This morning I pressed the snooze button twice, finally waking up at 6:45 am. With no light coming out of the windows in my bedroom, I was proud of myself for the accomplishment of putting feet on floor. Once feet were on the floor, I remembered the 7:15 am faculty meeting. I commute thirty minutes to my work. So, after throwing myself together, I flew out the door and arrived last at the faculty meeting.
Now, this was no ordinary faculty meeting. It was the "let's gripe about uniforms" meeting. Anyway, our principal was reminding us that we teachers had not been nearly strict enough on enforcing dress code.
Which is why there was a line of 5-10 kids in the office at 8:00 am with "uniform violations." This means, for teachers, lots of eye-rolling and death looks from teenagers when we inform them of their violation.
Add to the uniform drama, the gray day, and the fact that today was composition notebook entry day in which all my classes have to write about an assigned topic at the outrageous length of FIVE sentences, I was fading quickly.
By 12:45 pm, after lunch, I sat at my desk during some free time in which I was supposed to be productive and stared at my Bible. I knew I needed to read it, but all I could do was just sit and stare blankly. I allowed some self-pity to pile.
My last period of the day I had four tenth grade boys. The nine other members of their class had left for an away basketball game. Like the rest, they complained about the five sentence requirement for the composition entry. By the time we got around to reading "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving, I was ready to yell, or cry.
That's when one kid in the class volunteered to read. Now, this kid doesn't have a speech impediment or a stutter. He simply reads in a very stilted, awkward way...on purpose. While he was reading, one of my students looked up and caught my eye. We pursed our lips first, then held our hands up to our mouths, and then started making choking sounds to suppress the giggles. Another student looked up at us with a smile that turned into a laugh. The kid who was reading caught on and began giggling. Then, I just let myself go- I laughed so hard I started crying. Some of the boys fell out of their desks, laughing. These tenth grade boys let out some high-pitched cackles that would rival the wicked witch of the west. After we finished laughing, we read the rest of the story and I finished class five minutes early.
Praise God for five minute laughing extravaganzas. It turned my day around. A joyful heart is good medicine :)
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
December 30, 2011
On December 30, 2011, I sat in front of a computer, a stack of articles, and three chunky reference books, at the far side of the Houston Love Memorial Library in Dothan, AL. I was on my second full day of re-writing a paper comparing Olaudah Equiano and Mary Rowlandson. It was not going well.
Here is some background on the subjects of my paper. Olaudah Equiano was an African slave in the 1700s who came to America by the Middle Passage (he is portrayed in the movie Amazing Grace). Mary Rowlandson came to the colonies one hundred years earlier, as a child, when her Puritan parents moved from England. Both experienced captivity- Equiano through slavery and Rowlandson through her kidnapping by Native Americans during King Phillip's War. I wanted to compare the similar (I thought) ways that both interpreted/made sense of their suffering as Christians. I secretly hoped that I would have an epiphany on the meaning of suffering while I was writing the paper, too. I guess that was a little ambitious.
It took me a couple of weeks to realize why the paper wasn't working out- why I left the library that day with a totally un-finished paper and ended up turning in another paper to Alabama and Auburn for my writing sample.
I thought that both people, since they had written about their lives for goodness sakes, would have a fully-formed coherent understanding of WHY they suffered. As I read more and more critical sources and looked and re-looked at each narrative, I realized neither Rowlandson nor Equiano could quite make sense of why they suffered- at times they spoke about God punishing them for past sins, at times they spoke about the fact that they felt closer to God in their sufferings, and at times they simply lamented ("Why God!") Both still struggled with pain over the trauma they had experienced- Rowlandson more so than Equiano.
I left the library, my computer, my books, and my scholarly articles in the far corner of the library after I, out loud, said "This is ridiculous!" When you start talking to yourself out loud in the library you know you need to externally process with SOMEONE. So, I called Jen, then Meg, and then my lovely Mother. After crying and yelling about how I may not want to go to graduate school in English and how I cannot write papers anymore and how I am so confused about the direction of my life and that my life story doesn't make sense, my Mom calmed me with the simple truth that God is good. He knows the direction of my life.
Which means, I don't have to sit in a library all my life and figure out the meaning of suffering, for every person who has ever suffered. I felt so much freedom in giving up writing that paper for the time. I have felt freedom when I think about the possibilities of graduate school in counseling psychology or even seminary (what.... this idea is a new one!).
Mostly, though, I truly find, now, freedom in the fact that I am not the ultimate "interpreter" of my life. Or anyone else's. The Lord helps each person interpret their suffering and find joy in daily life. And sometimes the Lord gives us friends who help us interpret our suffering because they have experienced suffering themselves :)
My prayer: Oh Great God, Thank you for our lives. You have given us the gift of life and you knew all our days before one of them came to be. Remind us of your careful attention when we feel our lives are not what they should be. You have not turned away, or forgotten. Every word of Yours proves true. When we accept your love, our story, no matter how difficult, has a happy ending with joy interspersed throughout. Love you Jesus!
Love you all!
Here is some background on the subjects of my paper. Olaudah Equiano was an African slave in the 1700s who came to America by the Middle Passage (he is portrayed in the movie Amazing Grace). Mary Rowlandson came to the colonies one hundred years earlier, as a child, when her Puritan parents moved from England. Both experienced captivity- Equiano through slavery and Rowlandson through her kidnapping by Native Americans during King Phillip's War. I wanted to compare the similar (I thought) ways that both interpreted/made sense of their suffering as Christians. I secretly hoped that I would have an epiphany on the meaning of suffering while I was writing the paper, too. I guess that was a little ambitious.
It took me a couple of weeks to realize why the paper wasn't working out- why I left the library that day with a totally un-finished paper and ended up turning in another paper to Alabama and Auburn for my writing sample.
I thought that both people, since they had written about their lives for goodness sakes, would have a fully-formed coherent understanding of WHY they suffered. As I read more and more critical sources and looked and re-looked at each narrative, I realized neither Rowlandson nor Equiano could quite make sense of why they suffered- at times they spoke about God punishing them for past sins, at times they spoke about the fact that they felt closer to God in their sufferings, and at times they simply lamented ("Why God!") Both still struggled with pain over the trauma they had experienced- Rowlandson more so than Equiano.
I left the library, my computer, my books, and my scholarly articles in the far corner of the library after I, out loud, said "This is ridiculous!" When you start talking to yourself out loud in the library you know you need to externally process with SOMEONE. So, I called Jen, then Meg, and then my lovely Mother. After crying and yelling about how I may not want to go to graduate school in English and how I cannot write papers anymore and how I am so confused about the direction of my life and that my life story doesn't make sense, my Mom calmed me with the simple truth that God is good. He knows the direction of my life.
Which means, I don't have to sit in a library all my life and figure out the meaning of suffering, for every person who has ever suffered. I felt so much freedom in giving up writing that paper for the time. I have felt freedom when I think about the possibilities of graduate school in counseling psychology or even seminary (what.... this idea is a new one!).
Mostly, though, I truly find, now, freedom in the fact that I am not the ultimate "interpreter" of my life. Or anyone else's. The Lord helps each person interpret their suffering and find joy in daily life. And sometimes the Lord gives us friends who help us interpret our suffering because they have experienced suffering themselves :)
My prayer: Oh Great God, Thank you for our lives. You have given us the gift of life and you knew all our days before one of them came to be. Remind us of your careful attention when we feel our lives are not what they should be. You have not turned away, or forgotten. Every word of Yours proves true. When we accept your love, our story, no matter how difficult, has a happy ending with joy interspersed throughout. Love you Jesus!
Love you all!
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