Is This What Christmas Feels Like?

I was sitting in Church today (Sacrament Meeting for those saavy on Mormon lingo), and this post smacked me in the face....  Not literally.  Figuratively.  I was figuratively smacked in the face by an unwritten blog post.

And now that that's out of the way...

I want to tell you another story-- it's actually several different Christmas stories strewn together over the last several years.  I think I've made it fairly clear in my other posts that, while I was teaching in Colorado, I watched some of my students tackle some serious issues.  Issues like homelessness.  Like being in charge of the care of younger siblings because Mom and her boyfriend are too drugged up to care.  Like hiding in the closet when Christmas day rolls around, because that's when Dad does more drinking than usual, and that's never a good thing.

For me, I always looked forward to the holidays, because there were traditions and memories--all of them comforting.  It was such a strange thing to see something different in the holidays for my students--it was a time too many of them dreaded, because school--their comforting and safe place--would be sending them home for prolonged periods of time.  And they'd be left crossing their fingers that there'd be enough food to eat or a place to sleep.

And that's why I put my mom and a classroom volunteer from a local church in charge of my classroom's holiday parties.

Year after year, my mom would outdo herself, hauling bags of food and crafts from Wyoming so that my students would have a real taste of what the holidays are supposed to be like.  (And my classroom volunteer always matched my mother's efforts.)  I remember that first year when even I was overwhelmed with everything that she was able to fit into her Chevy Equinox.  There were boxes of food and a stocking for each of my students--each stocking labeled with a student's name and filled with candy and toys.  My mom always went even so far as to make sure she brought extra stockings for the siblings of my students (because she didn't want them to feel left out).

Over the years, my students have enjoyed crock-pot chili, vegetable and fruit platters, even individual-sized pies-- all homemade.  I remember last Christmas when my mom and volunteer purposefully brought too much food so that they could send the leftovers home with a little boy who would need it.

On one of those years, I remember my dad came too.  During that particular school year, I had a student--a little girl who we'll name Carmen--who didn't speak English.  In fact, I seldom heard her speak in English or Spanish.  But during that Christmas party, she looked at my dad and said, "I'm so happy."  And later, she came to me and said, "This is the best day of my life."

Another little boy--though I don't remember which one or when--at one of these Christmas parties came to me and asked, "Miss, is this what Christmas feels like?"

And to him, my answer was (and is) yes.  Yes, this is what Christmas feels like.

Christmas doesn't feel like wrapped boxes stacked beneath a tree or like taking advantage of the ever-important Black Friday deals.

Christmas doesn't feel like watching holiday-themed Hallmark channel movies until our eyeballs fall out.  (I submit that that could actually happen.)

Christmas doesn't feel like tinsel or lights or snow.

Christmas does feel like hope.  Like comfort.  Like peace.  Like knowing someone cares.

Christmas feels like there has always been, and will always be, goodness in the world.

Christmas feels like service, like caring about others before we care about ourselves.

Christmas feels like the understanding that, no matter what happens, everything will be OK in the end.

Christmas feels like the love of Christ, that He is ever aware of our struggles and our needs.  That because of Him, we will all forever have a friend to comfort us in our sorrows and celebrate with us in our triumphs.

It's my hope that all of us, like my students in years past, will truly get to know (or remember) what Christmas feels like.  Because it's so much more than decorated trees and reindeer.

Who's Going to Love Me Now?

Ok, folks, so—here's the deal: I was up until about 11:30 last night fretting over last-minute travel details, and then I got up at 4 to make sure I got to the airport in time for a flight. And then I flew to Boston and wandered around said city until I passed out and a homeless person had to carry me back to my hotel. (Ok—that last part didn't happen. But it could have with how tired I feel.) I also ate copious amounts of seafood.

So, here I am, lying comfortably on a bed that very closely resembles a marshmallow. But, try as I might, I can't get to sleep. The thought keeps running through my head that this post needs to be shared, and I had better get it done. So—I had better get it done or else I won't be sleeping very well tonight. And that would be tragic, because I need to have ample energy for more exploring (and a conference, I guess) tomorrow.

Here's what I'm thinking about: families. Parents—and, more specifically, the role of a father in a family.

I have a few thoughts to share on the subject. The first stems from this new Carrie Underwood song that I just love and have listened to more times than is probably psychologically healthy.... Anyway—here it is:

It's so true. Once, while dj-ing a school dance, I played a song and called it the "parent-child dance."  I will forever remember one father—a tall and stocky gentleman—as he lead his tiny daughter through the dance. She barely reached his knee, even as she stood on his shoes. Her hair had been put in two little pig-tails, each with a pink bow to match her frilly pink party dress. The looks on their faces were precious—a father who clearly cherished his baby girl. And a baby girl who clearly idolized her father. Maybe I'm just naive, but I believe many of the world's social ills could be solved if every little girl had a father who invested in her, cheered for her, and bolstered her up in the midst of societies so often trying to tear her down.

But girls aren't the only ones who need fathers. Little boys (and big boys) need fathers too. Just as I remember the happy moment between a father and his daughter, I just as vividly remember another event involving fathers. But this one is more tragic. In one of my years of teaching, I encountered a little boy who was quite sensitive to the feelings of others. He was bright and cheerful and always tried his hardest—even though academics didn't come easily for him. One day, he pulled me aside and said, “Miss, I don't know what I'm going to do.” As tears welled in his eyes, he continued, “My real dad used to play basketball with me, but I was stupid, and he left us. Now my step dad is moving back to Texas.... Miss, who's going to love me now?”

We both had a good cry as we hugged it out. And I've never forgotten that question, or the desperation in which it was asked. “Miss, who's going to love me now?”

Perhaps as a result of this event, or the result of many others, I found myself calling my own father. I remember, on more than one occasion, venting to him that there were children—too many of them—who wondered who was going to love them, some of them not even knowing who their fathers are. I had known children despised by their fathers. Beaten by their fathers. Molested by their fathers. The task felt insurmountable to combat such deplorable circumstances. I remember speaking poorly of these wretched “fathers” who didn't deserve their titles. I remember, during one conversation, telling my dad that every one of my students would be so much better off—and not just academically—if they knew they had a father (or father figure) who loved them.

And his answer to me was this: They do have a Father who loves them.

That was all I needed to hear. Such a simple, yet complex, concept.

They do have a Father who loves them—immeasurably and perfectly—even at their weakest. It's been said that “Heavenly Father sees us in terms of our potential.” (I think it was Dieter F. Uchtdorf who said that, but don't judge me too harshly if I'm wrong.)

If I were only allowed to preach one doctrine from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, it wouldn't be about controversial decisions made by church leaders. I wouldn't teach of church history or the Book of Mormon or even the Atonement. (Though, those are great topics of conversation.) The doctrine I would preach for the rest of my life would be this: That every member of the human family has a Father in Heaven who cherishes them, invests in them, cheers for them, and wishes to bolster them up in a world so intent on tearing them down. It would be that everyone has a Father in Heaven who will continue loving them in spite of whatever errors they make.

This is a truth I would shout from the rooftops and defend to the death. Because everyone deserves to know that they need never ask the question “who's going to love me now?” Especially because one particular Father never has—and never will—stop loving us.

Help Thy Brother's Boat Across

"Help thy brother's boat across, and lo!  Thine own has reached the shore."  --Hindu Proverb

"We are the product of the lives who have touched ours."  --Gordon B. Hinckley

"When ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God."  --Mosiah 2:17 in The Book of Mormon


Can I be a bragging sister for a minute or two?  If not--stop reading and go play Candy Crush (or whatever it is you young people like to do nowadays.)

Remember my brothers?  I wrote a whole blog about them a year or two or three ago--the one where I compared them to the Ninja Turtles.  Well, I have a quick--but totally true--story about "Leonardo" and "Raphael."  It happened last night, and it goes like this:

Leonardo had finished work for the day--it was well after 6, and he had put in long hours for a couple of days in a row.  He stopped by the grocery store to pick up a few things for his family.  Outside, in the chilly now-October evening, stood a young man.  He was shivering in his t-shirt, and concrete covered his boots and pants.  As people walked by him, he would say, "Hablas espanol?"  (Do you speak Spanish?)  My brother saw a series of people shake their heads 'no' and walk on.

Leonardo speaks Portuguese, not Spanish.  But he was willing to try.  As Leonardo walked closer, he saw a look of desperation in this man's eyes as he said, "I'm lost.  I don't know where I am."

And--in those few broken words--Leonardo was determined to help in whatever way he could.  In a fairly quick and--I'm assuming--disjointed conversation, my brother found out that this man was a construction worker from a town in Northern Colorado and had been working on a project in our town.  His carpool--a group of uncaring co-workers who were known to play hurtful 'jokes' on the young man--had left him at this grocery store without a coat and without a working cell phone.

Jerks.  (I would tell you the real word I'm thinking in my head, but it would be inappropriate for the internet.)

As fate would have it, my brother Raphael speaks better Spanish than any other gringo I know-- and Leonardo put him on the phone with the young man--who we'll now call Carlos.  So, anyway, Carlos spoke with Raphael on the phone, and--within a few short minutes--Raphael had assessed the situation, thrown his own children in the back of the car, dropped them off to be watched by Leonardo's wife, and then rushed to meet with Carlos and Leonardo at the grocery store.

As they waited for Raphael, Leonardo, having been gifted earlier that day with a rather expensive--and long sleeve--shirt, offered it to Carlos.  (I can't help but think that this is now the nicest shirt that Carlos owns.)  My brother also took Carlos into the grocery store and bought him dinner from the deli.

Enter Raphael who, without hesitating, told Carlos that he'd be driving him back home that night--even though it would be at least a 45 minute both to and from the destination.  Leonardo went home to help watch kids.  Raphael drove Carlos home.

On the car-ride to Colorado, Carlos mentioned having a wife and baby girl at home-- he was worried that they would be worried about him.  He then said something to the effect of, "It's interesting how God takes care of us sometimes."  Because just a mere seconds before Leonardo had approached him, Carlos had been praying that someone would be there to help him.

But the story doesn't stop there.

It turns out that Carlos hasn't been treated very well by his coworkers for the entirety of his employment here in the United States.  It also turns out that Raphael is acquainted with several people who own companies similar to the one in which Carlos is now working.  Suffice it to say, Carlos now has connections to other possible job opportunities.

Now, isn't it quite the coincidence that Carlos happened to cross paths with Leonardo--and, in turn, Raphael--the two people most suited to help him in his situation?

Yeah, coincidence.

So, let's apply the story to us.  How many of us, in our rushed lifestyles, have been blinded to those around us saying, "I'm lost.  I don't know where I am."?  How many of us are turned so inward that we fail to recognize the desperation in the eyes of those whom we encounter?  Worse yet, how many of us see these opportunities to show compassion yet willingly turn away?

Apply that to crisis situations we see going on in our world.  Apply that to programs put in place to help others.  Apply that to those we may randomly encounter on the street.  Apply that to acquaintances and coworkers.  Apply that to friendships.  Apply that to families.

I hope that none of us are ever so hurried, or so uncaring, that we fail to act when we see another--whether it be literally, figuratively, or spiritually-- say, "I'm lost.  I don't know where I am."

Because in helping others to find out where they are, maybe--just maybe--we'll add an extra measure of direction to our own lives.

Keep Your Eye on the Ball

Here's a warm-fuzzy story for you: Last night, I was looking for several important pieces of documentation for my new job. (You know, human resources doesn't want to hire someone who doesn't actually have the credentials they claimed on their resume.) Normally, I'm a fairly organized person who knows exactly where everything is—all things color coded and filed alphabetically. (Ok, maybe not that organized, but it paints a picture of how I see myself on the inside.) However, after having moved recently, I'm still a little discombobulated as to where I put everything—having saved my “office” area for last in the realm of getting settled.

So, there I was, in a storm of papers and files trying to find the few transcripts and certificates I needed. I hate this sort of thing, jumping through hoops. It's necessary—I get that—but it isn't the most fun I can imagine having. Amidst my shuffling of pages, my 4 year old nephew had edged his way into my room and had comfortably plopped himself onto my bed—covers and all. He was watching some cartoon on his tablet. Netflix is his favorite.

Anyway, I was in my grown-up “let's check off some boxes on my ever-growing to-do list” mode when—out of the blue—my nephew said, “Auntie 'icole, me just love you so much.” It was really quiet, and his eyes never even left the screen. He didn't try to get my attention first, and—had I been less aware of my surroundings—I probably wouldn't have heard it at all.

Don't know where I was going with that, exactly, but I think it's a good story for me to remember. I think the moral is this: Life is full of important choices—how we choose to use our time is critical. If we get too busy, or if we become distracted, we may miss out on the important little things. Little things like a nephew telling his aunt that he loves her.

That's been on my mind a lot lately, especially as I've moved on to another phase in life, this idea of balancing my life in all its needs, wants, and demands. I certainly don't profess to have everything worked out, but I have come to one conclusion: It's all about priorities.

It's kind of like this: When I played softball a looooong time ago, my dad—also the coach—always gave us the same first lesson at the beginning of the season. “Keep your eye on the ball.” (Also promptly followed by, “Don't throw the bat after you hit the ball.”) It was a useful lesson in softball, and I think it's a useful lesson in a discussion of priorities. It's awfully hard to hit a softball if you don't keep your eye on it. It's, likewise, awfully hard to achieve a goal—whether its doing something or becoming something—if you don't keep your eye on whatever it is you're trying to do or become.

And it's not just about staying away from the bad—you know, drugs, alcohol, pornography those sorts of things. If those were my priorities, I wouldn't have much to show in way of positive life consequences.

Personally, I think the hard thing about this prioritizing thing is that there are so many good things with which I can distract myself. (The aforementioned Netflix, for example.) I find that when I take all things in stride—whether it's developing a talent, writing a book, or treating myself to a movie—I am much happier when I don't let these things consume me and occupy time that would be better spent doing something better. (Except for writing the book—I could do that all day. PS- I have 173 pages done on my novel!)

Guess I should probably wrap this up—I need to go finish making dinner. (Greek style roast, Mediterranean style rice, pita chips, and a salad with tzatziki sauce—in case you need ideas for what to make for dinner tonight.) So, here's my religious soap-box for the day:

Don't get distracted from what is most important. For me, that is in following all the commandments of God, especially the seemingly strict “Mormon” commandments like no rated R movies, no coffee, and dress modestly. Then, there are the big ones—keep the Sabbath Day holy, pray, love and serve others. These are the priorities of highest significance. These are those things on which I should be continually focused if I expect to achieve my full potential as a daughter of God.

Just because the world seems to be slowly forgetting how crucial these priorities are to one's happiness doesn't mean that the priorities have changed. Love God and keep His commandments--nothing more important than that. That, to me, is where true and lasting happiness lies. Because, at the end of the day, it isn't a sporting event, a new outfit, or that one awesome Korean drama on Netflix (curse you, Netflix... I love you) that will make my life whole. Yes, they can make me happy momentarily. However, I can attest to the fact that living Christian principles brings an increased measure of contentment and understanding all of the time, even when circumstances are tough. Isn't that lasting kind of happiness the sort of priority we should all be seeking?

Ok, seriously, I need to go finish dinner.

But, friends, do something for me. Decide what your priorities are. If you're not religious—make sure that your priorities align with whatever it is you do believe—and don't get distracted. If you are religious—make sure your priorities align with the counsels given you from God and his prophets, both ancient and modern—and don't get distracted.

Keep your eye on the ball.

Or you might just strike out on some of the smaller, yet eternally more significant, things.

Love Wins

Before we get started, let me make something very clear.  This is not a post about marriage.  Or marriage equality.  Or tolerance.  Or belittling others because their opinions are different than mine regarding those issues.

Also, you'll probably want to set aside at least ten minutes or so to get through the post.  It's a bit heftier than normal.

Sorry, I'm not sorry.

Truth be told, I probably wouldn't have known about the Supreme Court ruling regarding marriage if it weren't for my friends posting about it on Facebook.  I must say, though, that I am terribly proud of my friends.  I have a fair number of friends on both sides of the fence on this one, and--I've got to commend them for their civility online and in person.  With only a couple of exceptions, I've yet to see any of my friends communicate their stances insensitively, nor have I seen them insult others for believing differently.  It makes me grateful to associate with individuals who demonstrate what respect and love truly are.

But that's not what this post is about either.

Here's what this post is really about:

It's about the Mormon concept of the purpose of life and life after death.  And how love is central through all of it.  Without love, it is not only meaningless but impossible.

Here's why I've been thinking about it:

My family has been shaken up recently by the death of an eight-year-old girl in Colorado.  Her name is Maddy, and she went to school with my niece.  Maddy's story can be found at #MaddytheMight or at #MaddysMightyMinions, and I highly encourage everyone to spend a minute or twenty reviewing Maddy's story and the positive impact she has had and continues to have on others.

As I've shared the story of Maddy with others not of my faith, I recognize that there's a bit of a disconnect when I talk about the subjects of life and death.  And it's not their fault.  I suppose few people not familiar with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints would recognize how different the doctrine is from a typical Christian denomination.  Not going to lie, it's probably weird.  (But not any more weird than other doctrines taught in religious settings.  Let's face it, religion--in general--is weird.)

But weird isn't necessarily bad.  I write this for two audiences.

I write this for those who have no intention of converting to Mormonism but who enjoy learning new things.  Anthropologically speaking, it's incredible how learning of the beliefs and customs of others can help one to learn of themselves.

And, I write this to reach out to those who might be seeking answers as to who they are, the purpose of life, and what happens after death.  Hopefully, this audience would read with the understanding that faith begins as a desire and a feeling--not irrefutable facts with mountains of evidence.  Double hopefully, this audience will find what they're looking for.

So, now that my introduction has officially scared off two-thirds of anyone who might stumble onto this post, here it is.  Life--and how love is integral--according to a Mormon girl:

Premortal Life

We believe that God is a loving and eternal Heavenly Father.  In a very literal sense.  We believe that we are His spirit children who were raised at His side in a premortal life.  We also believe in a Heavenly Mother.  We lived together as a family in that place, forming relationships and developing talents.  I guess the point is, we belonged to another place before we belonged here on Earth.  Ultimately, we were created to become like our Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother, reaching eternal potential by gaining bodies and living eternally--always bound to others through love and the Priesthood (or the power of God).

In order to become like our Heavenly Parents, we had to agree to come to Earth.  To be born and get a body.  And to experience.  And to learn.  And to demonstrate faith.  And to grow mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and--something we couldn't do before--physically.  However, we would have to do this without the remembrance of who we were before.  In passing to our lives on Earth, we willingly surrendered our memories in order to learn to live through faith.  After all, it wouldn't be a test if we remembered everything.

The Fall of Adam

So what about Adam and Eve?  I don't feel like getting into the subject too much in this post, but I will say this:  It was supposed to happen.  God didn't set us up to fail, and Eve didn't curse humankind.  In fact, Eve is revered as an incredibly wise prophetess in Mormon doctrine.  She understood the need to introduce opposition into the world.

With the Fall, though, two situations were created which would forever separate us from returning to our Heavenly Parents.  The first, spiritual death (or sin) would make us unfit to reach our full potential.  The second, physical death, would also keep us from entering the Celestial Kingdom.  (A term to be defined later.  I promise.)

Life on Earth

So, here we are.  We're born.  Everyone placed in a situation unique to them, yet placed there by a loving Heavenly Father who knew exactly where to place us that we might be the most successful.  Because He wants to save all of us.  Not just a select few.  Not just the religious.  Everyone.

But, why are we here?  We are here to do good.  To love God.  To love others.  For those who have families, it is to lovingly rear children to become their very best selves.  The Book of Mormon describes this life as a time to prepare to meet God.  What we choose to make of ourselves is up to us.  Regardless, we will have to account for what we have done (or have not done) with our time, however long it was.  We all experience unique hardships along the way--some more harsh than others--but it is all part of the plan to be tried and tested as we seek our way back to our Heavenly Parents.

But what about overcoming spiritual and physical death?  That's where the Savior comes in.  As our older brother in the Premortal Life, Jesus Christ agreed to take on Him our sins.  He agreed to die, but--more importantly--He agreed to take up the grave, to live again.  Not quite sure how the logistics work, but I believe that because Christ loves us--all of us--that all we receive the gift of resurrection.  (To be discussed later.)  So, basically, when it comes to physical death--love wins.

The other gift given through Christ's Atonement is the gift of Repentance.  This gift, however, is not a freebie.  We actually have to do something to redeem this one.  Put simply, we have to own up to our mistakes and do our best to make them right.  We also have to be baptized by one holding the proper Priesthood authority, partake of the Sacrament (or communion), and make covenants/promises to uphold God's commandments in temples.  Without taking these steps, one cannot reach their full eternal potential.  That's why Mormons are so crazy about missionary work.

Death and The Spirit World

This is my favorite part.  Not so much death.  Death is sad.  But the Spirit World is amazing.  It's not a typical Heaven-Hell place.  We call it Spirit Prison and Spirit Paradise.  Spirit Paradise is for those who went through all the proper steps to be "saved."  Spirit Prison is for everyone else.  BUT IT DOESN'T END THERE.  Those who would have accepted the Gospel, but never had the chance to even hear it during their lives, are saved.  Children and babies who pass away before an age of accountability--meaning they were too young to discern the truth for themselves--are automatically saved.  Everyone is given the chance, or given multiple chances, to accept the Gospel.  Or reject it.

I like to think of the Spirit World as a giant equalizer.  It's a place where privilege means nothing, because all are loved equally by our Heavenly Parents.

This is also a place for service.  While our bodies might be dead and buried, our spirits live on.  Some are even given special duties and responsibilities to further the purposes of our Heavenly Parents.  It is a time to continue spreading love.

It is here that we wait for Resurrection and Judgment.

Resurrection

So, how do we overcome physical death?  We get to be resurrected.  Our spirits will reunite with our bodies.  (Not sure if this means that we'll crawl out of our graves like zombies or not.  PS--Sorry if you were cremated.  PSS-- I like to think God has a better way to do this worked out.)  Anyway, our bodies after the Resurrection will be immortal.  Free from sickness.  Free from any imperfections or setbacks.  The scriptures mention that "not a hair on [our] heads will be lost."  Not sure what that will look like, exactly, but I think it sounds amazing.

And, remember, this gift is free.  Compliments of the Savior.

Love wins.

Judgment

After having been resurrected, all will stand before our Heavenly Father to be judged according to our faith and according to our works.  The cool thing is, Jesus Christ will be our advocate--or lawyer--to present our case before God.

In the end, our Heavenly Father assigns us where we will live for the rest of eternity.  He'll make sure to place us where we'll be the happiest, because He loves us.

The Kingdoms of Glory

Ok.  Now, Satan will go to a place called Outer Darkness.  Pretty much, he and a very, very select few will be miserable for the rest of eternity.  I'm not sure what Outer Darkness is like, and I don't intend to find out.

The Telestial Kingdom will be the final destination for those who love worldly things.  In a nutshell, this is the place for those who never overcame their carnal appetites, whatever those appetites might be.  However, this is still a place described as being exponentially more beautiful than the Earth on which we now live.

The Terrestrial Kingdom is a step above that.  This place is for "good" people, but those who did not fulfill the responsibilities of overcoming spiritual death.  Maybe they weren't baptized.  Maybe they didn't make covenants in the temple.  Or maybe they did, but they didn't live up to the responsibilities which come with those ordinances.  Still, it is a place for this type of person to thrive and be happy.

Finally, the Celestial Kingdom is where we should strive to be.  It is where we can return to our Heavenly Parents.  This is where Jesus Christ will reside.  This is also the only of the Kingdoms of Glory where we will be allowed to continue in our marriages--so long as we were sealed to our spouse in the temple.  Family relationships are perpetuated without the burdens we encounter on Earth.  It's Utopic, Zion.  A place where we will become like our Heavenly Parents.  A place of peace, of progression, of rest, and of love.

And, ultimately, love will win.

At least, that's what I believe.

Was it Worth It?

OK--this is going to be a super duper quick post.  I'm sharing it mostly because my journal is packed, and this is a moment I don't want to forget.  But, first, a little background:

I'm a perfectionist.  As such, I often find myself wondering if--maybe--I've truly made the best decisions.  I wonder if I should have done some things differently or better--if, in so doing, I would be better off or happier.  Or if the world, in general, would be better off and happier.

I wondered about that all the time as a teacher.  I wondered if, perhaps, I shouldn't have pursued a more ambitious career, because teaching always came easy.  I wondered if, maybe, I shouldn't have pursued dating more--because there were many days when I'd rather have been raising my own children in place of others' children.  I wondered if the sacrifices I made were truly worth embracing, because they replaced other lives I could have been living.

Maybe I'm just a weirdo who over-thinks things.  But here's the real reason why I'm writing this mini-post:

Throughout my teaching career, I've come in contact with hundreds of precious little ones.  Each was different and so important and so special--all in their own right.  Each a twinkling little star in my eyes.  I want to tell you about one of them, but--as in the case of my last post--I can't tell too much about her story.  You'll just have to take my word for it.

We're going to call her Ella.  Ella, when I first met her, was quiet.  Shy.  In fact, events in her past kept her from speaking at all.  Out of fear, she never spoke.  As she worked her way through the grades, all of us teachers deliberately rallied around Ella.  Our first objective was to help her feel safe, and all other objectives fell in line with that.  As a fourth grader, Ella participated in my math group timidly.  But she participated in whispers.  My dear friend, Ella's homeroom teacher, worked tirelessly to find ways to help Ella--as did Ella's fifth grade teacher.  (Also a dear friend.)

Fast forward to yesterday.  At our school talent show, I was shocked to see Ella's name on the list.  She had signed up to sing a solo.  When she got to the stage, her cousin ready to accompany on the guitar, her smile was contagious.  The song began, and Ella started to sing.

I've always prided myself on being the type of person who can hide her tears until she's alone.  During Ella's song, though, the tears were free flowing.  Halfway through the song, I had to excuse myself to catch my breath.  This little girl, whom all of us had been cheering on for so long, was singing.  In front of a crowd of her peers.  And she was glowing.

To anyone unaware of her story, Ella's performance would have been another act in a talent show.  For those of us who knew, though, it was a testament of courage:  It was evidence of Ella's incredible and inspirational growth.

So, I suppose there are two lessons to be learned from this:

First, that fear is a lie.  Ella found her voice, and so can we all.  None of us ever need hide from our individual challenges.  Rather, in confronting our fears--whatever they may be--we find joy in the end.  Even if the outcome isn't what we want, our fear won't cast a shadow over us.  And we will know that we gave it everything we had.  No regrets.

The second lesson is a lesson for me, I think.  It's this:  If teaching was a mistake, if making a series of choices that eventually lead me into Ella's path was a mistake, then it was a wonderful mistake.  It wasn't all puppies and rainbows, but--for me--this path was worth it solely for Ella's performance yesterday.  As it usually goes with these lessons, I recognize now that I learned more than I taught and received more than I sacrificed.

Was it worth it?....  Yes, I suppose it was.

Love is All You Need

Teaching has done this really weird thing to me.  It makes me wake up in the morning.  No, I'm not talking in the metaphorical 'I have a purpose driven cause to get up this morning.'  I'm talking the literal, physical inability to sleep in past seven o'clock.  (Somehow, I feel like I should be able to blame Obama for this.)  Anyway, while waking up early isn't necessarily the favorite new skill I've acquired, it certainly does give me time to think.  My early morning weekend time has become my early morning pondering and reflecting on life time.

I wouldn't expect myself to blog about all of those thoughts.  I wouldn't expect anyone to read those blogs about all of my thoughts.  That would be stupid.  And, let's face it, a great deal of those posts would be about my master plan to visit South Korea--and inadvertently infiltrate their music and TV-scenes with my undeniable talent and charm.  A-List Celebrity Status, here I come!

But, seriously, who would read that?

Today, though, I do feel like a few of my thoughts might be useful or meaningful to someone, somewhere.  Maybe.  So, I'll share.  And it's about love.

Love is an interesting thing.  We've all heard the theme repeated in movies and stories over and over--that true love conquers all.  That true love can overcome any conflict, no matter what the conflict itself might be.  I'd like to throw in my two-cents and say:  I agree.  It's true.  And here's why:

I'm evidence.  My students are evidence.  Something I don't think a lot of people recognize is that teaching is so much more than lesson plan and lesson delivery.  It's not a career of percentages or production (though many school districts have forgotten that).  It's a career of caring for the physical, intellectual, social, emotional, and--at times--spiritual well-being of young humans who may or may not receive that same vigilant care at home.  Out of respect to my kids, I won't share the specifics of what many of them have shared with me over the course of my teaching career.  What I will say is that horrible things happen to innocent children every day.  Every.  Single.  Day.  And some of the worst offenses done against them don't leave enduring physical scars.  That's the worst part.  How do you put a Band-Aid on a broken spirit?

There have been impromptu moments when my classroom has become a sacred sanctuary, while students have cried into my arms, and I had to wonder if there were truly a way to help them.  There were times when I wished I could do more, but knew that it wasn't my place within current systems to do so.  There have been times when, after everyone had gone, I would sit at my desk and cry because teaching math and reading felt superficial when so much more was at stake.  I'm still trying to decide if these moments broke me, or if these are the moments that made me.

At any rate, I recognized--early on--that I would not be able to help my kids by my own skill or understanding, so I learned to ask for help.  And I reminded myself what real prayers feel like.  I cannot deny that something more than intuition guided me in guiding my students.  On those weeks when our burdens seemed especially hard to shoulder--those moments when I was lost in a stupor as to what to do, the answer to my prayers was always the same:  Love them.

As much as I wanted to, it wasn't my place to fix my students' lives.  My job was to love my students, and it is a task I took very seriously.  My whole self was focused on those kids, as love requires.  I didn't recognize it at first--but now in retrospect-- I see that in embracing this directive, miracles have happened.

The struggling students--those who don't find academics an easy thing--found confidence and purpose.  They struggled less.  Some now maintain 3.5-4.0 GPA's in middle school.  Love did that.

The students who felt powerless in overcoming their current situations found courage to endure those situations, make the positive changes they could, and faithfully set goals to make sure that they would not make the same mistakes of those who should have been the responsible ones.  Love did that.

The students who felt out of place stopped fighting their unique personalities and talents.  Instead, they found their niche or created a new one.  And made no apologies for being who they were.  And others accepted them.  Love did that.

The students who were cruel found kindness.  Love did that.

The students who believed in nothing learned to believe in themselves.  Love did that too.

The teacher learned that her heart, like the heart of the Grinch, could expand as necessity required.  In turn, she learned that it was the love of family, friends, God, and the returned love of her students that sustained her through the struggles.  It was on focusing on that love between them that reminded her that the fight was, indeed, worth fighting.  She learned that love really is all we need.

And we were all better for it.