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.