Rehash Redemption

It had been a long drive back from Ohio, and she had spent the majority of it pondering why she had disliked a book she had listened to on tape. She told me all about its problems, and how she managed to rewrite it during her drive.

I smirked as she talked about it. She was getting riled, and I was finding it hilarious. I mean, seriously, rehashing a book for over two hours, changing the plot, mending the characters...? And now I got to listen to this rehashing and I hadn't even read the book.

But on my drive home I rehashed my own book. The story of my life. The mistakes, the regrets, the frustrations. I changed the plot, I mended the characters, and I got myself riled.

Suddenly it hit me. I was doing the same thing. Rehashing how I wanted it to go, but not being able to make any kind of true difference in how it went down. Rehashing is silly. It's silly to the listener, and pointless to the rehasher.

I felt bad that I had laughed at her, now that I realized I do the same rehashing, even more uselessly. So I called her up. I admitted my own obsession with rehashing.

We laughed about hashing and rehashing, and sent each other a few texts rich in hashtags. We were greatly amused by these, since we are not big Twitter users. But then, towards the end of our conversation, she sent me:

##redemption (which she pointed out is supposed to be read as rehash redemption)

I giggled. But an hour later, the truth of that still lingered.

What would happen if instead of rehashing failures, frustrations, mistakes, and loneliness I rehashed redemption?

What if when the usual wave of rehashing takes my thoughts over, I had an immediate comeback of rehashing? If I had an immediate source of encouragement? Of knowing truth and having it cycle through my head even more frequently than the list of my failures do?

Grace racing through my head, rather than condemnation. Knowing the Truth and letting it set me free.

The past few mornings, I have woken up to the greeting of a quiet reminder:

rehash redemption.

As soon as I begin to feel frustrated with myself, I remember whose I am. I remember that I am forgiven, and that my failures are no longer relevant.

In the rehashing of failures, despair and hopelessness are born.
But in the rehashing of redemption, freedom and joy are born.

Because they're mine

The morning sun was just starting to illuminate the gray clouds on my quiet drive to school.

To the hum of my engine, I began to pray my usual morning prayers. But I was drained already, though it was hardly even 7:30. Several of my students had told me they might be moving, and the disciplinary issues in my classroom were getting a little tougher.

One of my most "unloveable" students told me there was a big possibility he could be moving. The night before I had mourned his walking out of my life, but today I pondered why I had had such an extreme reaction to his announcement. It's not like he's given me so many reasons to love him. He's a pure stinker.

Another student came to mind. As I was praying for her... I told God about how much I loved her. How much I love the "stinkers." I felt a quiet tug at my heart... why? 

Why do you love them?

I fumbled for words to explain the love and devotion I feel towards each of my students, especially the ones that don't give me reasons to love them. It felt horrible to realize that "Superteacher" as I try to be, there are some kids who are just unloveable.  But yet, I love them. Not because they're brilliant, not because they're kind. And certainly not because I'm Superteacher. But because they're mine.

Because they're mine. 

The words hung in the frozen air, and echoed back to me...
I knew there was a deeper lesson for me to learn. So I waited. I listened.

You are Mine.

There in that quiet, chilly morning I began to understand love in a different way. To understand the kind of love the Father has for me... not because of my brilliance, my own excellence, goodness, or anything else. But because I am His. 

Now I try to start every morning with a reflection on that moment. On what it means to be His. It has given me passion, purpose, and love so much more than I thought possible.

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine."

-Isaiah 43:1

 

All things for good

Any time life feels like it's caving in, the phrase "all things work together for good" suddenly makes its unwanted appearance.
It's meant as encouragement. But most often it only brings frustration.

How dare you tell me that at a time like this? Do you have any idea what I'm going through? The good of who? Go away. These thoughts are sure to surface after hearing this phrase at a dark time.
And I agree. It is obnoxious.

Today I was pondering this out-of-context phrase. Because that's not what it says. It says "all things work together for the good of those who love God and who are called according to His purpose." Oh. even better. So there's a qualifier for this "encouraging" little quip. Once again, go away.

I began to realize, though, that it's not an "if-then" statement. It's not an "if you love God, everything will go your way" kind of phrase. It's not even an "if you love God enough.... then." It's simply that that's the way things work. It's a promise.

I have the bad habit of poking holes in promises. I want to find places and times in my life where this wasn't true and where this statement could be disqualified... as if to prove my point and exalt my bitterness.

But as I poised myself for hole-poking, I realized that I must first think about what "good" means. I'm pretttyyy sure "good" doesn't mean having everything go my way. Even though it sounds like it. Or no sickness. Or no sadness or no disappointments. I wondered what it could mean and came to the conclusion that the ultimate best thing in life is to know Christ more. It is surpassing greatness. It is better than anything temporary this life has to offer.

The more I know Him, the more I can love Him.

I set to work recording every major low point in my life. It seemed like it would be a depressing task. But it wasn't. Because I looked through a different lens.

I asked myself... how is my life "better" because of this event? Every time, starting with cancer, continuing through sudden death and loss, growing apart from people, failure, and deep loneliness, I found beauty. I found a growing understanding of who God is. I found myself thanking God for that event, realizing I could never know Him as I know Him now if it hadn't been for that. Suddenly I discovered that if right now I was given the opportunity to revisit these moments and erase them from the timeline of my life, I would cling to them.

For in my deepest disappointments, hurt, and pain, my understanding of my      Creator-Savior grew the most.

I've been struggling with unanswered questions. Why did you let that happen, God? Why would you give, just to take away? Anger. Resentment.

But I've been asking the wrong questions.

What are you trying to teach me, God? Show me more of who You are.

And suddenly... forget the eraser to my timeline! I want it all there... I wouldn't trade in any of these hurts.  If it hadn't been for the cancer, I wouldn't have pondered whether serving a God who gives and takes away is really worth it. If it hadn't been for the death of my Papa, I wouldn't have started to pray. To speak to God, and truly begin listening. If it hadn't been for the failure of qualifying for a scholarship competition, I wouldn't know what it's like to live in vulnerability, to know grace in the core of who I am. If it hadn't been for growing apart, I never would have recognized my fear, my insecurities, and my need for my Savior to define my identity.

All things work together for the good of those who love God and who are called according to His purpose. (Rom. 8:28)

If my heart has to break, let my love sprout from the rubble of brokenness.

The tip of the iceberg

It has been a grueling week and a half of teaching. And it's only Wednesday.

I have had nightmares of teaching math... and they are well-founded. Every day I have way too many furrowed brows and narrowed eyes staring at me in confusion as I try to come up with yet another way to explain how to find fractions of a set, subtract fractions from whole numbers, and find three fifths of twenty... I've been at the end of my rope. For days.

But today we had a breakthrough.

I had little gasps of "oooh!" or "really? that's it?" or "OH! I get it!" Slowly I heard sighs of relief all around the room. I heard them pick up their pencils once again as they decided they would pick it back up and keep trying. (They had gotten in the rotten habit of just giving up, putting their pencil down, and checking out.)

I wanted to make sure I didn't breathe too soon. But I made an off-hand comment... that they were at the tip of the iceberg. I meant that they were at the verge of completely understanding everything we've been working on for weeks... everything in fractions was about to come to a head.
They looked at me, confused once again, until one spunky child shouted out, "wait... we're about to go down like the Titanic?"

I had meant the opposite. That the tip of the iceberg was a good thing. And now as I think about it, I realize I may have used the phrase incorrectly.

But.

I realize I am at the same point in my life right now. At the tip of the iceberg.

I began studying the idea of my "identity in Christ" for the first time. I'm not one of those girls with huge "identity" issues... as I told myself before I started the study. It's probably why I avoided studying it.

Welp. I have been brought to the iceberg. The point where everything I have always known has been pushed deep into my heart. It has punctured my heart, and it has flooded it with the truth that I have always known, yet never grasped. I am drowning in grace. Drowning in the love of my Savior... unsure of what to do with what my Savior has done for me... except to fall in complete awe of Him and what He has chosen to make me: His child -- accepted, loved, free, guiltless, and righteous.

I pray each of you may crash into this iceberg, your lives transformed by His love.

Letters

It had been an exhausting day. The end of the quarter is a mad rush to get grades finalized, to plan for special events, rewards for the first quarter of hard work, and organizing a cow eye dissection for my class.

I came in humming the song that was blasting through my speakers as I rolled through cornfields on my way back from school. But it was a distracted humming. An exhausted humming. It was a feeble attempt to block the thoughts that tumbled in my mind of all that was left to do before the weekend that was just a day away, yet impossibly distant.

I dropped my heavy red bag, my teacher texts on my bed, my lunch box, my coat, and kicked off my shoes. Then I saw them. A small stack of letters. I rushed over to the kitchen counter and peered at them. I was expecting mail. But three? In one day?

I told myself I should wait to open them until I put things away, tidied, got changed. Perhaps I should use them as a reward. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew I did not have enough self-control for that.

I cleared a spot on my bed and flopped down to examine the letters. Familiar handwriting from dear people. I tore into the first, read it voraciously. Re-read it. Smiled, giggled. Opened the second, looked at the attached magazine clippings, smiled again, and folded it, savoring the words.

The third was a long-expected letter from a friend back home who has been my best friend since fifth grade. Her letter was a "good-bye you're moving letter" but also a deeply moving letter, reflecting on how our friendship has grown and changed throughout the years. I smiled once again, teared up a bit, then all out sobbed. Then smiled through my tears, the familiar salty taste making my tongue tingle.

Once again, I folded it up and stored it back in its envelope.

I pondered the joy of a good hand-written letter. What's so special about it?

The fact that somebody took the time to write. To think of me, and to show me they had thought of me. To encourage me and tell me the things I'm doing well even on days when I lose sight of why I'm doing them. Because they know me. They know what will make me chortle, what will bring the tears that need to be released, and what will make me feel valued.

Since starting to teach, it has been so much harder for me to stay in the Word. The last thing I feel like doing is reading an age-old book full of things my head knows but my heart forgets. I invent all sorts of distractions for myself until I fall into bed exhausted at the end of the day.

Today as I took a moment to pause, journal, pray, and read those Words, I was deeply convicted. How eager am I to read letters that find their way to my kitchen counter, yet Words that have spanned time and cultures, Truths that have not wavered, yet continue to be so personal are put aside. Promises, encouragements, Words spoken by my Living God.

not interesting? not worth it? really?

The Scriptures are my longest letter... written to everyone, yet written to ME, sympathizing with every emotion, setting examples, showering promises, and most of all, grace. Grace even in weakness.

My head knows. My heart forgets.

Sunrise

I am enthralled by beauty. I seek it out, I pursue it, I strive for it. Even in the most miserable places, I have found incredible hope, joy, and excitement in finding something beautiful.

I remember as a little girl simply fascinated by flowers that grew among rocks and thorns. In the harshness of nature, a strong, yellow little flower declared that it would not be moved. It refused to be moved from those solitary places between sidewalk cracks and rocky crags where it added a bright splash of hope to the gray in-between.

So this morning when I stepped out and looked up at the blue-ish pink sunrise, I smiled quietly to myself. "Thanks, God," I whispered as I closed my car door, started my engine, and cleared my windshield of autumn dew. As I put my car in reverse and checked my rearview mirrors, I saw a shining orange. Thinking it was another car in the driveway, I took a second glance. It was the sky. I stopped my hurry to school, put my car back into park, and climbed back out. I gazed at the sky.

I hadn't noticed, but just over my house was a brilliant orange that was starting to creep over the farm fields behind me. By now it was rapidly spreading like a forest fire, to the rest of the huge expanse. I gasped, stared, and grinned. A silly first year teacher in a lime green coat, high heeled shoes, and my hair pulled back... simply just gaping. I could have watched the whole show... but I realized I had to get going.

Reluctantly I started my car back up and began driving. My heart was filled with truth. The sunrise seemed to beckon it out of the deepest recesses of my heart. My mercies are new every morning. I am faithful even in your unfaithfulness. I am sovereign. I am a good God who delights in beauty, and delights in making beautiful things for you to marvel at. I love you.

I took quick glances to the right during my whole drive to school, gulping it in every chance I could get. When I got to school, the whole parking lot was drenched in orange as it glinted off of every vehicle, every fence post, and every window. A halo of orange ushering me into my day.

Mornings like these -- sunrises like these -- give me so much hope for the day. They fill me with expectation. Of reminders that today needs to count. For eternity.

More than telling stories

I love social studies. I love history. I love that everything in history is one fantastic story about real people... people who were passionate enough to make a difference in their time. Or perhaps, people who just happened to be at the right place at the right time.

Perhaps they are no longer with us, but their legacy remains. They are real people... who laughed at things I would probably laugh at, who crafted snarky letters to their rivals, who passionately debated  things that probably didn't matter, but who also stood strong for freedom, for truth, and for what's right. I'm also intrigued to read about the villains and the impossible amount of evil capable of being bottled inside just one person. I am fascinated that these were real people simply living out their daily lives, but who are now recorded in our Pearson and Prentice-Hall textbooks... either because of the times they lived in, or because of what they used those times for.

I am not one of those social studies teachers who has a favorite historical figure, an extreme political opinion, or a favorite time in history. This always made me uncomfortable in my history classes, because I could never join in the lively debates of which time period was better, and who I would rather sit down to dinner with. I don't have Civil War era clothes, or collect ancient documents. I simply relish all of it. Whatever I'm currently learning about is my favorite.

I do have a special place in my heart for the American Revolution, however. Let me tell you why.

It was through studying the American Revolution in fifth grade that history came alive. It was then that suddenly the events related to the lives of real people. It was then that my thinking was challenged and stretched. Beyond just reading about a stiff, two-dimensional Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, I became them. I became a Daughter of Liberty. I became a revolutionary. I kept journal entries as these people; I personified them and warred against "taxation without representation" in British Parliament. My fifth grade teacher, as King George III made herself the enemy, and united us together against her. She made us pay taxes for homework, taxes for lunch, and taxes for recess. Our faces flushed in anger against the ridiculousness of it all.

And then we understood. We understood those people, we understood the birth of our nation, and we loved being Americans... free-thinkers, born out of passionate love for freedom, and unified because of it.

But honestly, it wasn't the American Revolution that stole my heart. It was the ability to understand, to empathize with people across time, across generations, across cultures to finally understand that we shared a common history. It was the ability to see the greater story, to understand the greater role each person played, and it was the ability to see history beyond simple dates and names on a lifeless timeline.

I now get to stand in front of my class of twenty fourth graders and tell them I love history. They moan and groan. They flip disinterestedly through their social studies book, un-eager to study Native Americans, the American Revolution, or anything about Indiana.

But that's starting to change. I become a story-teller. Not the teacher. Their eyes follow me as I pace around the room, telling them crazy stories about explorers and war heroes. I imitate the nomads hunting mastodons, and "settle" with a nomadic people group, in an empty desk at their group of four. They giggle. But they are fascinated.

Well. It's time for them to experience it on their own. Because one day not so far off, I won't be there to tell stories for them. I won't be there to act out their dry, middle school texts, or their massive college Intro to World History books.

But I am here, now, to give them a love of history just like my fifth grade teacher did for me. I hope to give them such a palpable experience that it will last long enough to inspire them to keep reading, keep studying, and keep learning, even when the action fades, and the only thing left are words on a page, a lifeless timeline, and a list of names. I hope to equip them to bring those heroes to life, and to keep passing these remarkable stories on to future generations, before history fades from our curriculum.

A forgetful introvert

I am an introvert.

This always takes people slightly by surprise. As I have written before, I don't have any qualms about speaking in front of a large group of people, sharing my thoughts, or volunteering to do something. I am friendly, lively, and outgoing, quick to speak (and slow to listen... not something I'm necessarily proud of.)

Large parties or get-togethers, however, are my nightmare. That awkward cocktail hour, mingling, meet and greet makes me want to hide in the bathroom until it's time for the event to start. Bonfires with people I don't know well are a perfect time to stuff my face with marshmallows to give me something to do instead of stare blankly at everyone else who seems to be having a wonderful time (sadly I like the caught-on-fire-burned-to-a-crisp marshmallows, so the actual cooking does not distract me for too long...)

As I have processed before, living away from my family and my dearest friends has led to lots of feelings of loneliness. When I used to treasure being alone, eager to spend time in devotions, doing crafts, writing letters, writing in general, and reading, I now dread it. I stay at school late. When I leave I always invite someone over (or invite myself over). I fill my life with people to keep the loneliness away. It seems like it would work. But the minute they leave, a flood of loneliness washes over me again.

I have been thinking through this for some time, and I am realizing that in my desperate avoidance of anything solitary, I have robbed myself of rest, joy, and the most precious times with my Savior. I realized that I fill my life with noise. Whether it be blasting some music, always having someone around, or inventing texts to send out just so that I can be communicating with someone. But I have traded the best company, the quiet talks with my Lord, for the company of others. While of course friendship is deeply valuable and beautiful, I have been taking almost no time away from people.

I am a forgetful introvert. I forget that I am energized after spending long hours alone... thinking and writing deeply about what's on my heart, while wrapped in a cozy blanket, wearing thick socks, and drinking tea.

After one night when my usual fill-my-life-with-people plans fell through, I decided to take the hint and spend time alone. I turned off my phone. I turned off my music. I pondered, I prayed, I journaled, I made decorations to remind me of truth. And I wrote about the things that truly energize me and give me life.

Friends and family most certainly have a huge part to play in my life. Without them I would be lost in a solitary cage of misery. But for me, it is healthy to spend time away. To face the loneliness with truth gathered from my moments away from everyone else.

Why I love slow processors

I'm one of those kids who went through school, hand raised, always ready with an answer. Not a "you-better-call-on-me-before-I-explode" hand raised, but a confident, occasionally wiggly hand, and an arm that frequently shifted from side to side as it fell asleep, waiting to be called on.

In bible studies and Sunday school I was the "know-it-all." I always had an example from my own life that (usually) applied to what we were talking about. I tried not to be cocky or prideful, but I'm afraid I usually came off that way.

I was the one eagerly hopping in the van after a full day of school, stories brimming to be told.

Basically, if a question is asked, I'm all there, ready with an answer, bursting at the seams, but usually containing it, trying really hard to let others have a turn until I finally feel so bad for the question-asker that I just go right ahead.

I've been frustrated with the kids that take forever to answer a question, that can't express themselves, that wait for what seemed like eternity before announcing they "forgot," a simple way to get out of actually having to answer the question.

And then. I met some slow processors. And I learned some amazing things.

While I typically want an immediate answer to my questions, and I want a fast-paced, lively discussion, I appreciate the silent mulling-over done by a slow processor...

I used to talk right over them. If there was silence in a conversation, I would jabber away, simply to make it disappear. I would ask another question. I would answer my own question. Anything to make the awkwardness go away.

I became friends with a slow processor. Our long "talks" on the phone involved mostly silence at times. I became frustrated. I used to multitask and wait for the voice on the other end to finally break the silence. Then I would put down my homework or whatever else I was doing and finally listen. I was always shocked at the depth that came out of the silence. The stuff I had been missing in all my lightning-fast processing. The depth of wisdom, the depth of patience, the depth of understanding, and finally the vulnerability that sprung out of time.

It was still uncomfortable leaving that silence. I began tutoring in the Writing Lab. My boss and mentor listened to my sessions with students. "You're not letting them answer you. You keep redirecting them too quickly," was something I heard daily. I thought the two seconds of wait time was plenty. But I began to leave a gap. A gap long enough for seat-shifting discomfort to set in. And the answers to my questions became deeper, longer, harder.

Then I began tutoring Koreans and other ESL students. I made friends with people who struggled with communicating easily in a second language. Sometimes I would wait a whole minute in silence for them to speak. I began to learn the art of facial expressions. I watched their mouths slowly form the words, practice them, before the sounds left their lips. I watched their eyes, searching for words they knew, their fingers quickly hunting for a word on their electronic dictionaries. I knew something was about to happen. So I would wait with pregnant anticipation. Then. They would express their true hearts, share their culture, their struggles with adjusting, and their frustration at being misunderstood. Ironically, they felt comfortable with me because I gave them time to think, to say what they were trying to say, and to get their thoughts across without interrupting them. I celebrated moments of growth.

Sometimes my students will come back in my room crying. I can keep teaching and hope it goes away. Or I can slow time down for them, let them know I'm here. I can give her a hug, and give her the choice: now or later, paper/pencil or voice. I can listen to his needs, teach him how to express his emotions in a healthy way. 

Even in my closest relationships, I am learning the beauty of silence. Of gaps of thinking space. Of revisiting old conflicts gently, with minutes of deep thought before diving in. I can now sit and wait fifteen minutes for someone to speak. I watch their face. Their eyes. The words dance on their lips before being released, ready to catch them. I have learned to be slower to speak, and quicker to listen. I have learned to be still.

I realize that slow processors are the people that have some of the best insights. I have learned that when they are ready to speak, I better be ready to listen. Because they have something they've been chewing on. And when they are ready to share, who knows when the opportunity will arise again (especially in our fast-paced world). I have made so many mistakes in my eager responses, my quick quips, my thoughtless remarks. But slow processors are deliberate and cautious with their words. They understand that their words can make a huge difference.

I now realize it is in the silence that the greatest thoughts are born. That the guarder of secrets decides to be open. Where the thumping heart-beat escalates into the throat, into the back of the tongue where the words form, until they have been uttered, and yet met with acceptance.

My heart's desire is to be a safe place for slow processors. Where silence is not only tolerated but embraced. Where time can slow down, ears can be open, and mouths closed.

Violet Hope

I have a small African violet plant in a green ceramic pot.
My parents brought it to me when they came a month ago for my birthday, and it has been struggling ever since.

I have watched as slowly the leaves turned yellow, blotchy, brown, and dry. The buds of hope it had in August have dropped away. I have been frustrated with it... as it sits in my classroom bay window, drinking up the delicious rays of sun, yet producing nothing. I watered it gingerly, waiting for change. But none happened.

Last week was long. It was hard. It was draining. Every time I glanced on my mailbox shelf where my violet sat, I felt a frustration... because in some ways I felt like that yellow-ing little violet. Watered, and soaked in sun, yet not producing, not thriving, not growing, not blooming.

I spent several nights working at school until very late, hardly seeing the sunlight during those days. Some of it was lack of focus, some of it was frustration with new curriculum, and some of it was just pure exhaustion of pouring into twenty little lives without taking time to stop and rest.

While I dislike the billboards that announce "you deserve it!" (especially when "it" is whatever product they are trying to sell), I am realizing the enormous importance of rest.

I continue to strive, to try, to work until I have nothing left, I am completely drained, and I feel no closer to my goal.

The past few weekends I have been very intentional to rest. To take time to spend with dear friends, new friends, old friends. To talk, to pray, to read, to watch movies, to go on adventures, sip coffee, and visit cafes, instead of sitting in a cocoon of 4th grade math worksheets or reading summaries. 

At the end of each weekend I'm always a little nervous to check on my little violet. I'm afraid perhaps it will be completely shriveled and dead.

Today when I did my usual check, I noticed this:

Despite the blotchy scars of exhaustion and sickness on its leaves, it has bloomed.

I was so excited.

And that violet gave me hope. That blooming and thriving is just around the corner.

Hard

Last week was hard.

For what seemed like the first time in my life, I was trying really hard, but to no avail. The hard work I put in seemed to have absolutely no effect on my output. I was exhausted. My rose-colored lenses of changing the world, one child at a time, got knocked off my face for most of the week, and I began pondering what else I'm good at... that does not involve teaching, children, or intense preparation.

I am incredibly thankful for the people in my life who have pulled me aside, and made me slow down. Who fed me dinner when I had nothing prepared, who made me leave school when I didn't recognize I was stuck in a rut, who lent me their rusty old bike and chased me on roller blades around the neighborhood, who hugged me when words ran out, and who prayed for me daily. I'm thankful for people who know how to give space, how to encourage, and how to love. Loving a teacher is hard.

Each day as I debrief with other teachers, we moan and groan about our frustrations with our students. But we are learning.

We are learning to not just dwell on the stuff that went wrong, but to celebrate their gains and progress, to enjoy our students as developing people. If we only think about the things that aren't going according to planned, we will tire ourselves out. But when we begin to think about these kiddos, their interests, their talents, and who they want to be, the fight for them somehow seems much more doable. It seems impossible NOT to fight through the hard days.

This week I started eating lunch with my kids. Two at a time.

I love the amazing conversations that stem out of this time. The knowing looks and understanding nods between two children who have incarcerated fathers. Their frustrations with not knowing their siblings, and their refusal to call step-parents "mom" and "dad." Two other children who are shy suddenly erupt into stories as they take turns sharing about their favorite kinds of technology, ipad apps, and "teenagers."

Lunch with these kids reminds me why I'm really here. In between bites of my turkey sandwich, I grin as I listen to them argue and interrupt each other, excited to share, but talking as if I was just one of them. The walls come down. They let me in, and then they are ready to learn. As they talk, they wonder, their curiosity simply bursting at the seams. This is what education is all about. What I'm all about: kindling the fire of knowledge and learning through relationships and community.

My job is the hardest thing I've ever done, but it's the most rewarding thing I've ever done.

One Week

It has been one week of teaching.

I can't even begin to express the immense feelings that go through me as I think through this past week.

I think it's mostly wonder. Wonder at the fact that I'm actually here, actually having the privilege of having these precious lives entrusted to my care... to educate them, love them, and help them grow. Wonder at the amazing grace I have been shown at the opportunity to speak truth into twenty-one little lives.

There is complete joy and fulfillment in waking up in the morning knowing that I was born to do this. I thrive off of teaching. I thrive off of being called Miss Rozsa. I love little voices, small hands scrawling furiously on math assignments, writing about themselves, sharing their passions with me. I love when we laugh together, and I love introducing them to things I love. I am fascinated by their receptivity toward my culture and my heritage: a whole line of fourth graders begging for me to say their names in Hungarian. A shy girl asking me day after day when I'm going to bring my fiddle. The whole class eagerly clapping at the thought of Dr. Rozsa bringing cow eyes for them to observe/dissect. Oh. And the whole class wanting to have a pet pig... (pigs are my favorite animal).

Children love learning. Their love of learning drives me to a burning desire to learn too... to learn to become a better teacher for them, but also to keep exploring, devouring books, and writing what's on my heart.

There is a fair bit of exhaustion too. I could use a good week of rest. Now more than any other time, I recognize the importance of Sabbath rest, of boundaries in work and play, and in being able to put aside perfection for "good enough." There are always things I could do better. I will learn. But I don't need to be perfect immediately. Perfection will drain me. Right now, even though it feels like I'm keeping my head barely above water, I'm thriving.

Just Friends

As I have been slowly making the transitions from "student" to "teacher," from "child" to "adult," and from "dependent" to "independent," I am realizing that my relationships with people are changing. Best friends have moved away to pursue their own dreams in other states, my Grace graduating class has dispersed, and the journeys we once started together are now roads we walk with others.

My roommate and I were both ecstatic to be hired into the same district. It's the district where we student taught, where we learned from expert teachers, where we served the students, and where we go to church. We were beyond thankful to have each other in this new walk of life, and we assumed we would be roommates again.

After some consideration, however, we decided to part ways and live separately. Three years of co-existing, wrestling through conflicts, changing relationships, hard classes, personal growth, but also three wonderful years of iron sharpening iron came to a close. Bittersweet, most definitely, but the right time to begin to live lives apart a little more.

We went to new teacher orientation together. Instead of finding our normal place at each other's side as we did all through college, we sat at different tables, occasionally smirking at inside jokes that were called to our attention through a key buzzword a speaker said, but primarily just keeping it inside. We didn't even really talk in between sessions.

At one point, I overheard a conversation she was having with one of the speakers. The speaker had said something that reminded me of a familiar, humorous conversation Bekah and I had often had. I turned just in time to see her laugh aloud as our eyes met. The speaker looked confused about what had prompted this. I watched as Bekah flailed for words, trying to explain how she had read my mind, how she had known exactly what I was thinking... but couldn't. It was left at "that's Zoe."

We reflected on it afterward and we realized there is no true way to sum up our relationship. How can anyone understand the depths of growth, of understanding between us? The term "friends" does not suffice. But "roommate" is no longer applicable. To use the term "sister" is just confusing, but that is perhaps most closely what we are.

While at Grace, most things could be explained by simply announcing we were roommates. People would smile, nod, and put up with our shenanigans. But now, we're professionals. The winks, the jokes, the smirks, and the writing on each other's notes is not necessarily acceptable.

So... I guess we're just friends. Not roommates. But friends. It's a weird transition, and I do feel sad at times as I think about how things have changed. But my sadness does not last long when I realize I get to continue to move forward with my friend, roommate, sister by my side. We don't need to give our relationship a name. It will be different; it will change. But as we have in the past, we will continue to grow and change together.

Transitions

For the first time in my life I'm living in the country.

I look outside and a sea of corn meets my gaze. Cows wallow in the pond near the road, and horses flick flies away with their tails. Barns and silos dot the horizon, and the sunsets and stars are glorious. I love it.

Every day as I drive into town and back again, I cherish the time of transition. To have the opportunity to unwind after a long day, to think, to worship, or simply to roll the windows down and let the delicious breeze stroke my face. My heart swells as I drink in the simplicity of it all, feeling overwhelmed by grace. That I can be here, play a part in this community, and continue old friendships right where they left off. That I get to attend my same church, love the same people, yet still be pushed and challenged with a completely new life.

It's odd to think that just a few months ago I was living in the city: sirens, honking, taxis, and hundreds of people crossing my path every day. During long commutes in Budapest, I frequently had the same heart-swell, drinking in the complexity, the hustle and bustle, feeling overwhelmed by grace just the same: to be there, where I understood so much, loved so much. To attend my church I love, to worship in another language, yet Mine still the same, and to have a place where I was still pushed and challenged.

But my heart still longs for Home. A place where I will truly fit. And it's hard to realize that I am a traveler on this earth, no matter how long I stay someplace, and no matter how deep my roots go. I am blessed to find joy in the journey, to feel so fulfilled in such different places, and to feel so at peace with where I am as I try to keep an eternal perspective.

I am learning to embrace transitions, to celebrate the newness of change. I am thankful for dear friends and family who come alongside of me and challenge me upwards and onwards, making my transitions shorter and my life fuller.

Growth.

Growth.

The word is full of expectancy, of hope, of the future. All that is to come.

I remember the thrill of planting little kidney beans in dark, rich soil. We watered them daily, and finally, one day the soil began to develop tiny, green sprouts. No longer did it look like I was watering the dark brown earth! No: I was watering a living, growing seedling.

Since as long as I can remember, I have been completely fascinated by growth: whether it was the pictures of a developing baby in its mother's womb, of tadpoles turning into frogs, or the process of growth in character, changes in understanding, and being transformed more into the likeness of Christ.

I am convinced that contributing to growth in the people around me is my purpose in life. In fact, everything I have been super passionate about has to do with growth, developing others, and pouring into them.

The more I ponder this, the more I realize that growth sums up everything that I desire.
As a Christ-follower I must continue to grow in the grace and knowledge of my Lord Jesus Christ so that I may become more like Him.
I am called to be a disciple-maker which is about helping others grow toward their Savior as well. I must teach, love, disciple, and train those who may be just starting out on this journey.
As a daughter I have strived to become more mature, more understanding, more obedient. I have tried to understand what biblical womanhood looks like, and what God calls me to as a woman.
As a student, I have chosen to grow academically as I gain more knowledge and skills, seeking to apply them across all areas, not just where I may excel.
As a musician, I have grown in my understanding of different styles of music, new techniques, and my endurance in practice... as well as ways to teach this to others.
As a student leader on a college campus, my life was devoted to seeking out teachable moments, to lead by example, and to encourage others to grow. In fact, I even held the position of Growth Group Leader. How appropriate.
As a Writing Lab Tutor, I sought to help my students grow in their understanding of the English language. As I did so, my own skills progressed, my patience was tested (yet lengthened), and my love of cultures was established).
As a student teacher I had the opportunity to share moments of growth with my students. With an emphasis on growth, there was less competition, and more celebration as students joined together to celebrate their progress, as well as the progress of their classmates.

Growth defines who I am. It defines what I live for. What I strive for.

But it isn't always easy. There are times that it seems like there is more decay than growth. Seeing brokenness, sickness, and hurt is exhausting and heart-breaking for someone who lives daily for growth.

However. It is in my pursuit for growth that I begin to see things in a new light. Even if growth is minimal, I find a way to draw it out in people. I want people to see how they are changing into better, wiser people, hopefully growing in their understanding of their God. I begin to become the optimist. Forever watering, rejoicing over every sign of change.

After discovering this passion of mine, my heart for education made so much more sense.

And it makes even more sense to approach this first year of teaching with a classroom theme of growth. Because after all, I am also just starting out. I will be growing right along with my fourth graders!

For a Season

There's a cutesy, artsy, hipster coffee shop in downtown Chelsea... a perfect stop for upbeat cyclists on an early Saturday morning, a late morning tradition for interested and politically-minded Chelseans, an afternoon indulgence for moms with toddlers, and a place to showcase local, acoustic bands in the evenings as the sunlight fades and the streetlights hum.

But for me? For me it's a place to reconnect... Outside sipping an ice coffee or perhaps a freshly squeezed orange juice as an occasional train rumbles by, or trucks roar past... pausing delightful conversation until we can clearly hear each other once again:
People that have weaved in and out of the tapestry of my life... coloring it, defining it, sometimes intertwining, then slowly slipping away again.
People who have had huge influences on my day-to-day life.
People I have lost contact with over the course of four years of college.
People who may never again have the same role as they once did, but who still open my mind to new thoughts as we talk about our lives NOW in the present.

This got me thinking about the fact that people often weave into my life for a season. That often they don't stay long, or as long as I wish they did. During that particular season they mean the world to me. They are my world. But as time passes and seasons change, their influence might lessen. It doesn't meant that they are no longer people I value. Rather, I value them more because they have defined a season of life.

I frequently feel responsible to stay in contact with anyone and everyone I once knew. It didn't take long to realize that is unrealistic. impossible. I began to wear out as I was constantly trying to keep everyone close. I assumed that if we were no longer close, it implied we had had a "falling out." But I have realized that it doesn't have to be that way. Relationships change. And that's okay.

As I transition to a new place, a new life, and a new world, a beautiful season comes to a close. My relationships will ebb and flow. Some strengthen. Some lessen. And that's okay.

I do, however, love a good catch-up... so you might just find me back in town, sitting at a familiar place, catching up with a familiar face.

More than I can handle

I'm pretty sure I haven't seen the floor of my room since coming home from college. Every time I try to pick up, I realize I must sort the boxes, piles, and stacks from college. Are they things I want to keep? To take with me when I move? To use in my classroom? To have in my apartment?

Every time I think my room is bad, I realize my mind feels the same way: completely cluttered, unable to think clearly, unable to continue with one task for more than an hour because my mind is tumbling with ideas, thoughts, worries, and lists.

And then there are the short little trips... trips to Indiana, weddings, Rhode Island... every time I get semi-unpacked and situated, a new duffel bag of things to sort arrives on the scene.

On the most recent trip... the one to Rhode Island... we dropped my brother off at his internship for the summer. We made it into a short family vacation, since we don't know when we'll be together again. We toured mansions, island port cities and harbors, and the ocean, relaxing away from the ever-increasing list of things to do.

In a small, festive town we decided to stop for ice cream. Home-made ice cream. We tasted different flavors, peered into various white containers full of swirled goodness, and finally decided.

I got my ice cream last, and immediately it turned into a dripping mess of stickiness. As rivers of chocolate and vanilla raced down my hand, there was nothing I could do to hold back the damage. My hand was stuck to the cone, the paper peeling, the cone softening. Within the first minute I was ready to throw out the whole thing. But I devoured the ice cream trying to make sure it didn't drip on my clothes or anything else. Meanwhile, my mom and brother managed to eat theirs with no mess. They watched me, coaching me how to lick around the cone, laughing at my chocolate-covered hands. I was embarrassed at my inability to eat an ice cream cone like a civilized human being... and heard my brother ask, "and she's going to teach fourth graders?"

As I finished the last of the mess and began wiping my hands on every napkin I could find, I began to feel insecure. Some days the idea of teaching seems normal because it's what I have always wanted to do. But other days it is incredibly overwhelming. It feels like I have a thousand little rivers of responsibilities I have to stop before they get out of control and make an enormous mess of things. Like that ice cream cone, it seems too much. More than I can handle. It seems like I want to backpedal, ask them if they're really serious.

And then truth... that came ironically from a big, messy ice cream cone... I never give you more than you can handle. 

Not only has the principal of my school trusted me with these fourth graders. God has. And He says He will give me the strength to handle all that comes my way.

Already I have seen His blessing and provisions!

My Life's About to Change

Well... I have been insanely busy, hence the lack of posts in May.

Recent news: I got back from Hungary, graduated from Grace College two weeks later, moved home, and 8 days later I got a job.

A real, grown up job.

I'm going to be a 4th grade teacher.

Seeing that sentence ^ makes me ridiculously excited, humbled, scared, honored, thrilled, and anxious all at once.

Yesterday, I visited my school.

I walked the hallways, met some teachers, and inhaled the "school smell" that every elementary school I have ever been in smells like... even the one in Hungary.

And then. We turned the corner. And I stood in the doorway to my classroom. A fairly big room, gray carpeting, not nearly as many desks as it's going to have... half chalkboard, half whiteboard, tons of cupboards and shelves... but it's mine.

I had a quick flashback to those long summer days the week before school starts... sunkissed days of sprinkler-jumping, barefoot-biking down the sidewalk, ice cream shop walks, firefly-catching in the tall grass. And then the realization that summer is almost over... and school anxiety begins to hit. What will next year be like? Will I like my teacher? What will my classroom be like?

And so my mom would take me in to school while teachers were unpacking boxes, setting up their classrooms in shorts and t-shirts... so unlike how I'd see them the next week. I would smell that summer-freedom school smell... the muggy air, and hear the fans blowing. And I would turn the corner. And stand in the doorway to my classroom... peering around the desks, looking for my nametag, smiling shyly at my teacher while my mom talked with her.

But now, I'm that teacher. That has boxes to unpack. And shelves to supply. And name-tags to make, and kids to love.

I've always loved school. I am beyond excited to devote the next years of my life to helping others love school too. To love learning.

It's a huge responsibility. I am humbled. so humbled. SO EXCITED.

I want to thank those who have instilled in me a love of learning from the beginning. A deep love, a deep passion for seeking truth, for understanding, for creating, for writing, for music (which is in a sense, one of the main reasons I got my job... but that's another story).

Thank you for setting me out on this journey... and giving me opportunities to fulfill the dream I had as a sixth grade girl... who loved school, loved learning, loved teaching, and loved kids.

Why I don't like the title of this blog

"Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day..."

-Emerson in "Self-Reliance"

I adore this quote. I am one who changes my mind frequently... the more I learn the more I change my mind... which is confusing to most.

In a world where being "wishy washy" and a "flip flopper" is the sign of weak character, I think the opposite. If I realize I'm wrong, isn't it better to change than to continue on foolishly for the sake of consistency?

I've been trying to find a good way to "disagree with myself" about the title of this blog for quite some time now... yet I only now have found words to explain.
 
"Be Still and Know..." comes from that famous verse, "Be still and know that I am God."

It's a great verse. A great passage. It's plastered all over Christian art, peaceful landscapes, and watercolor paintings, reminding the viewer to slow down, find peace without worrying, allowing God the proper place of control. What could possibly be wrong with that? It sounds so peaceful, so encouraging, so beautiful.

Well. It's only half the verse.

But most people never hear the other half. Because we like it the way the first half sounds. It's about me. It's about me relaxing and letting God "do His thing."

What's the second half?

"I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

So what?

Part of "knowing He is God" means understanding (on the human scale, with our finite minds) who God is... his heart for the whole world. His glory is not just on a "me and God" scale but also a "whole world" scale.

Why is this uncomfortable? Why isn't this written in loopy letters on the pictures of awesome sunsets or trickling waterfalls?

Because God has a heart for the nations, and so often we don't. I don't. My culture is comfortable. It's enough for me to know God. But no. God cares about every nation. Every tribe. Every culture. So I should too.

He will be exalted among the nations. Heaven is not a one-dimensional culture made up of people exactly like me. Heaven will be a multi-colored, multi-cultural celebration of the God of Nations.

It seems like my whole life I've been missing this.

And now, here, in the middle of Hungary at an international school where students speak all sorts of languages, I'm beginning to catch a glimpse.

The thing is... I've grown up between cultures. I've been wrestling with my identity. In some ways, student teaching in Hungary has caused me to go on a journey of "finding myself" as cliche as that may sound. I've been frustrated with my cultural background. Frustrated at my "everywhere and nowhere" homes. Saddened by losing close relationships due to my cultural differences. But that's what happens when I focus on the negatives.

I can see this in-betweenness as an asset, or as a burden.

And once again, in a moment of frustration, I felt the Lord speak to my heart:

You're my image bearer. Don't you see... I have created you in my image to love cultures just like I love cultures. To be in-between cultures like I am in-between cultures. So that you can understand people like most can't.

So. While I'm not necessarily going to change the title of this blog, I do want my readers to know that the "..." implies the whole verse:

knowing that God is a God of Nations who calls His people to love the Nations like He does... in order to bring Him glory in every nation, every language, every culture.



 

The Vineyard

I am a seeker of metaphors.

I adore connections in unlikely places, and connecting tangible experiences to intangible ideas.

Yesterday we went out to the family vineyard to tend to the overgrown vines and prune them before they really took off growing. The sun was shining gloriously as we packed up clothes for all potential weather and drove the hour and a half to Lake Balaton where the vineyard is.

Despite the fact that it has been rainy and cold here for the past three weeks, little purple violets dotted the grass, and the whole hillside was resounding with birdsongs, as the pleasant smell of blossoms wafted in the air.

After some original cleaning out of the wine cellar, we got to work. We soon realized that none of us were experts in trimming or pruning grape vines, so after discussing it for quite some time and calling a few experts, we began snipping.

The wooded vines were growing in every-which-way. These branches seemed healthy, full of buds and life.

While it made sense to me to remove the dead vines, it seemed cruel to snip off those that were growing well. The vines leaked pure, quivering droplets of liquid from a green inside at the place where we cut them back... how could this possibly be good for these plants?

By the end, the ones we had pruned looked absolutely dead and hopeless... nubs on a dying, flaky vine.

The more I worked, the warm spring sun shining brightly in my eyes, the more I felt like I, too, was that vine. And the more I chopped and snipped and clipped, the more I began to feel panicky. What if this isn't helping and it kills off all potential fruit it would have borne? What if all that remains, even in the harvest season is hopeless nubs, dark and knotty against the blue sky?

Suddenly, the metaphor in John 15 lay open before me as my hands gripped the rough, brittle bark of the "mother branch" and touched the smooth, new wood of the growing sprouts. Those that bear fruit must be cut back in order to bear more fruit.

It doesn't make much sense to me. But the experts know this is what you do. So I keep clipping.

And I feel like that branch. I was doing fine... I was growing... I was learning. In fact, I was growing in every possible direction. And then... the snips, the clips, the pain, the oozing of tears, the frustration at feeling like I am right back where I started. To bear more fruit. Focused. Not in every direction. More fruit.

I still don't completely get it. I have not seen the "fruits" of this work, yet. All I see is the hopelessness of the nubs, contrasting the joyous blue sky. But I must trust the wine experts. Those who have seen these vines grow year after year... even after being chopped down... and know that in order to bear the most fruit, they must be pruned.

As we finished pruning, the dark rain clouds rolled in and it sprinkled lightly over the fields and vines. I ran up to sit on top of the cellar looking down onto the hillside and the distant lake... once sparkling in the sunlight, now a despondent gray.

I pondered the metaphor, I thought through my own prunings in my own life, how I feel cut back... humbled, scared, and uncertain that growth will come.... uncertain of the future. Always questioning: what will become of me? 

I whispered my questions to the wind. The rain flecked my jacket with large splotches, and my questions drifted away unanswered. I slid down from the top of the cellar through the now-wet grass and climbed in the car... the only warm place...

As I sat looking at the rain, a brilliant warmth flooded the whole side of the hill, from the top of the cellar all the way down. I heard victorious shouts of, "The sun's out! Look for a rainbow. RAINBOW! Over there!"

I scrambled out of the car and raced back up to the top of the cellar. I sat on the edge of the cement rim, dangling my feet down, drinking in the delicious scenery. A hillside of green, blossoms, and growing trees, the stubby vines below, the colorful village houses, the lake, and rising from my side of the lake, but arching fully across it and landing over the distant hills.... a rainbow.

The more I watched and exulted, the rainbow grew brighter and brighter... more and more vivid.

The wind had snatched my questions from my lips... and tossed them into the rain.... returning with the rainbow.

Faithful and True. Promise Keeper. My questions remain. But I know the one to answer them knows all things. And remains steadfast and true in all things. Even if He doesn't answer them when I want him to.

I know many people saw the rainbow yesterday. But it sure felt like it was just for me.

Homes

Technically, the word "home" shouldn't be plural. Because there really should only be one.

I have always thrown the word "home" around quite loosely... which seems odd to those who have only one definition of home. Even after spending just two nights in a hotel on the road, I call it "home" when I'm ready to turn in for the day. But just because I perhaps overuse the word "home" does not mean that I take it lightly. In fact, home is something I treasure.

When I was little, Home was an apartment building on a quiet street in Basel, Switzerland. The stairs were covered with thick, red carpeting that I loved to crawl up and down. Home was the smell of roasted chestnuts, reading Calvin and Hobbes with Dad after a bath, and singing and learning with Mom.

When we moved to Michigan, Home became the freedom of our very own garden, the curve in the sidewalk and the yellow sign we biked to with our bare feet. Home was the smell of coffee mixing with the gentle wood scent of our house and the sound of muffled voices coming from the living room in the morning. This home is deeply buried in my heart. It's where I have grown up. Where I went to school. Where I became who I am. Where my family is.

But then I moved to college. Home became the whitewashed brick walls of Alpha, the sound of ladybugs flying into the blinds, and incessant shrieks of laughter.
Each year of college this home took on a new form. Sophomore-year Home was the sound of our squeaking door that shut on its own... developing friendships, deep conversations, and long phone chats. Junior year was once again inside the brick walls of Alpha, but Home was totally different. Thick carpeting, our own lighting, and our own artwork softened the harshness and sterility of our small room. My roommate and I were in it for year two. Home was the sound of hilarity, prayer, and singing.

Senior year, my home feels more like Home than my other college homes. In an apartment surrounded by dear friends including my steady roommate... it feels like real life. real home. my own.

Summer homes are always Hungary... the big house on top of the hill with the rust-colored gate, the winding stairs to spacious rooms. The echoes of voices, the big double doors, Persian rugs, salami sandwiches, and inhaling Nagyi-hugs.

As much as I love places, smells, and sounds, Home for me has less to do with place. It's about people. Homes become defined by the people I love, and a place becomes Home when I leave a bit of my heart there. When I think back to favorite places, precious memories, I find that they are not most often tied to the place itself, but to the people I'm with. But place gives a setting where my relationships grew. Home becomes precious as people in those places become precious.

I feel so blessed to have so many Homes... places where my heart, like a starfish, has splintered and my love has grown.

Victory

The snow was melting into deep puddles of slush as I carried a fresh bouquet of flowers through the shrouded pathway that led to the grave of my grandma's parents and brother. The cemetery was full of the living bringing Easter flowers to the graves of the dead.

While my grandma paused for a prayer by the graveside, I stared across the cemetery at the hundreds of crosses that scattered the hillside. The names, the year of birth, the dash, and the death date. How sobering to think that all of life is merely the dash between these two dates.

In this particular cemetery many famous people are buried... people that impacted more than the lives of their immediate families or friends. Composers, Olympians, writers, scientists, war heroes. Yet death shows no partiality: both the famous and the nobodies succumb to its power.

I laid the colorful flowers onto the snowy, muddy gray of the grave, and noted the ironic contrast. The living among the dead. It seemed out of place.

I never knew these distant relatives, so going to their graves is more of a tradition, and out of respect for my grandma. However, in the afternoon we went to a different cemetery where my grandpa and his sister are buried. I was close with both of them, and in some ways their deaths greatly defined my teen years as I began to gain a more realistic view of the world... death, pain, and grief included.

We stood around this grave, and I stood where I stood over six years ago as my grandpa's casket was lowered into crypt. I remembered the bitter sting of death as tears squeezed out from behind my eyelids. I remembered how final it seemed when the top of the crypt was set in place, sealing the casket on top of my loved ones. I remembered the anger, the hurt.

And then.

Somewhere deep inside of me... a small, tiny peace that grew outwards from its epicenter until it stilled my whole shaking frame. The peace then escalated into a deafening silence. And then a whisper: "Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is your victory? O Grave, where is your sting?"

Because just as out of place as it is for those living flowers among the dead... my Savior is not among the dead. He is risen. He is alive.

So I turned and looked down the long, paved driveway toward the distant hills, knowing this cemetery will one day no longer be a place of the dead but of the living, bursting victoriously from their graves... going to meet their conquering Lord... either with great joy or with fear and trembling. But ultimately... death is not final. Because my Savior has conquered death and He extends life and hope to those who accept His sacrifice.

 Death is conquered.

Life has won.

Happy Easter!

Public Transportation Wars

I'm used to quiet commutes to school in my little blue car... whispering soft prayers to the hum of the engine. I'm used to twelve minute rides of calm before starting my day in sixth grade.

But now I sit on a bus as it rattles and bumps along the road, sliding dangerously close to parked cars. I roam the crowded streets where no one makes eye contact (it's better that way). They look down at the gum-spotted sidewalk, mysterious puddles that cannot be from rain, and dirty, scuffed shoes. The wind blows extra hard in my face as a bus roars past. I race down the stairs to the underpass and emerge at the train station. I frantically search for the correct platform. People are used to these commutes. They know which train is theirs. I appear to be the only one even slightly confused. I board a train, heart thumping in my throat. I sit, arrange my bags. Then panic. What if it's the wrong one? What if I end up going to the wrong place? What if it doesn't stop where I want it to?

I look around nervously to see if anyone appears to seem kind enough to answer my question. The Hungarian formal tense cycles through my head before I clear my throat and ask the lady closest to me. She looks a little irritated at being called out of her silent reverie, but she's helpful enough for me to know I can stay on the train.

I leave the train, walk through another underpass filled with sketchy characters I'm trying to love, yet still find myself hurrying past. I scramble to get on the right bus, show my public transportation pass, and settle down for an antsy ride... peering out the window trying to figure out where I need to get off before the bus flies past my stop.

If we're keeping score, public transportation leads 5-0.

But my success lies elsewhere: wherever I end up, and no matter what mess I have gotten myself into, I have been able to figure out how to get home. Never once have I had to spend the night in the city (or have my grandma come get me), nor have I been late for school!

Using public transportation humbles me daily. It brings me to the point of being able to ask for help when I need it, to recognize that even in my independence I need to be willing to invite others in and help me. My Hungarian has improved significantly, and my anxiousness in using the formal tense has diminished.

I have also learned the importance of acting confidently. No matter how clueless I may be, I must move with confidence, otherwise I could become a target, especially if I let on to the fact that I'm a "foreigner." I must have mastered this, because each day people come up to me asking me for directions, which always makes me giggle inside.

Somehow, I am finding so much joy in my commute. Even though I spend almost 3 hours a day on public transportation, I love the opportunity to sit and people-watch. I love seeing even the sternest face light up when receiving a text from someone they love. I like hearing a harsh Hungarian voice soften into sweetness to answer a phone call. I like seeing the kindness of strangers who stand so a young mother and child can sit, who run after me when I leave my lunch on the train, and who help carry an old lady's suitcase up the stairs.

Even though there is noise and chaos around me, I find the same peace as I have in my little blue car. I still whisper soft prayers to the tune of sirens, honks, and other commuters' conversations. And after an hour and a half and a cup of delicious coffee I start my day in sixth grade...