A Middle School Heart

I have a middle school heart.

It's the feeling that every whisper and every snicker is about me.

It's the insecurity of feeling surrounded by awkward moments and feeling unable to take control.

It's the heart that wavers under the weight of what people think.

My middle school heart wants to be liked. Wants to be acknowledged. Wants to be known. Wants to be heard.

My heart is going through that awkward brace-face phase where it's being pushed and tugged and straightened as I try to acknowledge the Lord in my ways, and as He makes my paths straight.

My heart is going through that awkward zit-on-your-nose embarrassment where it feels like all my insecurities are bubbling to the surface, unable to be masked or hidden, visible for all.

My heart is going through an awkward growth spurt as it learns to love deeper, love less conditionally, and love in ways that don't come naturally to me.

When I tell people that I teach middle school, I love watching their faces. There is always a kind of cringe in their response. Everyone has some kind of horror story from middle school. The cringe says it all.

Five years ago I sat in a class learning about teaching middle schoolers. I had just added a middle school endorsement to my major, and I was feeling good about my decision. After all, adding a middle school endorsement would make me more marketable in a year and a half when I was looking for a job.

As my textbooks and notebooks were sliding off that tiny desk in Mount Memorial Hall, my heart felt a tug. I want to teach middle school. It wasn't just about making myself look good anymore. It was the longing in my heart. I want to be a part of this in-between!

Despite the awkwardness, I think middle schoolers are beautiful.

They're the unfinished bowl on the potter's wheel, lopsided, rough, ungainly, yet so very moldable.

They're the primer on the walls of a freshly painted room. They're a shade of what is to come. They are the beginning of something new and good and beautiful.

They're the caterpillars tucked away inside the chrysalis, wrapped in webs of confusion and self-doubt. And yet, in a few short years they will emerge as confident butterflies. There is beauty in that confusion, that self-doubt, that slow transformation.

I want to draw out that potential: from the smoothing of the wet clay, to the hues of color to come, in the depths of the chrysalis.

I want to challenge them to be shaped, to shine bright, to step out.

And in doing so, I realize my own heart is being transformed: molded and formed in the hands of the Potter to leave the warmth of the chrysalis in order to shine brightly for Him.

From the top step

I pulled open the heavy door and hurried out. My bus was on its way and I didn't want to miss it. My mind was preoccupied with all of the to-do lists and tasks for when I get to school.

I was about to race down the stairs, two at a time, but at the top of the steps, my breath caught in my throat. The sunrise over the city was blue and purple and orange and red. Below, the familiar sights of Castle Hill and the Catholic church stood, silhouetted against it. But after going down just two stairs, the entire sunrise was hidden, and all I saw were bluish gray clouds that hovered low over the city, and dark green shadows of trees that crowded out the view.

As the gate creaked shut behind me, I contemplated this. I thought about the fact that sometimes I get a grand glimpse into what God is doing. And other times it seems like I'm staring up at a cloudy, dreary sky wondering if God is even working at all.

I smiled to myself, that God had revealed his beautiful sunrise to me, from the top step, and it made the gray more manageable. I knew the sun was coming, it was just hidden.

On my way to the bus stop, I paused outside of a small gate. Since childhood, this gated house has been one of my favorites. It's wedged between what used to be a small store, and another row of larger houses. When I was little, I would stop because a big husky used to live there, and I loved to see if it was out. Though I no longer stop to visit the dog, I do still pause and peep through the white iron gate. It's hardly wide enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder, but it has one of the best views of the city.

The stairs lead downward, but seem to drop off into the sky. The trees, though fully grown, do not crowd out the sky or skyline.

This morning, this little gate did not disappoint. The white iron bars seemed to frame the blues and yellows and purples, and for the second time that morning, my breath caught in my throat.

It's these little moments when it seems as though God teaches me more about Himself. That sometimes in the most unassuming places, I catch a deeper, more beautiful picture of His plan. While I could stand and gaze for the entirety of the sunrise, He reminds me I have work to do, here and now.

With a sigh I move on, and stand gazing down the gray street, waiting for the bus. The light from the sunrise and the glory from that moment seem enveloped in the mundane. Yet there is purpose here. I know that God is working behind the scenes.

As I sat on the bus, gazing out the window (but mostly at my reflection since it was still dark), my eyes searched for that glorious sunrise. And just when I thought I might miss the entire show, the bus turned a corner and the entire city lit up as golden sunlight streamed between the buildings.

I delight to serve a God who reveals bits and pieces of His glory, of His plan, and then gives me ordinary places to make His glory known.

It's these little morning moments with my Creator I wouldn't trade for anything.

Known

The hardest part about moving across the world is losing what's familiar.

It's losing that sense of knowing things, like what's expected when you go to a cafe and want to order a croissant and a coffee.

It's losing that sense of knowing people... of knowing the face your roommate makes just before she bursts out laughing. Or knowing what people are doing at any given point in the day. Or living life alongside of them, moment to moment.

It's losing that sense of being known. Of having people stop you in the hallway to see if you're ok because you happened to walk in to school a bit slower and more "weighed down" than usual. Of having a coworker bring you your favorite Starbucks drink just because. Of having someone know just how to encourage you, what scripture to pray over you, and how to breathe life back into your tired soul.

Sometimes as I walk the city streets, a face in the crowd, just one of hundreds on their way to work, I feel empty and alone. Do they know what my passions are? Do they know what makes me laugh or  burst with joy? Do they know what makes my heart heavy, and what threatens to rend it in two?

It's in these moments of gazing into bleary-eyed morning faces, trying to keep my eyes down instead of staring, that I remember Truth:

O Lord, you have searched me, and you have known me. You know when I sit, and when I rise, you are familiar with all of my ways. Before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely, Lord. (Ps. 139)

The way the red sunlight creeps over the city as I get on my first bus, and the way it bathes the gray streets in gold by the time I get on my second one is a quiet joy. It reminds me to look to the One who knows me. He knows how much a sunrise delights me, uplifts me, fills me with peace and joy for the day. It reminds me to cast my cares upon Him, because He knows me, and He cares for me.

And in His goodness, He is also gifting me with people to walk alongside of me and to take time to get to know me. He knows this brings me joy too.

In The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis quotes about friendship: "Friendship is born at the moment when one man says to another "What! You too? I thought I was the only one!"

I am so thankful this season has been filled with these moments.

There is joy in the discovery, and in being discovered. It's not always comfortable, but it's good.