Lessons From the Road (Part 1)

  Our family of six embarked on an epic (yes, I believe I CAN use that word!) 7000-mile road trip/vacation this summer, traveling from Alabama to Washington state, taking the southern route through Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona then making our way north through California  and Oregon.  I'm feeling a bit claustrophobic just remembering all the hours in the car...!

Dauma Family Road Trip 2015
Santa Fe ~ Grand Canyon ~ Beaumont/Los Angeles, CA ~ Yosemite
San Francisco ~ Portland/Vancouver ~ Soap Lake, WA ~ Seattle

    Although tempted to write a journal-type blog entry outlining our adventures, I kept returning to the idea of the road itself and how the miles that we put on the car and the things we encountered on the road mirror a few things about this other journey we are all on - the one we call life. I could have titled this blog post "The Chronicles of Stinky Feet" or "The iPad Password Mystery." Let me tell you, traveling with four kids for thousands of miles is not for the faint of heart. For the love of Febreze and Steve Jobs.

Also, just for fun, I've included some cheesy "road song" lyrics for your humming pleasure.

Lesson #1: The best laid plans DO often go awry.

    Well, for all the planners in the room, this one is what we call a "no brainer." The packing, the Google-mapping, the Urbanspoon searching, the online hotel bidding - all the plans. Yep, those plans.  The good ones, the mediocre ones, the best ones.  Or, the ones that never get made because someone (your husband) wants the trip to be "more flexible." Whatever. You all know how those days turned out. Sheesh. 

    My first meltdown (it was minor) was at 9:30 PM on day six, when we pulled up to the cabin we'd rented just outside the entrance to Yosemite and realized that the owners had never texted us with the security code. And we had no cell signal. We drove a bit and got a signal, but they didn't reply to our texts or calls. So after an hour, we said goodbye to our perfect little cabin - complete with a bear carved from a tree on the front porch - and headed to the nearest town with a hotel room that would fit our family of six.  Rather than a lovely evening in a rustic cabin, listening to the whisper of the pines, we unloaded at midnight in a rundown motel (thank you Jesus for disinfecting wipes) with a scintillating view of a truck stop. However, despite the disappointment and anger (mostly at myself for not taking care of the necessary details), our drive to the motel included a glorious view of a full moon over the treetops. A bit of grace to edge out the crazy.

     The final hours of our trip brought the most dramatic derailing moment, however. Because somehow, some way, two reasonably intelligent adults failed to realize the EXACT date of the return flight home for the kids and me.  (My husband and his buddy were continuing the road-trip madness by driving our SUV home over the weekend while we flew home - how THAT plan came to be is a whole 'nother story...!). A few hours before our friend was to drive us to the airport, and in a moment that caused me to literally lose my breath, I realized our mistake. Our flight had already flown. We were in Seattle, with the clothes on our backs, with no plane tickets and a maxed-out credit card. The trip was already about $1000 over budget (Because kids. And Disney.) Yeah, it was not pretty. 

     My friend calmed me down to semi-manic, and she called her hubby (who was in the car with Anthony somewhere in Montana) who told him what I had discovered. Good golly, Molly. For an hour, we prayed, I cried, we searched online ticket hubs, and at the end of the day, Anthony's calm plea to Delta resulted in them getting us on the same red-eye flight as the previous morning. For no charge.  Zero, zip, nada. It was a July miracle! In the security line at Sea-Tac airport a few hours later, another mom snapped this pic of us and said "Say 'red-eye'!" as we grinned. I wanted to say, "Lady, you have NO idea how happy I am to be getting on this plane!" I cried tears of exhaustion and joy as I buckled myself into that dinky seat and looked around to find the kids (we were scattered throughout the plane) and breathed one of the most sincere prayers of thanks I have prayed in a long time.

   So, this lesson features the immortal words of the Scottish poet Robert Burns and reminds me that we as human beings (and careful trip planners) can plan all day long, but sometimes those plans are just not going to work out. And usually, it all turns out okay. There is certainly nothing essentially wrong with having a solid plan in place - for a vacation or for, oh, life. However, as is asked in the book of Luke: "Which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?" The perfect itinerary or a list of perfect photo ops - or a timeline for marriage and kids or a promotion - is just a setup for the disappointment that accompanies unmet expectations.  I do not claim to have figured out the ideal balance between structure and flexibly, but I do know that it's a worthwhile goal!

"Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again
And I can't wait to get on the road again."

   

Lesson #2:  Sometimes the view is boring and your progress is slow.

     Just a few things that can get in the way when you are trying to get to your next stop or take a lovely photo out the window: fog, cyclists, slow drivers... Arizona? Yeah, "harsh beauty" is a lovely oxymoronic description, but that harshness looks maddeningly similar for about 200 miles of I-40. 

   I'm an impatient driver. I am not proud of it, but it is what it is. I want to "move on down the road" and get very frustrated at those who seem to just be leisurely poking along at whatever speed floats their boat at the moment. And of course, when those folks come along, there are of course NO passing zones in sight...! Construction projects were thankfully few and far between on this trip, but still caused maddening delays. 

   People and things get in the way. And sometimes the chance to make that photo never recurs.  Missed opportunities, especially those caused by someone else's actions, cause a burning anger down in my soul.  I am not exaggerating. But regardless, sometimes the dream of watching the sun set over the Pacific is foiled by fog that will. not. go. away. And there is nothing - not a darn thing - you can do to change that. Sometimes the view out the window seemed to never change. Some of the miles were monotonous and sometimes the roadside views were downright ugly. 

    Sometimes the roads of life that we travel are like that. And yet, we still can keep going - one moment/hour/day at a time, even amidst regret, repetitiveness, and rancor. And even when the road is cluttered with slowpokes, the majestic mountain can suddenly rise in front of you and somehow the altered arrival time on the GPS doesn't seem to matter as much anymore.

"The road is long.

There are mountains in our way,

But we climb a step every day."

Lesson #3: You will encounter things and people you do not expect.

     From the Mad Hatter and Alice in "Tomorrowland" to the Wigwam Motel to a dead end street at a time when we most definitely were not expecting one, our trip was filled with surprises. 

     Sometimes the surprises were breathtaking, like the rock formation we made a U-turn (twice!) to see and photograph at Yosemite; sometimes they were annoying, like the slow-moving pedestrian in a coastal California town we were trying to navigate quickly. Sometimes they were just downright weird. Like this Santa who was hanging out at a boat ramp on the Columbia River... What the what?!?!

     In this age of review-saturated social media, travelers really do not have to deal with too many surprises. If you want to see the menu of an out-of-the-way diner on Route 66, you can probably pull it up on your phone from 5 - or 500 - miles away and have your order ready when you walk in the door. If you want to plan your day at Disneyland down to the minute, you can read the advice of thousands of Disney fans letting you know how to best do that. Folks are used to knowing what to expect before we experience something. And there is nothing wrong with that, really.  I'm thankful for restaurant reviews and love finding out-of-the-way spots to dine (my rule: no chain restaurants when we travel!) that can hopefully satisfy every member of the family. 

     However, sometimes I think we are missing some of the journey's joy. I know I'm romanticizing the era, but I think about how jaw-droppingly amazing it must have been for early residents and explorers of the American southwest to stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon for the first time, or for the pioneers to walk into the Willamette Valley, having never seen photos of the sights before them.  

  One of the most eerie, yet incredible moments on the trip was when we were on a boat cruising San Francisco Bay. Although mid-afternoon, fog had rolled in and we couldn't see the Golden Gate Bridge until we were right underneath it!  This marvel of engineering and artistry was right in front of us for several minutes and we had no idea it was there because the fog was too thick. 



    How often we wish for the known, the tried and true, the guarantee of success or satisfaction, yet so often it is the unknown that brings us to the "wow" moments in life. The instances that bring us to our knees in gratefulness and even worship are often the ones that completely take us by surprise.  Although there is nothing wrong with having a "Consumer Reports" mentality as we make decisions in life, sometimes even when we THINK we know what we are getting into, the reality ends up being different. For me, this is a chance to demonstrate that I have faith in my Father who knows me, who "knit me in my mother's womb." Do I trust him only in the familiar? Or do I demonstrate a childlike faith, understanding that He loves me and wants what is best for me, surprises and all!

"Back to the howling owl in the woods, 

Hunting the horny-back toad, 

Oh, I've finally decided my future lies

Beyond the yellow brick road."

Lesson #4:  The edges can be scary.

     I am a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to heights.  Therefore, I can assure you that I was NOT in close proximity to my children when they made their crazy-people pictures at the Grand Canyon. In fact, my heart was pounding even though I was many yards away when I made the picture of Alec and Adrienne (red shirt and green shirt) standing on the promontory before they made said pictures. And don't even get me started on Turner grabbing the camera and RUNNING around the barricades so he could make pictures of his legs dangling over the side.  I could not breathe. Bless his heart.  It's a good thing I love him because Lord knows he has aged me.

     Although not as drastic, I still have a significant physical reaction to even driving near the edges of roads that hug cliffs or hint at coming dropoffs. And if there is little or no barrier between the roadway and the cliff.  Yeah, eyes are definitely closed. Well, mostly.  I WANT to be brave, so I try to snap some pictures and breathe (in through the nose, out through the mouth) so I can maintain a facade of bravery.

"Goin' back to the well, gonna visit old friends

And feed my soul where the blacktop ends."

    The fact is, life at the edges is a bit dangerous. Beginnings and ends of things are scary. And not just in the physical or tangible ways that typify overprotective moms (which I really am not . . . I didn't stop my children from doing MOST of the risky things they wanted to do, I just didn't want to watch!). The edge of newness is scary.  The edge of the familiar is frightening. The edge of "civilized" seems so risky.          
    Yet as we move toward the edges - perhaps even ON the sharpest of those edges - we feel alive and alert! We have to rely on something other than our prior experiences that brought either comfort or pain and so taught us well. We risk the comfort of the middle for the reward of life on the beautiful edges.

Perhaps we should move more toward the scary edges in our everyday lives, not just in our photo ops.

To be continued..

Upside Down in a Ditch

I've been mulling over this blog post for several months . . . since November 11, actually.  When this happened...

In a split-second, after Anthony misjudged a turn in a pre-dawn, sleet-induced haze, we landed upside-down in a deep ditch alongside a state highway in (very) rural Missouri as we were headed from our hotel to pick up our four kids at his grandmother's house, where they had been staying during our brief visit, so we could get started on our 11-hour road trip home by 5 AM so our oldest daughter could make it to her night class and our youngest daughter could make it to a photo session at 5 PM for a community theater production in which she was performing.

Amazingly, Anthony and I crawled out  with minor scratches and bruises, mainly due to the seat belts, which caused us to hang, bat-like, inside the vehicle as the cold silence enveloped us and we looked over at each other, simultaneously desperately asking "Are you okay?"  Yes, we were okay. 

The car, not so much.  Our travel plans, not so much.  Neither daughter made it to her Tuesday night activity.  Because we needed a large vehicle and we were 3 hours away from the nearest metropolitan area, it took us 6 hours to get on the road. But meanwhile, there were some inconveniences.  And a good bit of frustration, regret, and second-guessing.  Some blame.  Some wistful thinking while vehicle shopping. All because of a moment in time and a decision that was made.

As the days and weeks progressed, God impressed upon my heart some lessons related to this mishap, lessons that I am still mulling over and not even pretending to have truly learned.  

On Thanksgiving, during a round-table family discussion all the adults were having after stuffing ourselves, I attempted to verbalize the beginnings of what God was showing me, declaring that:

"When you are upside down in a ditch, you become very thankful for being right-side-up on the road."

On that fateful day in November, after finally finding a rental minivan, we drove to get our belongings from the place where our SUV was towed; on the way, we saw this glorious golden tree atop a snow-dusted hill.  Our son Alec (who is 13 but an old soul), yelled "Stop dad!  We have to make a picture of that!"  Because in our neck of the woods, the autumnal glory of that tree would never be juxtaposed with the pristine whiteness of snow.  It was beautiful.  But the antithetical elements seemed a bit unnatural.  An unbalanced equation.  

Like life sometimes.  

While hanging upside down in our SUV, the world was topsy-turvy and just didn't make sense.  Down was up.  Up was down. Random junk that normally was crammed into crevices and compartments was now scattered on the ceiling-like windshield, through which smashed blades of grass - rather than the road and horizon ahead - were visible, along with a few inches of ice-cold water that the SUV had displaced and through which we had to wade after we unbuckled our harnesses and crawled out of the only door that we could open.  We were not prepared for freezing weather that morning.  I fortunately did have a coat and gloves, but my flimsy flats were woefully inadequate, as were my Northwest-raised husband's shorts and flip-flops (his usual clothing choices for all days except for a few weeks in the dead of winter)!

After we came to a stop in that ditch, after assessing that Anthony and I were both okay, I started sobbing.  I cried out "God, what else? What else?"

Life gets turned upside down.  

We aren't prepared.  

People - including ourselves - make choices that cause pain.

I began to dwell in the land of disillusionment.  And deferred dreams.  And disappointment. In the worst moments, I pushed aside the gratitude and gave in to the whining. I ignored the comfort of God and other people and gave in to the self-pity.  All of these mental destinations are very easy places for me to feel comfortable. And no, my arrival in those places and decision to "sit and stay awhile" were not only - or even mainly -  about the wreck.  The crash might have been the catalyst, but I'd been looking at travel brochures and standing on the train platform for quite a while.

Devastating decisions made - both by myself and by others - over the last couple of years had caused me to finally buy the ticket and head to this land - a land which seemed to promise that indignant proclamations would right the wrongs and balance the scale and get my life back on the right road, the road I deserved.  After all, aren't we as middle-class Americans taught that if you work hard and pull at those proverbial bootstraps, the world is your oyster, right?!?  Then why, after being a "good girl" (oh, and I was good, just ask my high school classmates who dealt with my self-righteousness for years...), a diligent student, a hard working employee, a loving (though far from perfect) wife, a decent mother, a committed church member, and a stumbling, yet faithful follower of Christ - why after a life well-lived did the pieces not fall into place?  Why?  Why does debt and distrust and disillusionment seem to be the winner more often than not?  

Sometimes life just isn't fair.  Our own bad decisions or the bad decisions of others cause us to be upside down in the metaphorical ditches of life.  Sometimes we know exactly how we got there - a misjudged turn, a patch of ice, a culvert lip a bit too close to the road.  But that knowledge doesn't really help when the world is upside down and we cannot clearly see what lies ahead.  And we're hurting.  Not enough to get in the ambulance, but still hurting.  And sometimes we can't even share the reason why.  There are things that just aren't talked about.  There is a stoicism that is expected, especially when we feel guilty about complaining.  So even if the hurt is socially acceptable, we are loathe to share it. Partially because of our own pride. And partially because, well, there is the friend who has a chronic health problem and the neighbor who lost her grandchild and the fellow church member whose husband lost his job and the couple who is dealing with infertility.  And we mustn't complain. Because that must mean we aren't grateful. 

We are admonished to get out our prayer journals or our thankful lists and watch those worries dissipate and the smiles miraculously conquer the fear.  We are commanded to "pray about everything" and "give thanks in all circumstances."  And in doing so, the world will be set right.

Um, no it won't.

Here's the thing.  I am convinced that you can feel both disillusionment and gratitude in a moment and in life.  You can be both cooperative with and critical of people and institutions and organizations.  Not pointless-whining critical, but critical-thinking critical.  You can see weaknesses and possibilities in the same entity.  You can understand the severity of the car crash, fully living in the instant of heart-pounding fear that accompanies a tumble into a ditch, yet also understand that a car can be replaced and be thankful for safety, even while knowing that the financial and practical impact is going to be huge.  

It's not an all-or-nothing prospect.  We can mourn the lost dream and struggling relationship and the fruitless job interview and the rebellious child, yet still be grateful and ultimately optimistic. Like Langston Hughes' "heavy load," dreams deferred can sag and drag and hurt.  We mess up the trip; others mess up the trip for us.  Do we prance, Pollyanna-like, through those moments?  Some do.  And sometimes I am envious of them.  But I am not one of them.  I've been betrayed and lied to and ignored.  We all have.  Yet I have also betrayed others. I've lied.  I've ignored.

What do we do with the feelings that come as a result of dream-deferring actions?  Those real, raw feelings that we try to move through and push down and minimize with "I'm good, how are you?" responses to people in the hallways and foyers of life. The Sunday School answer is "lay them at the feet of the cross."  "Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus and he will turn your sorrows into joy." His yoke is easy and His burden is light.  Right?  Right.  Yet the lies can continue and the abuse can stay hidden and the debt can still crush. Is it okay to grieve?  To sag a bit?  I think it is.  

The amazing thing that God has shown me over the last couple of years is my own weakness and my desperate need for grace. Even though I could crawl out of that SUV, I could not set it aright and make it drive down the road again.  A crashed car has to be fixed by a professional or sold for parts and scrap.  The driver of the car, even with the best intentions, has to recognize his or her own limitations and understand the powerlessness that accompanies them.  The same is true for a crashed or dented life, no matter who is "at fault." And even though I can plan, and study, and work hard, life sometimes still gives lemons.  And sometimes there is no sugar in the pantry for that proverbial lemonade one is admonished to make.  It has to wait for a trip to the store or the neighbor's house.  Or the desire for lemonade just fades away and a drink of water suffices.  

After weeks of scouring of internet sales sites, I got a replacement for my beloved Honda Pilot - almost the exact same make and model - just a couple of days before Christmas. Our insurance paid off our loan and wrote us a $500 check for the difference - enough to pay a little down payment on the "new" vehicle and put us in a loan that we could manage.  And an SUV with 40,000 fewer miles.  But no heated seats or XM radio.  A give and take.  A paltry complaint, comparatively speaking.

So, all in all, I truly am thankful.

The new year has brought some new perspective, but I still struggle in this area and possibly always will.  I'm an Eeyore, not a Tigger.  Does anyone else get this?  Does it mean we love Jesus less?  I know He's with me always.  In the ditch, on the road, walking through icy water, and sitting in the sun.  But sometimes I cry because of the dreams that are gone, the regret of both spoken and unspoken words, the paths taken and not taken. A rut with a myopic view of pain and unfairness (real or perceived) is such an easy place to land, but it's a dangerous place to stay.

My classroom is on the lower floor of the school in which I teach. Sometimes this is a pain - bad cell service, ants, a boring view of a retaining wall outside my window.  A few months ago, though, I was reminded that for the first 14 years (out of the 20) that I've been a teacher, I had no classroom window at all.  One day, I walked over to the window to get a cell signal so I could send a text during lunch and I looked up.  It had been raining for a few days, so what a joy it was to look up to see the sun peeking through the clouds next to the beautiful golden leaves - the second time in the same month that a lesson had come from a tree in its autumnal glory.  

I'm so glad God is the lifter of my head.

The lessons in these two golden trees have been gifts that have touched my soul in places that are awash in memories of the awkwardness and angst of adolescence and of solitary walks in the woods and afternoons of creek-wading and daydreaming and diary-writing in a Mississippi hollow.  Places that are simultaneously bulwarks of stubborn individualism yet also bastions of doubt-ridden self-consciousness.  Places where I am both proud and ashamed.  Places that still pull me in and tempt me to revel in my selfish desires and "goals."  Goals that I have worked toward with focused ambition and ones that I have thwarted with my own mistakes and hurtful words. And yes, some of those places are ones that I did not choose to go myself.  

Yet in all of those places - the ones of my own doing and the ones where others have sent me unwillingly, I am known by my Creator.  And he gently whispers - through golden leaves and laughter with friends and songs that come on the radio just in time - that he loves me, even in my most Eeyore-like moments.  

He knows about the dreams deferred.  And his Father's heart hurts with me and for me.  

And he lovingly picks me up out of the ditch and sets me back on the road.  And I take a step.

The Fair and the Foul

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair."

These six words from the first scene of Shakespeare's Macbeth are an English teacher's dream, embodying no fewer than four literary devices! Perhaps more important than providing fodder for the perfect test question is the fact that this one line summarizes what could be considered one of the main themes of this disturbing drama:  things are not always what they seem.

As the lazy days of summer come to an end for me as a teacher, this idea has become clear to me lately through some unlikely circumstances.  The concept of dichotomy has shaken me to the core as I've considered things that can be both good and bad.  So much great literature - and so many amazing true stories - are great because of the tragic beauty that is only revealed when the good and bad are juxtaposed.  The hero that wouldn't be quite as heroic if it weren't for the villain.  The wedding wouldn't be as romantic if it weren't for the pre-wedding angst experienced by the bride and groom.  I try to explain this to my students when they want to know why we can't just read "happy stories."  Whatever that means...

So, in keeping with the Bard's theme (one also presented by many other great writers, including the greatest Writer of them all), here are a few of my reflections on things that are both "fair" and "foul."


RAIN 

We've had a rainy summer in Alabama this year.  This definitely has its pros and cons!  I love the feeling of being inside on a rainy afternoon with nowhere to go - the air conditioner running, the air outside displaying a greenish tint, tree branches bowed with water hitting the front porch roof, sodden crepe myrtle blossoms fluttering to the patio.  Those moments mean there is no pressure to take anyone to the pool or park or to work in the yard and a feeling of safety and comfort pervades as the thunder rumbles in the distance.  If the rain continues on through the night, sleep is blissful.

However, being out and getting caught in that same rainstorm is a whole 'nother story (as we say in the south)!  Depending on the age of any accompanying children, possession of rain gear, the severity of the rainstorm and the location at which we are caught unaware, momentary - or even sustained - chaos can definitely accompany the rain, not to mention muddy floors, and in our case (because our basement sometimes leaks during torrential downpours), an evening of wet-vac fun!  On a more global scale, rainstorms can be catastrophic as opposed to just inconvenient, bringing floods and lightning strikes, ruining crops, or causing mudslides.

So we take the good and the bad of the rain.  The ruination and the rainbows.  "[R]ain falls on the just and the unjust"  (Matthew 5:45).  Literally and metaphorically, this truth is displayed. As residents of planet earth, we must have actual rain in order for our lives to be sustained.  But sometimes the rain comes at the most inopportune times (wedding days, photo shoots, outdoor barbecues, beach outings).  We must have it.  Across the globe, it is both prayed for and desperately prayed against.  Similarly, we also need the metaphorical rain in order to most fully enjoy the sunshiny, rainbow moments.


STUFF

Yes, I know my super-informative heading may overwhelm with its philosophical depth (sarcasm font needed here)  . . . but I believe that we can all agree that the "things" of this world can be mixed blessings.  As middle-class Americans, we set our goals and get our diplomas and do our "thing" so we can buy the next "thing."  And some of those things are great.  I sure am thankful for my electric appliances and comfy mattress and cell phone.  In the summer in Alabama, I am especially grateful for air conditioning!  There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting our child to have nice clothes, a snazzy bike, or an X-box; or for moms to want some lovely-smelling lotion, a stand mixer, or a new pair of earrings.

What trips us up sometimes is the striving for the newer, the better, the faster and the containers to put them in (jewelry armoire, anyone?) and what color we should paint the walls that the containers are pushed up against.  We are so proud of the curtains and bedspreads and tchotchkes and garages and condos and houses that that have more bathrooms than residents and we spend much time decorating, rearranging, and cleaning all of them.  Interestingly, the current "simplify" movement seems to be a backlash against all this stuff, with people purging their homes of hundreds of items so that there is not so much to clean and organize and move from place to place.  I think there is wisdom in this.  Sometimes stuff is comforting, though.  Grandma's china evokes good memories.  Full bookshelves impart knowledge and provide an entertaining escape.  Toys occupy energetic hands and stimulate growing brains.  So much balance is needed on this one because the good and the bad of stuff is almost a daily challenge.  As a die-hard yard sale and thrift store shopper, I have to hold myself to the "one bag out for every bag in" rule or else we'd be overrun!

Stuff that can seem innocuous can become an infestation that destroys and causes us to chase after a substitute comfort that will never truly satisfy.  Without moral boundaries (or with a willingness to ignore them), the innocuous can become horrible.  Lady Macbeth thought that once her husband succumbed to his ambition, all would be well, but of course, it was not.  The ambition fueled selfishness which fueled more horrible deeds, and she herself conceded that "nought's had, all's spent, [...] our desire is got without content." All she and the king had left was overwhelming guilt and regret.  Every time I teach this play, my students discuss the concept of "going after your dreams" and what they are willing to give up to get what they think they want.  That discussion always makes me think about my stuff and the contrast of blessing and curse that it can bring.  And I try to remember those lessons, although I certainly succumb to the striving more often than not.


LOSS

Divorce.  Death.  Adultery.  Broken friendships. The death of a dream.  Debilitating sickness.  Dishonesty.  Unemployment.  Crushing debt.  Rebellion.

Bad, bad, and more bad, right?  On the outset, yes.  In our human eyes and hearts, absolutely.  But the more I experience these or witness others do so, the more I learn that a grace-and-gospel viewpoint concerning loss is the one that I must consider, elusive as it may be.  And I must admit that sometimes this seems humanly impossible and I only see "in a mirror darkly" and always will.

So what's the upside of loss?  Sometimes we can see it.  The loss of one job can eventually lead to a better job.  A rebellious teen can drive parents to their knees and eventually result in a beautiful reconciliation (even years later).  But sometimes we cannot see it.  We just can't.  And that can frustrate and destroy faith and cause bitterness.  I am there more often than I want to admit and it is not a pretty place.

In 1984, my paternal grandfather was killed under horrific circumstances due to his own sin.  My family was devastated.  I was confused and sad and embarrassed and worried that I'd get kicked off the cheerleading squad.  At fourteen, I couldn't see God's hand in this story at all - not in my father's anger or in my grandmother's loss or in my disillusionment.  And at forty-four, I sometimes still find it hard to see.  But his hand is there.  It has helped me eventually understand that grace is not found in a "good family name" or in being a member "in good standing" of a local church.  For a while, because of my grandfather's sin, I felt that God's hand on me meant avoiding a long list of corrupting activities and subsequently judging those who didn't avoid them.  That was the path of holiness he wanted, right?  Perhaps in some circumstances.  But I was on that path for the wrong reasons.

More recently, I have experienced the loss of some precious summer days due to sickness (not debilitating, but definitely inconvenient and frustrating), as well as the death of a couple of dreams I've held onto.  I do not yet see how God is going to redeem these losses, but I must hold tight to his promise that he will.  I have to.  Otherwise all I have to depend on is my own human understanding and that gets me nowhere fast.  God knows this and he loves me anyway.  He watches my striving and my sullenness and my silly complaining and he draws me closer and calls me Daughter and he tells me to be still.

And that is the beauty of loss - all we can gain when strivings cease.  When worldly pleasures - even the American-dream-wrapped ones - are forsaken.  When our finagling stops and our resting in his provision begins.  Grace is greater than we can even imagine.  We only see a tiny corner of it and still declare it amazing.

The fact that grace is needed is a bad thing.  That it exists and is extended to all who believe in Jesus' redemptive work is the best thing.  Grace is the ultimate dichotomy, requiring the ugly to show its infinite beauty.

Just Enough Blueberries...

     Barefoot, I traipsed outside to pick some blueberries in my backyard, hoping for some to put on my whole-grain (translation:  bland, yet good-for-me) cereal.  The grass was wet, the morning air was already heavy with Alabama humidity, and the dew-laden plants in my meager raised bed greeted me just beyond the corner of the garage.  I shifted my plastic basket to my other hand and began moving leaves aside to look for those beautiful blue orbs.  Yes!  Two, then three . . . then a handful were scattered on the bottom of my basket.  But alas, no matter how many times I lifted leaves, the other berries were just not ripe enough, so back I walked into the house to enjoy my breakfast.  (Well, enjoy might be a bit strong of a word, but those berries DID help.)
      Side note/confession:  I'd MUCH rather have had enough blueberries to have made muffins.  And I do have enough blueberries in the freezer, but at that point, I was Hungry (with a capital H) and wasn't waiting around for someone (oh, wait, that would be me) to make some stinking muffins.

     So, I grabbed a magazine off my kitchen table to read while I ate (I was the only one eating at the time; I wasn't being antisocial or setting a bad example; I'd NEVER eat while others are at the table.  Oh wait . . .), and as sometimes happens on rare quiet mornings at my house, I started thinking.  I thought about those blueberries for a minute.  And as so often happens for completely random reasons, I started crying.

    What in the world?
    Lord, why am I crying about blueberries?

    Because there were just enough.
 
    So, in my typical English-teacher manner, the symbolism was NOT lost on me.   Just enough blueberries for my bowl of cereal.  I so often crave for more of so much in life.  So much more than just enough.
 
More money.
Not millions, Lord, but enough to get out of debt and get our kids through college without student  loans and perhaps build a cute little Victorian farmhouse on an acre or so.  And pedicures.
More time.
Not enough to be idle for long, Lord, but enough so that I can catch up on scrapbooking and perhaps have lunch with a friend once a week during the summer without feeling guilty. And get 8 hours of sleep during the school year. And maybe blog a bit more.  Or write a book. Or clean out my craft closet.  (Nah, maybe not that last one).
More accolades.
Not the red-carpet-awards-show-type, Lord, but enough recognition to make me feel as if my hard work is noticed by others.  And that my talents and skills (such as they are) are being used in the best way so that I can feel affirmed that I am doing what I'm supposed to be doing.  
More "moments."
Not YouTube worthy gut-clenchers, Lord, but enough romance and teary-eyed wonder on special days or on regular days to make me feel ALIVE!  And deep conversations. 
More friends.
Not Facebook-quality acquaintances, Lord, but some bff's (both gentle-spirited women and those who might be more Brillo-pad-like so I don't feel so much like a mutant) who "get" me and who call or text or message me wanting to "hang out" or tell me about what's going on in their lives.  And go get pedicures with me.
More self-control.
Not in a neurotic or self-reliant way, Lord, but in a way that honors you.  The ability to walk by a cookie or a book or drive past a Pizza Hut or a thrift store (yes, even thrifters must have self-control...) and not give in to the temptation to indulge.

And there are plenty more of those "more's" where those came from.  And where did they come from?  The pit of hell?  Hmmm, I don't think so.  Well, perhaps the accolades one . . . The rest are not evil in and of themselves, but when I make it my goal in life to arrange or manipulate things to assure that all those things are present, happening, and lovely, then I miss them when they ARE present, happening, and lovely.

But God in his infinite wisdom and as the architect of my life, the one who knows the way planned out for me and who has known it since I was formed in my mother's womb, the one who has given me a "hope and a future," the God of the universe knows that sometimes - most of the time - I do not need more.  I might want more, but I don't need more.  I need just enough.

I've been dealing with some sickness for the last few weeks.  And I don't get sick.  Ever.  Except for, apparently, sometimes I do.  This is not a good place for me.  I do a bit too much navel-gazing rather than bask in the opportunities for sleep, prayer, cuddles with my kids (well, they are mostly too old for cuddles...sigh...), and meditation.  On the other hand, my usual early summer productivity (check things off that list kids, and MAYBE we can go swimming/to the park/on a day trip to a fun and educational site within a 100-mile radius!) has been curbed drastically.  Which is not a good place for my family.  Because I want MORE of them, too.  I secretly think they are hoping that I will stay sick for a week or so longer.  Nothing serious, mind you, but enough to keep me on the "slow" side . . .  But I have such a long list of more, for them as well as for me.  It is not pretty.

I often play the game of promises with God about that elusive "more":
"But God, if I had $100,000, we could pay off our credit cards and be able to help our friends with their adoption fund and buy our kids some NEW jeans for once and . . . and, and, and... And if Anthony was just MORE romantic, think about how unified we'd be in serving you and how much Happier (with a capital H) I'd be.  And if my kids' albums were all caught up and perfectly displayed on the shelf, how special they would feel when they looked through them and saw all the loving, handwritten comments and perfectly matched stickers and whatnot on the pages . . . And if I were thinner, what a great testimony I'd be able to have about how you delivered me from the bondage of cheesy bread . . . And if I had great friends and co-workers who loved me and showered me with affirmation and pedicures, I'd SO give you all the glory, Lord . . . !"

Really??  Really.

And then, Boom, the blueberries of life hit you on the head.  And, as befits that humble berry, their impact is not catastrophic or even painful.  Perhaps a tad bit blue-tinged, but otherwise, pretty much a non-event.  Except for that gentle nudge of that still, small voice.  Reminding you that you need just enough.  That He is just enough.  That you already have just enough.

Every spoonful of my cereal didn't have a berry.  But the ones that did were sweet, indeed.

Gossamer Tightropes

As a moderately conservative (yeah, I know that's probably not a technical political category, but it works for me) public school teacher and mom of four, I am often caught in the middle of various social and educational controversies of various types and intensities.

    Work outside the home or not?  
    Breast or bottle feeding?
    Write the note to opt your child out of school sex ed classes or not? 
    AP classes for the experience or Honors or Regular classes for the higher GPA?
    Teachers' unions - evil or necessary?
    How many extracurricular activities for each child, if any?

And now, one of the latest bugaboos in the public eye: 

Common Core - 
pro or con? 

As a woman and a Christ-follower with a bent to question and doubt, my responses to those controversies are often internally angst-filled and sometimes even wishy-washy, yet externally, my responses are often self-righteous, loud, and borderline obnoxious. Side note: my sweet daddy, in the midst of family discussions about politics, education, or ethics, will just smile and shake his head and say things about me arguing with fenceposts and whatnot.  Love him so much.

"We're women; we have double standards to live up to."  

I'm reminded of these great words from Ally McBeal as I think about these seemingly never-ending debates. This double standard, for me, is not so much about the glass ceiling as it is about the fragile, glasslike tightrope I have to walk as a public-school-teaching mom.  Personally, I have to keep going even when there is no more energy left and when I know the things on my never-ending list are only going to get half-done. I do not have it in me to NOT fulfill an obligation I've made, and although the years - and my oh-so-laid-back husband - have curbed my tendency to say "yes" to every request, the obligations are still overwhelming and they MUST. GET. DONE. With excellence.  Oh crap, that's right, excellence is not going to happen because of the length of the list and the fact that I require sleep at some point . . . so the disappointment settles in as I critique this lesson and that meeting and yet another awkward conversation in the grocery store aisle.  So, I walk the never-ending, diaphanous line.  I want to be involved with the things my kids love and cheer on the sidelines and make nutritious meals and do Pinterest projects and be a teacher who does her work with ethics and excellence and . . . and . . .  there's absolutely no way to "have it all."  I tell my 16 and 17-year old female students this every semester (so far I haven't gotten in trouble for it...).  Yes, girls, you can do anything and be anything in the world you want to be, but if you also want to be a mom, something's (a lot of things) gotta give.

Likewise, professionally, I must buy - and sell - the "party line" of supporting all things public school, while at the same time longing, at times, to be homeschooling my kids and teaching my daughters (and sons!) to sew and cook and plant a garden.  I believe in public education in the most basic and heartfelt ways, yet I do not wear rose-colored glasses when it comes to its downsides.   I am fortunate to teach in a district that holds high standards for students and teachers, yet my children have had some years in school when it was all I could do not to march into the classroom and yell "What in the world are you doing?  Don't you KNOW how to use an apostrophe correctly?  Don't you KNOW that my child knew how to do that two years ago and you should be challenging him/her every moment of the day?"  And of course, I realize that's all ridiculous.    At the end of the day, I believe my children were and are God's before they were and are mine and the grace-filled promise that He has them in His hands, sheltering them in the "cleft of the rock" is much more crucial than where they are sitting or who is at the front of the class while they work algebra problems and write essays.

We all are guilty of both bowing to and enforcing double standards.  We want high standards, but we also want our child to be on the Honor Roll.  And that's probably just not possible unless he or she demonstrates the miraculous trifecta of high ability, self-discipline and passionate interest.  Or unless the work is not challenging enough. Or unless (excepting learning disabled students) parents help him or her with his or her homework or projects on a regular basis, which in my mind, is much more damaging than any curriculum.  Yup, there, I said it.  Just this morning, I read a lengthy comment thread on our local paper's Facebook post asking about the Common Core standards controversy.  In five minutes of reading, I read comments which ran the gamut from "CC is so easy the next generation isn't going to be able to read or add single digit numbers" to "CC is so difficult that my child feels like a failure right now and no child is going to be able to succeed."  So, which one is it?  Is Common Core implementation the pre-dawn darkness of the American educational apocalypse or is it a unifying ray of light helping educators move forward, hands clasped and heads high, as we proudly teach our students critical thinking skills?

Well, I don't really know, to be honest with you.

All I can tell you is that if a parent EVER had a concern about an essay, novel, memoir, poem, or play read in my classroom I would respect his or her viewpoint and we would sit down together to find a way for his or her child to accomplish the same curricular objective with another work that the parent found acceptable.  I also hold to the fact, however, that students can handle more than some parents give them credit for.  Abuse, neglect, psychological struggles, existential doubt, relationship struggles, health crises . . . the real, hard lives that are led by students even in a "good" school system like the one I work in make me simply want to cry some days.  They all KNOW about these things and tragically, some of them are living them.  In the personal essays my students write at the beginning of the semester, I've read about everything from molestation to cancer to bankruptcy to moving 12 times in 10 years.  I cry.  I hold their papers in my hands and pray and cry.  And sometimes I hold students back after class and let them know that I heard them and that I'm sorry and that if they need anything to let me know.  And sometimes they do.

In my opinion, reading Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye or John Steinbeck's East of Eden (or even Rick Bragg's All Over But the Shoutin'  - yep, that was my sole parent protest this school year!) is not going to taint a high school student's mind or unduly influence his or her worldview or political leanings, especially if a concerned parent were to read along with his or her child and TALK about the content, style, and tangential related issues.  In some cases, I dare say that thought-provoking literature might do more to point students in the right direction than other things they are exposed to, with or without their parents' knowledge.

A student's mind is bent to sin and selfishness - just like mine and yours -  and reading about the devastating results of racism, sexism, incest, death, or moral corruption is yes, perhaps going to disturb students, but along the way, and more importantly, they will also learn to think about and grapple with these issues in a way that's meaningful and transformative.   Disclaimer:  I do not teach The Bluest Eye.  I don't think I can do it justice and honestly, I would be a bit scared to try.  And I'm not scared of much.  However, I do teach Macbeth and not once has a single parent complained about the multiple murders, sinister manipulation, political backstabbing.  Yeah, Shakespeare pretty much already covered all the bases as far as evil plot lines go, yet of course parents want Shakespearean works included in their child's education - and rightly so!  Please note that I am choosing to NOT comment on math standards seeing as how I do not know much about them, but the nebulousness of SOME materials being chosen from CC-related offerings is both good and bad, in this teacher's book.  I also know that there MUST be a learning curve if algebraic concepts are going to be offered in younger grades, so the first few years of implementation might be frustrating.  Explaining answers logically and critically is much harder than carrying out mathematical procedures.  Having a perfect, obvious answer is not possible in most areas of life, now is it?! Hmmm, kind of what this post is all about . . . !  Yes, I know parents have apparently pored over poetry worksheets and don't "get" why the answer is "B" instead of "C" and are raising Cain because of it.  You know what?  The key might have been wrong.  Or there might be room for both "B" and "C" to be correct - GASP!  Or the teacher might need to throw out that worksheet (teachers choosing appropriate curriculum materials is a post for another day...).  But, either way, an incorrect answer on a poetry worksheet is NOT the end of the world and it should NOT (so long as it's up to you . . . and parents, it IS ultimately up to you!) formulate your child's self-worth.  Should you voice your opinion about curriculum?  Absolutely!  If there is never ever another question he or she misses regarding poetry interpretation have you won the battle?  I think not.

When I taught middle school and led the annual 7th grade trip to Washington, D.C., I once had a parent who refused to let her 13-year old daughter go to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (why she even signed her up for the trip when the USHMM was clearly listed on the itinerary is yet another mystery...).  The mom finally decided to buy a plane ticket, come to D.C. for the day, and sit with her daughter outside the museum for the three hours we were there for our tour.  Yep.  Indeed.  More money than sense, I say.  She also required the social studies teacher to come up with alternate lessons for her child whenever slavery, genocide, or any mistreatment of a people group was discussed in class... Yep.  When I asked the mom if she was going to ask the same thing of the 9th grade World History teacher when they discussed the French Revolution (you know, the guillotine thing is kind of hard to leave out), she was adamant that because her daughter would "be in high school then," that she'd be able to handle it, no problem.  Sigh.  No, I'm sorry . . . you can be 40 years old and not be able to handle the HUGELY hard things in life if you haven't slowly, with the loving guidance and support of parents and teachers and even friends, made it through the LESSER hard things in life and come out on the other side saying "I made it through" (yes, I'm hearing Barry Manilow's "I Made It Through the Rain" in my head right now . . . that's how my brain works . . . ).  Sorry, back on track now . . .

As I've entered my mid-40s, I've realized that (1) it's too late to go to law school so I can get paid to argue, and (2) I'm probably not going to change the minds of many folks, no matter how masterfully my rhetoric is presented.  So, what's an opinionated and somewhat well-informed woman to do when she also wants to show compassion and follow the lead of the Holy Spirit?  That indeed, my friends, is the question of the day.  And of so many of my days. And as I reflect on all the controversies, and "spit out the butt-ends of my days and ways" (Eliot), I still don't have any clear answers.

Do we need to even be on the tightrope, some might ask?  Shouldn't we just hold hands and sing "Kumbayah" so that the Common Core controversy and mommy wars and picketing parades would just end.  Perhaps singing would help.  It worked in "The Sound of Music" . . . But ultimately, we are selfish and self-centered humans who believe our way, our view, our tightrope is the BEST.  We just KNOW our little darling could make As and feel good about himself if that evil Common Core wasn't a part of our school. Or we just KNOW that those "people" who can't achieve under Common Core instruction just need to get out of the way and let our child shine because "to the victor goes the spoils."  I've been there.  On both ends of that crazy spectrum, neither of which is pretty or fair or Godly.

One thing I can say with confidence after almost 19 years of teaching and 20 years of mothering is that there is so much more to achievement and so-called success than a grade or a ribbon or a degree.  I'd much rather our kids learn how to function with frustration or even failure and "keep on keeping on" than to always be "the best" (whatever that means).  Our 12-year old who is a stellar and self-motivated reader, carried an F (like a 30-40 average) for the first month or two of seventh grade because he "forgot" to take his summer reading project to school to turn in and his teacher wouldn't take it late.  Broke my heart, because he actually did read the book and probably had as good of an understanding of it as any child in his class who got a 100 on the project.  But, he forgot.  And we let it go and just NOW, in February, does he finally have a B in English.  He'll more than likely end the year with a B and you know what, that's okay.  He learned a lesson that I have no doubt will serve him well in the future and he knows without a doubt that he alone is responsible for turning his work in.  Our youngest has had a hard time with CC-based quizzes and worksheets in English this year in second grade.  I'm not sure if it's going to get better or worse, but I do know that I'll keep glancing at her papers (glancing, not obsessing or questioning) and telling her how proud I am of her hard work, ignoring the 74 or the 82 because I know that sometimes there are learning curves when new skills and concepts are introduced.  She loves school, she loves to read, and she is not scared to try new things.

Our oldest son is our most independent, rebellious kid (I have no idea who he got that from...ha!), and honestly, he drives me crazy most days because he doesn't have much concern about making good grades unless he is personally inspired by the subject.  But, last summer, he built a stand and an entire pump and filtration system (from scratch) for his 100-gallon saltwater fish tank with zero guidance from us (and only a minimal bit of power-tool related assistance from his dad).  It was amazing!  But while he reads animal-related blogs for hours, he currently has a "B" in Biology.  Go figure . . .

While we push them to reach their God-given potential and work hard, grades or honor society memberships do not define our kids - nor do they define our parenting.

Praise the good Lord for that.

I have friends on both ends of the Common Core debate who earnestly believe that their viewpoint is not only correct, but morally superior to those on the other side.  Those who believe that too much governmental meddling in local education matters puts us on the slope to a full-fledged Communist state posit themselves opposite those who believe that CC standards are both useful and necessary to move our country into an educationally competitive position on the international stage - and not many on either side are making moves to sit down at the table and talk sensibly.

What are we teaching our children when we act this way?  To engage in civil discourse?
  Or to"bunker down" with our "like kind" and see who can outshoot the other side?  
  Or to aim for fake-smile peace at all costs?
  Or to look for the "bogeyman" behind every tree?

I do believe, as Susan B. Anthony wrote, that "[c]autious, careful people always casting about to preserve their reputation or social standards never can bring about reform." So, in my heart of hearts, I want to defend, to rebuke, to correct wrong or skewed opinions (or at least the ones I perceive as wrong or skewed).

But the way to do that is not so clear and that tightrope is indeed fragile.