Skip

Once in awhile, I glimpse our school not as my place of employment, but through the eyes of the students who are our daily responsibility and joy.

Long hallways, made for skipping. Beautiful pictures hanging on the walls, made for touching. Friends next to us, made for sharing whispers and giggles.

"Don't skip," say the teachers. "Walk please."

"Please don't touch," we say. "That belongs to someone else."

"Please don't talk in line, friends. We need to be quiet in the hallways."

All true. All valid. Allowing five hundred children to run in the hallway is a recipe for calamity. Allowing them to touch the artwork of others, without permission, mars the beauty of the work. Talking in the hallway makes for a chaotic, noisy learning environment.

I'm not an advocate of chaos. Children thrive when given clear, fair boundaries. I understand school rules, and I ask children to abide by them.

Most of the time.

That's right: I said most of the time, even though consistency is important. Usually.

But walking down the hallway yesterday, I saw the tail end of a Kindergarten class. Kindergarten classes stretch for miles. Lines are not lines in Kindergarten; they are a vague formation of one child after another. There might be three feet of space between children, or twelve.

The teacher had rounded the corner and walked halfway to the gym. The four little girls in the back skipped tra-la down the hallway, bright grins on their faces.

The reminder was there, on the edge of my teacher-tongue: please walk, girls.

I smiled instead. Several feet of space separated the skippers from the walkers. They weren't running. They weren't disturbing anyone, so I bit back my reprimand. "Where are you going?" I asked.

Skip. Smile. Skip. Smile. "To the bathroom!" They said.

"Then what, girls? Lunchtime?"

Skip. Smile. Skip. Smile. One little girl tipped her chin up, squiting through her adorable glasses. "No. We're going to learn the number seven--then lunch!"

Well. If you're going to use the bathroom--the cool one down the hall with the foaming soap--then learn number seven, then eat lunch with your friends...how can you be expected to walk? And why would you, when you can skip instead?

The Kindergarten teacher turned around to monitor her line. One gentle smile, one tiny shake of her head and the skippers walked. I understood my colleague. I understood her reasons for squashing the skipping.

But I felt affinity for the skippers as I walked to my music room. Once there, I considered the instruments begging for little hands, the inviting marker boards full of hand-drawn music notes, the big, open space.

I closed the door, smiled, and skipped across my room to the storage closet. Why walk when you can skip?

Book of Life

"And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Another book was opened, which is the book of life."--Revelation 20:12 NIV

It is nearly incomprehensible.

The books of judgment contain every deed, word, action, thought, desire, motivation, accomplishment, and failure of every person who has ever lived.

Every one.

Like the time you left your cozy house on Thanksgiving morning to feed the homeless at the soup kitchen. That is recorded. But so is the time you viciously gossiped about your best friend--you know, just to vent.

Your desire to excel in your profession is there. Perhaps you have a philanthropic career. Perhaps you heal, counsel, teach, or fight heroic battles. That is recorded. So are the times you cowered in fear; the times other people lined up to give blood or stack sandbags in an emergency, but you hate needles, or you have a bad back, so you didn't. That's in the book too.

The times you cried in empathy for kidnapped chidren, murdered innocents, and oppressed people: that appears in the book. But so do the times you scorned the unwanted, spoke in anger, or plotted revenge against one who affronted you.

The times you longed for world peace and harmony, and cried as soldiers march to war: that's in the book. So are the times you cursed those you think unfit, even in the far recesses of your mind where no living soul--not your spouse or your best friend--knew you harbored such malice.

All of that is in the book. The book will be opened, and the dead will line up to hear what they have done-and left undone. Think of that leger. Ponder every secret desire of your heart. If there is one thought, word, deed, or desire that would mar the perfect Kingdom of Heaven, you will not be allowed to pass. Perfection is required.

Perfection.

Guess what, friends? I fail. I fail. I fail. Did I mention? I fail.

I fail the test.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

That would have been my reality until nine years ago, when I accepted that I cannot approach God by my own "goodness" and need an eternal Savior. I accepted Jesus Christ, repented of my sin, and received His free gift of salvation.

Now, when I approach the Throne of judgment, the Lamb will look in His Book of Life. He will search my name, not my deeds. If it is found in His Book, I can be with Jesus forever. I can praise Him for eternity, for His perfect sacrifice covers my sin.

I imagine that tears will clog my voice at that Throne. "I failed, Jesus. You know how many times I failed."

He speaks gently, and his voice resonates with the power of the Alpha and the Omega, "But I did not."

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

May you feel the Presence of the One Whose sacrifice paid your passage. May you know that the challenges you face today are temporary, but the riches of heaven are eternal. May the God Who sent His Son bless you richly.

Girl with the Bike

In our neighborhood lives the Girl with the Bike.

She breaks my heart.

Probably fifteen years old, she suffers developmental delays. I'm no special education teacher, just an educator who has taught thousands of children over the years. In my limited assessment, she lags her peers in many areas.

In nice weather, she rides her bike around and around the subdivision. When I walk, I smile and wave at her. She won't stop if I try to speak. At most, I'll get in a "How are you?" before she pedals by.

She often rides by our house, which is the neighborhood playground for the younger children. I read yearning in her eyes. She longs to play with the openness of a seven-year-old.

I monitor the reactions of the other children as they try to understand the Girl on the Bike. She is a teenager, yet she clearly wants to join their games. I've taught my ten-year-old daughter to wave and be friendly, and my son to inform his peers not to ever, ever tease. Her loneliness comes off her in waves while she passes, and most times I want to run through the front door, "Wait, wait! Come back! You can play! We'll let you play!"

But how does that work? Whether she is developmentally young or not, she is still a fifteen-year-old girl. There's a world of difference between age fifteen and ten. Would her parents be upset to see her playing elementary games in the yard of a stranger? Or would they be grateful?

I don't know, and I can't let myself off the hook: I'm a hand-wringer. I tear up when I watch her, but am unsure how to act. I don't know where she lives. I don't know her parents.

So I wave and smile when I walk by, and I remember her in my prayers. Please remember the Girl on the Bike in your prayers too. And if you have pointers for this hand-wringing Christian, I would love to hear them. What would you do in my situation, friends?

May God bless you all richly on this Friday.

Delightful errors

When I started teaching, I corrected children's speech more often than I do now. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that, since the word "correct" brings visions of pursed lips and furrowed brows. I hope I was never that kind of teacher. But before I matured and had children of my own, I considered it my teacherly duty to correct every mispronunciation. Gently, of course, and with a smile, but correct all the same.

No more. Part of the reason I no longer correct is that I have learned what matters. Mispronunciations typically don't matter, especially in young children. The other reason is that the things children say in error delight me, and I have learned that life is too short not to be delighted.

My favorites:

"Punkin". Never a "p" in the middle of that word.

"My country, tiserly..." I correct this one in fourth graders and up. Any younger? No way. "Tiserly" is way too adorable to fix.

"And if you ever sawl 'im..." This from Rudolph, of course.

"Ammonia". Always said in hushed tones when a playmate is hospitalized. It started with a cold, but went into ammonia. Handmade cards are made and duly sent. Ammonia is not to be messed with.

Do your children mispronounce words? Do you correct them and, if so, at what age do you begin correcting?

Suffering

"Therefore, since Christ suffered in His body, arm yourselves also with the same attitude, because he who has suffered in his body is done with sin."--1 Peter 3-4

I am not done with sin--not completely. How I wish I were.

But I have suffered in the body, as most of us have. I have a digestive autoimmune disorder that will never take my life or steal mobility. Compared to others, my maladies are mild.

But I have experienced pain and times when my body demands more rest than I would like to afford it. Times when I depend on the support of my husband and family to function. Thank God, those times are limited and fleeting. When they come, though, I am thrust into a period of slow living.

If I could, I would strike autoimmune disorders from my existence. I wouldn't trade the lessons I've learned through my illness, however. Lessons like:

--Every day of health is a blessing beyond price. A body that can sustain a day of fruitful work, whatever that work may be, is a gift from God.

--Pain teaches me to live for the moment I'm given. Pain teaches me that the smallest gesture of kindness, the tiniest bit of comfort--a warm blanket, a hug from a child, a kiss on the cheek--makes the difference between agony and hurt. Agony cannot be borne. Hurt is tolerable. Pain teaches me to ease the burdens of others so that agony can reduce to hurt.

--Times of low physical energy teach me to prioritize, and to seek God for insight. I turn to God for answers before I commit to church activities, volunteer work, or anything that might stress my resources. That puts me in the position of seeking His will regularly.

--Illness teaches me dependence on God. I must lean on Him to sustain my every day. And you know what? He does. He allows me to continue teaching, and get this--to feel BETTER at work. Who but God could improve an illness by prescribing a treatment of teaching two hundred children a day?

--God gives abundantly exceedingly over and above anything we could ask or imagine. About one year after the first flare-up of my condition, I started writing. It wasn't something that I pursued; rather, I believe writing pursued ME. Once I started, the words tumbled and I was instantly hooked. Through writing, I've learned about God, loved Him more deeply, met wonderful Christian friends, and pursued an activity that allows my body to rest--all gifts beyond price.

From adolescence, my favorite Bible verse has been 2 Corinthians 12:9, the verse you can read to the left. It resonates even more now that I know the name of the thorn in my side. I have asked God to remove my Crohn's Disease. He may yet. But even if He does not, I know that if I remain faithful, He will use my weaknesses to bring Him glory...not because of my own merit, but because He is mighty, faithful, and true. His grace is sufficient.

I pray you do not suffer beyond your ability to function, friends. But in your inevitable times of suffering, what lessons have you learned from your trials?

True colors

This year, the trees are so vibrant they must glow at night. They seem lit from the inside out.

They are gorgeous in death. They are breathtaking in demise.

Who but our heavenly father could create chlorophyll? The kiss of the sun keeps the leaves their rich green during the summer. But in the autumn, as this old earth tips on its axis, tilting us away from the sun, the leaves feel the sun's kiss less intensely.

As a result, they reveal their true colors. Some simply turn brown and fall off. Others turn a muted shade, as if not willing to fully blaze. Others--especially this year--are so stunning they steal your breath. Yellows so golden-rich only the most talented artists can reproduce them. Reds so deep that each vein of every leaf looks aflame. Oranges not found anywhere else in nature.

Father, God of the universe, when I go, I want to go like those stunning trees. Whatever it is that takes my life, to the last may I be beautiful in singing your praises. To the last, may I live in a bright banner of glory for You, refusing to let the waning sun concern me or force me to cling to green. May I give over to the colors You gave me, even though I know the giving over means my quick demise.

Beauty in death. Yes, with God there is beauty even in death. And just like those glorious trees, those who live in Him can be assured of a spring popping with new life in Him. Our branches shall not remain fallow forever, reaching into the sky like so many barren twigs. We will burst with life again.

But first, in this life, we can reveal sallow brown or rich, deep, glorious color. Father, give me the courage to reveal my hue, no matter the circumstances.

Question for you: Do you have fall color where you live? Is your color as rich as ours this year?

Boo Boo Report

First graders are adorable. I learn more from them than any other age children, but they also present my biggest teaching challenges. (Hmmm...learning the most from my biggest challenge. I think there's a lesson there.)

First graders are obsessed with boo-boos. The tiniest paper cut warrants a band-aid, even if the skin is barely broken. A bump on the knee requires an ice pack. A lost tooth is news for a week.

When first graders file into my music room, they must first dispense with the boo-boo report. One after another, the children air their complaints. Bumped elbows. Sore throats. Allergies. If the child is healthy, I get the boo-boo report on their families. (Yes, Mom and Dad, you might want to keep your plantar wart private from your first grader. I will hear about it at school, but never fear. When I see you in the hallway, I won't say a word.)

I admit it: I get exasperated with the boo-boos. The children come to my room to make music, for goodness sake. If I indulged them, they would spend the entire thirty minutes listing their physical complaints. So my response is usually a perfunctory, "You'll be fine. Let's sing!"

And then I wonder: how often does God want to say that to us?

We're supposed to cast our cares on Him, of course. If we're sick--physically, emotionally--He wants us to come to Him first. But this life on earth is imperfect, contaminated by sin. We WILL hurt. We WILL suffer. Though it's right to bring our concerns to the Almighty, are we simply giving Him a "boo-boo report" when we pray? If so, does He ever want to say, "I KNOW you're hurting. This is a hurting world. Let's sing anyway!"

I have a feeling He does. I know He meets us where we are; that He comforts and fortifies. I also know that He wants our best. He wants our music.

When my first graders arrive in my classroom this week, I will listen with patience to their reports. But I will not allow them to wallow. I will encourage them to forget that finger, the knee, the wiggly tooth.

Let's make music anyway!


Question for you: Does your child often give boo-boo reports? If so, how do you handle it? How do you feel God responds to our boo-boo reports? I'd love to hear your feedback.