I am at a crossroads today.
I have a choice to make and I don't know which road to take.
The road less traveled - the one I've been on for a while - isn't all that fun. It's isolating and I've lost a lot of relationships (though not the ones that really matter).
The other road is pretty appealing. With one word I can start on this road and leave the last season behind. I could move forward into new things - new friends, a new job, and new hope.
Everyone I love has an opinion.
My best friend wants me to stay the course. My mother-in-law wants me to set up meetings. My brother-in-law has an idea I've never even considered. My husband wants me to hurry up and choose something so that we can move on with our lives.
I don't know what to do.
I've prayed - but God is silent. It seems like the bigger the decision, the less clearly I hear from the Holy Spirit. It's almost as if He wants me to trust in other things instead of His voice. Things like His word...Godly counsel...wisdom.
It would be really nice if He would speak LOUDLY. And say, "THIS ROAD."
But I'm still at a crossroads.
And I don't know what to do.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Lessons
One of my favorite students emails me regularly.
"We all miss you at school," she says. I tell her that I miss her, too.
"Will you read my writing?" she asks. "I need to know how to improve."
Of course I will.
I've spent a lot of time pouring over her vulnerable poems. The writing is good, which doesn't surprise me. She's smart and gutsy, not afraid to take risks.
Her words contain themes that alarm me. She shares feelings and experiences that let me know life isn't easy for her at our small Christian school.
It hasn't been easy for me, either - and I feel a kinship with her, more than when I saw her in the back row of my classroom every day.
The hardest thing about leaving school is the lack of connection with my students. I have loved these kids for two years. I've watched them fall in love, make stupid mistakes, and stumble through their teenage years with a wild energy that motivates me to live my life without fear.
So when she sends me her writing, I am desperate for that connection to return. I spend too much time giving advice on punctuation and themes, to much thought on her stanzas.
But I'm grateful for the chance to teach - even in this small dose.
It's a gift. She's a gift.
She reminds me that I am a teacher.
And I will teach again.
"We all miss you at school," she says. I tell her that I miss her, too.
"Will you read my writing?" she asks. "I need to know how to improve."
Of course I will.
I've spent a lot of time pouring over her vulnerable poems. The writing is good, which doesn't surprise me. She's smart and gutsy, not afraid to take risks.
Her words contain themes that alarm me. She shares feelings and experiences that let me know life isn't easy for her at our small Christian school.
It hasn't been easy for me, either - and I feel a kinship with her, more than when I saw her in the back row of my classroom every day.
The hardest thing about leaving school is the lack of connection with my students. I have loved these kids for two years. I've watched them fall in love, make stupid mistakes, and stumble through their teenage years with a wild energy that motivates me to live my life without fear.
So when she sends me her writing, I am desperate for that connection to return. I spend too much time giving advice on punctuation and themes, to much thought on her stanzas.
But I'm grateful for the chance to teach - even in this small dose.
It's a gift. She's a gift.
She reminds me that I am a teacher.
And I will teach again.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Monday Morning Insecurity
Today is Monday. Normally I'm at school right now, teaching History. Today I am home in my new purple t-shirt and comfy sweatpants. This is the first day of my three week medical leave.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
My doctor wants me to rest and give my body time to adjust to my new medication (I guess the pneumonia I got from the infusion last Friday is a clue that I need a break). She says that the stress of my job has made my health worse. I understand...sort of. But there is a part of me that wishes I could PUSH harder to be at school every day right now, stress and all.
Because, in spite of how difficult this year has been, I miss my students already. I hate the thought of some Interim teacher in MY classroom, teaching MY lessons.
What if he is better than me? What if he is funny and knows more about WWII?
Why am I so insecure?
Even though I get told weekly by at least one student that I am their favorite teacher, I still feel this nagging fear that I am replaceable.
This is one of the things God is teaching me over and over in my illness. I have GOT to learn that my worth comes from Him alone. Not from being a fantastic teacher, a good employee, or a great mother.
My real worth only comes from Jesus.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
My doctor wants me to rest and give my body time to adjust to my new medication (I guess the pneumonia I got from the infusion last Friday is a clue that I need a break). She says that the stress of my job has made my health worse. I understand...sort of. But there is a part of me that wishes I could PUSH harder to be at school every day right now, stress and all.
Because, in spite of how difficult this year has been, I miss my students already. I hate the thought of some Interim teacher in MY classroom, teaching MY lessons.
What if he is better than me? What if he is funny and knows more about WWII?
Why am I so insecure?
Even though I get told weekly by at least one student that I am their favorite teacher, I still feel this nagging fear that I am replaceable.
This is one of the things God is teaching me over and over in my illness. I have GOT to learn that my worth comes from Him alone. Not from being a fantastic teacher, a good employee, or a great mother.
My real worth only comes from Jesus.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Awake
I am awake before him.
I get out of our bed and make pancakes, surprised at my sudden burst of domesticity. I stir the batter, start the coffee, and serve a plate of breakfast to our seven-year-old daughter.
It is almost time to shower. I walk into our bedroom. He is facing the ceiling, snoring. His chest is rising and falling, his beard is untrimmed, his mouth is slightly open.
I watch him for a minute. He opens his eyes.
“Hey,” he says, voice full of sleep.
“Can I crawl in?” I ask, choosing to pause on a busy weekday morning.
He lifts up the blue covers and I move in next to his warm body. Skin to skin, t-shirt to t-shirt, touching.
“Move your arm?” I say. He raises his arm; his hand now touches my hand.
We lock fingers. He inhales deeply. Again.
And again.
I breathe, too. But my breathing is shallow, reflecting the anxiety of the upcoming day.
He speaks into my ear. “I am glad I am with you. If I could choose something else for my life, I’d still choose you.”
I tighten my fingers around his hand, feeling.
He finishes, “You are good for me.”
The words come unexpectedly. Love spilling out in the middle of my week, in the middle of my morning.
Love in the bed, love under the warm covers, love filled with the smell of pancakes coming from our kitchen.
Love when I watch him sleep, and love when I touch him.
Love when he tells me I am good for him. Love when he says nothing.
I get out of bed, I turn on the shower, I pick out clothes for the day.
He is good for me, too.
I get out of our bed and make pancakes, surprised at my sudden burst of domesticity. I stir the batter, start the coffee, and serve a plate of breakfast to our seven-year-old daughter.
It is almost time to shower. I walk into our bedroom. He is facing the ceiling, snoring. His chest is rising and falling, his beard is untrimmed, his mouth is slightly open.
I watch him for a minute. He opens his eyes.
“Hey,” he says, voice full of sleep.
“Can I crawl in?” I ask, choosing to pause on a busy weekday morning.
He lifts up the blue covers and I move in next to his warm body. Skin to skin, t-shirt to t-shirt, touching.
“Move your arm?” I say. He raises his arm; his hand now touches my hand.
We lock fingers. He inhales deeply. Again.
And again.
I breathe, too. But my breathing is shallow, reflecting the anxiety of the upcoming day.
He speaks into my ear. “I am glad I am with you. If I could choose something else for my life, I’d still choose you.”
I tighten my fingers around his hand, feeling.
He finishes, “You are good for me.”
The words come unexpectedly. Love spilling out in the middle of my week, in the middle of my morning.
Love in the bed, love under the warm covers, love filled with the smell of pancakes coming from our kitchen.
Love when I watch him sleep, and love when I touch him.
Love when he tells me I am good for him. Love when he says nothing.
I get out of bed, I turn on the shower, I pick out clothes for the day.
He is good for me, too.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Plans
"...Who has saved us and called us to a holy life—not because of anything we have done but because of his own purpose and grace..."
2 Timothy 1:9
I have plans.
Our master bedroom is gross. There are scuff marks all over the wall, the nicest piece of furniture is a ripped-up recliner, and the carpet is covered in approximately twelve million stains.
I am planning to redecorate the bedroom before summer. New paint, new bedding, new carpet, and new cute accessories from the nearby Pottery Barn outlet.
I have plans for my family, too. I need to collect my son's recent assessments and prepare for a meeting at a potential school. The program features small class sizes and individualized instruction, which may be a much-needed change for my brilliant but anxious nine-year-old boy.
Plans everywhere I look. Plans for a resume redo, plans for vacation, plans for budgeting, plans for my marriage, plans of books to read.
But my plans and the reality of my life look very, very different.
Tomorrow morning I am spending all day at the infusion clinic getting my first dose of a new medication. I'll get an IV for about seven hours - and I can't drive myself home. After I get the medicine, I will feel like I have the flu for a few days.
Instead of doing what I want to do (teach, clean, laugh with my family, make a simple dinner), I am going to spend the next few days adjusting to the medicine.
A part of me understands. But another part of me is frustrated.
If I'm a gifted teacher, why won't God bless my health so that I don't hurt in the classroom? If I am a wife and mom, why won't He heal my body so that I can give my family everything they need?
When I read 2 Timothy 2:9 this morning, I realized that God is planning things in my life for HIS purposes. Not mine.
He is calling me to a holy life. In fact, He is more concerned with me living a holy life than accomplishing my plans.
Surrendering my desires is so hard - and every day I fight the anger and sadness that comes with living with deep disappointment. But, slowly, I am learning that true peace in Christ isn't found in feeling good. It's not found in a new master bedroom, a great job, or a wonderful family life.
Peace in Christ is found when I give up all of my plans. And I'm learning to trust in the One who loved me enough that He planned to send His Son to die for me.
His plans are the best, after all.
2 Timothy 1:9
I have plans.
Our master bedroom is gross. There are scuff marks all over the wall, the nicest piece of furniture is a ripped-up recliner, and the carpet is covered in approximately twelve million stains.
I am planning to redecorate the bedroom before summer. New paint, new bedding, new carpet, and new cute accessories from the nearby Pottery Barn outlet.
I have plans for my family, too. I need to collect my son's recent assessments and prepare for a meeting at a potential school. The program features small class sizes and individualized instruction, which may be a much-needed change for my brilliant but anxious nine-year-old boy.
Plans everywhere I look. Plans for a resume redo, plans for vacation, plans for budgeting, plans for my marriage, plans of books to read.
But my plans and the reality of my life look very, very different.
Tomorrow morning I am spending all day at the infusion clinic getting my first dose of a new medication. I'll get an IV for about seven hours - and I can't drive myself home. After I get the medicine, I will feel like I have the flu for a few days.
Instead of doing what I want to do (teach, clean, laugh with my family, make a simple dinner), I am going to spend the next few days adjusting to the medicine.
A part of me understands. But another part of me is frustrated.
If I'm a gifted teacher, why won't God bless my health so that I don't hurt in the classroom? If I am a wife and mom, why won't He heal my body so that I can give my family everything they need?
When I read 2 Timothy 2:9 this morning, I realized that God is planning things in my life for HIS purposes. Not mine.
He is calling me to a holy life. In fact, He is more concerned with me living a holy life than accomplishing my plans.
Surrendering my desires is so hard - and every day I fight the anger and sadness that comes with living with deep disappointment. But, slowly, I am learning that true peace in Christ isn't found in feeling good. It's not found in a new master bedroom, a great job, or a wonderful family life.
Peace in Christ is found when I give up all of my plans. And I'm learning to trust in the One who loved me enough that He planned to send His Son to die for me.
His plans are the best, after all.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Time. Grace. Repeat.
"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing... not healing, not curing... that is a friend who cares.”
-Henri Nouwen
My mother-in-law called me last night to check on me. We talked for a while about my work situation. She got angry on my behalf, offered ideas, and shared a story about her own school that related to my situation.
It seems unreal that we are talking so often now, so much of our old closeness echoing in the words of our conversations.
A year ago, when her husband died, I was so angry with her. She acted badly the days after his heart attack and she said some extremely hurtful things. I believed I would never talk to her again.
But now it is different. In the last few months, she seems like herself again. Not totally - but she can laugh again. She listens again.
I wish I could go back to that time and tell myself, "Ebbie, this is grief. It looks messy. Grief acts badly. Give it time."
If I had known, I might have paused before allowing myself to become so angry. I would have understood that time would heal our relationship and soon we would spend time on the phone talking about the latest things in our lives.
Isn't God good? He heals and restores in the worst situations. He gives wisdom in the pain, too. Now I know what to offer to someone who grieves:
Time.
Grace.
Repeat.
-Henri Nouwen
My mother-in-law called me last night to check on me. We talked for a while about my work situation. She got angry on my behalf, offered ideas, and shared a story about her own school that related to my situation.
It seems unreal that we are talking so often now, so much of our old closeness echoing in the words of our conversations.
A year ago, when her husband died, I was so angry with her. She acted badly the days after his heart attack and she said some extremely hurtful things. I believed I would never talk to her again.
But now it is different. In the last few months, she seems like herself again. Not totally - but she can laugh again. She listens again.
I wish I could go back to that time and tell myself, "Ebbie, this is grief. It looks messy. Grief acts badly. Give it time."
If I had known, I might have paused before allowing myself to become so angry. I would have understood that time would heal our relationship and soon we would spend time on the phone talking about the latest things in our lives.
Isn't God good? He heals and restores in the worst situations. He gives wisdom in the pain, too. Now I know what to offer to someone who grieves:
Time.
Grace.
Repeat.
Fire Drill
We go to this great church now. After years of flitting around different churches in our city, our family has finally landed at a stable, lovely, passionate Body of Christ.
Things that are new for us:
1. A building. I love church plants and I love meeting in elementary schools and setting up chairs...but, to be honest, it is REALLY nice to go to church in a building.
2. Diversity. There are tons of different ages that attend our church. I think I was the oldest person at the last church we attended, so this is nice.
3. Excellent process in place for emergencies on a Sunday morning. If someone is baking something for a Sunday School class and accidentally starts a fire...well, our church is FULLY PREPARED to evacuate the building.
And here is a picture (from yesterday). Note the old people in front of the building? See how all my points neatly tie together? Ha!
Things that are new for us:
1. A building. I love church plants and I love meeting in elementary schools and setting up chairs...but, to be honest, it is REALLY nice to go to church in a building.
2. Diversity. There are tons of different ages that attend our church. I think I was the oldest person at the last church we attended, so this is nice.
3. Excellent process in place for emergencies on a Sunday morning. If someone is baking something for a Sunday School class and accidentally starts a fire...well, our church is FULLY PREPARED to evacuate the building.
And here is a picture (from yesterday). Note the old people in front of the building? See how all my points neatly tie together? Ha!
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