don't think I will every be truly comfortable in big group gatherings, but maybe I can at least try a little harder to be less anti-social.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Confession 24: Star Spangled in Louisiana

I attended a teaching conference in New Orleans last week. Obviously, life is rough. At the opening session of the conference, I was surprised to see that a color guard was presenting the American flag and the Star Spangled Banner was going to be sung. I'd never seen this at a conference before, and the cynical girl inside me started to bristle and roll her eyes. But then, I reminded cynical girl that this was a public education conference and not a church service-- a public education conference sponsored by the Southern Regional Education Board at that. So, if they wanted stars and stripes, as ridiculous as it seemed to me, they were perfectly entitled to it.

The woman who was slated to sing the national anthem was a principal in a Texas high school. The music was canned and started slowly. Great, I thought. Not only are we singing the national anthem, but we're doing it at the pace of a funeral dirge. I've always felt that if you're going to sing the national anthem, then it should be done with energy and gusto. However, as the principal sang, I found myself captivated. She had a powerful voice, and although the song was sung slowly, it definitely had gusto. Her tone, her inflection, her sheer power made it a song of triumph born out of great struggle. I understood for the first time in a long time the meaning behind the words. It became a song of perseverance, of faith and hope that out of darkness would come light.

As the anthem came to a close, I thought about the fact that we were standing in the heart of New Orleans, ravished almost two years ago by Hurricane Katrina. Touring the city, there is still so much in disrepair, so much that has not returned, so many who have not returned. I found that this song, sung this way, was a tribute to this city, this region, that has been through so much. Walking through the French Quarter throughout the week, I saw many signs and t-shirts carrying the phrase, "Rebuild New Orleans". There is a pride and a hope in the city that I felt profoundly as the national anthem was sung. It is a pride and hope that I feel deep down about our country, that we can push through the present darkness and come out triumphant into the light of a new day. It may not come for awhile, but I fimly believe we will get there.

I found myself cheering as the anthem came to a close, cheering for the talented singer, cheering for a city which is rising again, and cheering on a country where hope still shines through, no matter how hard it may be to see.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Confession 23: Surviving Motherhood

I love my son. Really, I do. He's the light of my life. He brings me joy every day in unexpected ways. He's eager, he's expressive, he's loving and cuddly. He also pushes my buttons in ways no one else has done, except maybe my little sister. He's stubborn, he's into everything, he's temperamental, and he doesn't always sleep a lot. The past few weeks have been challenging for our relationship. We made our big move last week to the small town in southwest Missouri where my husband is the new pastor at the United Methodist Church. I don't start my new teaching job until the fall, so now am home with our son throughout the day. It's something neither of us are accustomed to, and both of us are highly resistant to change.

I've always been, I hate to say, somewhat snobby in my opinion of stay-at-home moms. This past week alone has given me a whole new respect for them. We have moved from the suburbs to the country, and what I wouldn't give some days for a book group meeting at Starbucks! Even a playdate sounds like an extraordinary experience, where before I found it a ridiculous concept. I think my son misses his daycare-- all of the toys, the other kids, the routine he had established. I find myself looking for different excuses to get out of the house, to make contact, however brief, with the world outside. I think my son feels this too. Our best day this past week was when we made the 30 mile trek into Springfield, to Best Buy, to pick up a modem for our router. I don't even know what these things are, let alone what they do, but going to get that modem was the highlight of my son and I's day. We were both in much better moods throughout the afternoon and evening.

I leave this week for a five day trip to New Orleans to a conference for work. Although it will be hard to leave my son (I've never done it before) I think it will be good for both of us. We've become sort of co-dependent, he and I. We're our own little island chain during the day in the sea of newness around us. And, as frustrating as these days with him can be sometimes, I know I'm very blessed to have the opportunity to spend this time with him, and that the days are coming soon when we will get back into the busyness of our routines and I will think again, as I often have at work, "Wouldn't it be nice if I could just stay home?"

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Confession 22: A Bit of Dirt

I do not, in general, like to get dirty. I'm sure I could delve deep into my past to discover the reason behind this, but it doesn't change the fact that I like to be clean. I don't like to go a day without showering. I don't like it when I'm walking after it rains or snows and dirty water splashes up on my legs from my shoes. I don't buy jeans that look dingy, however stylish they may be. And I don't like it when dirt sneaks in under my gardening gloves. I just don't like dirt. As a parent, my personal dislike of dirt has been transferred to my son in that I don't like him to be dirty either. I don't like it when his hair starts to get flat, or when dirt starts to collect under his fingernails. I don't like it when he spills food on his clothes, or when he smears his food all over his face and hair. It bugs me. And no matter how hard I try, I can't just let it be. However, this past week, I found myself reconsidering my stance on dirt.

We spent a day with some friends in Kirksville, Missouri last week. They have a beautiful old Victorian home with a spacious backyard flowing out from a wide wooden deck. The evening of our visit was spent outside on the deck enjoying the warmth of an early summer evening. While we adults sat around and talked, the children were running free in the backyard, playing in a sandbox and with the garden hose. My son, who is now one, was crawling around all over the deck. When the time came to go inside and get the children settled for bed I noticed that my son was filthy. Not only were his knees dirty, but his shorts, shirt, feet, hands and face were all smeared with dirt and sweat. My initital instinct was, of course, to give him a bath. But as I looked at his tired face I realized that he was perfectly content in his state of dirtiness. The dirt he was covered in meant that he had been doing things, important things. He had been exploring and investigating a brand new world. He had been driving a fire truck and delivering water balloons to a newfound friend. He didn't mind the dirt. It was part of the experience of reveling in the summer evening.

As I lay in bed that night, a thousand similiar summer evenings of my own childhood flashed through my mind. I remembered playing outside until the sun set and the street lights came on. I remembered riding bikes through mud puddles and playing in a gravel drive. I remembered using the swimming pool as a big bath tub and going to sleep surrounded by the smell of chlorine mixed with sweat. Those were beautiful days... days of meaning... days of accomplishment.

In her book, Recieving the Day, Christian writier Dorothy Bass talks about reclaiming the Sabbath. She states that on the Sabbath, it is important to celebrate and revel in God's creation, for God created everything of life on this planet and declared that all of it was good. By reveling in God's creation, we connect with God and bring glory to all that he made. This, I would say, includes dirt. We were created of dirt and to dirt we will return, so what does it matter if we carry a little of it with us along the way? I guess a little bit of dirt never hurts. Maybe it can even be good for the soul.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Confession 21: The Trouble With Time, Part 2

Over the weekend, my family and I celebrated my mother's 60th birthday. To think of my mother as being 60 years old is somewhat troublesome to me, for the image I have of a 60 year old woman and what I know to be true of my mother are two completely different things. I've heard that 60 is now the new 40 and when I look at my mother, I think that must be true. Age itself is a stereotype. Deep down I know it's just a number, but the numbers have the power of eliciting profound emotions. I still struggle with the fact that I'm 30. I never really thought that age would come. Is it really possible that I've lived 30 years? Could I really be 1/3 of the way through my life? What have I done with those 30 years? Where has the time gone? These questions creep into my mind every so often, and I have no real answers there.

After my mother's birthday party, I was talking to my husband about a conversation I'd had with my best friend's mother. She told me that Elaine and her husband Tim were going out of town for their anniversary this summer. It didn't hit me until I was talking to my husband that the reason Elaine and Tim are going off alone for their anniversary is that it will be their 10th. TEN YEARS!! They've been married for ten years! I lay in bed that night pondering the meaning of this. For some reason, I found myself a little sad at this revelation. It's not that I'm sad for them. Tim's a great guy and they have a wonderful relationship along with two beautiful children. There's nothing to be sad about in that. It's more the fact that I can remember their wedding so clearly. Plus the fact that I specifically remember being with them on their 5 year anniversary, and that anniversary does not seem, in my mind, like it took place more than 3 years ago at best. I kept doing the math over and over in my head, but each time I came up with 10 years. I wondered, "What does it mean?"

Before I knew it, I found myself wandering back through my childhood. Elaine and I have literally spent a lifetime together, so I found myself thinking about endless sleepovers and birthday parties and walks home from school. I thought about Barbie adventures and Trivial Pursuit and pogo sticks and roller skates. I thought of North and South and The Winds of War, made for T.V. miniseries we must have watched hundreds of times. I thought of years of laughter, and conversations that carried on regardless of time or distance. I thought of summers in college, sharing a small apartment with friends, staying up through the night talking of life, love, and all that the future would hold.

In that moment, I finally realized what had been troubling me all along. My childhood had passed from a recent memory to a distant one. It was, and is, truly gone for good. It's not that I want to go back and relive those days. I've come a long way since then. I fell in love with a wonderful man and we've created a beautiful child. We're building a life together, and I'm excited about all of the possibilities it holds. Yet, it is a mark of passage for me that my significant memories of ten years ago are that of an adult. I am getting older. We are all getting older, and it is not an easy thing to reconcile yourself with. My question now is, when do we get wiser?

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Confession 20: Every Vote Counts

Around election time, you always hear campaign workers and teachers telling people that "every vote counts" so make sure you go to the polls and cast your vote. I've also been told by my mother that you can't complain about a politician or bill if you don't vote. Well, I'm going to complain anyway.

I didn't vote this week during American Idol, but I'm wondering now if I should have. Last night, my husband and I's favorite contestant this season was inexplicably sent home. In my mind, Melinda Doolittle was the best singer of the bunch, and proved week after week that she deserved the Idol crown. In most cases, it's probably best that we each don't get what we deserve because it's probably a lot worse than what we have. In this case, however, I disagree. What were people thinking? Can people really prefer Blake to Melinda? Blake... Seriously?! It's not that he doesn't have talent. He can sing.. sort of. But he's not great. And the beatboxing thing? Give me a break! It's his only gimmick. It's all he does. Melinda showed her versatility week after week. She brought her A game every single time, and although I admit I questioned where she would fit into the music industry-- which genre she would fill-- and I thought there were times she seemed a bit too old for her age, she flat-out outsang every other contestant.

So, what happened? Did the voters get bored with her consistency? Did she not have a bubbly enough personality? Did she not sell the songs enough? Did the voters not want another African-American Idol? (Sorry, Chris-- had to throw that one in.) As Randy and Paula both said, Melinda will be successful regardless of her place in Idol standings, but it's the principle of the matter for me. Melinda should not have been voted off last night.

Then again, we do live in a nation where the majority of voters elected Gerorge W. Bush to office--twice! As Americans, we don't have the best track record. So, what can you do? I guess every vote does count after all.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara