The Rowdy Boys

When people ask me what I do, I usually tell them, "I do God's work."  And then when they give me a strange look, I add on, "I teach junior high."  That typically brings about a sympathetic head nod or maybe even a "better you than me" sigh of relief.

Most of us were weird in junior high.  Or mean.  Or obnoxious.  Or just weird.  Junior high is a time where nothing about ourselves seems to make sense.  Physically, emotionally, academically... strange stuff is happening; it ain't pretty.

Junior high is all about pack mentality.  There's safety in numbers.  Find your group.  Follow the leader.  Do your best to just blend in.  In a way, it's not all that different than what you should do on the first day of prison.  Unlike prison though, you don't have to shank someone in the yard the first day.  You only have to find the one kid who's weirder than you feel.  An emotional and mental shank, if you will.

And that idea -- that idea about being like everyone else, the idea about not standing out, the idea about not rocking the boat -- that's what makes it so hard to teach kids about kindness to others, especially those that are different.

That's why I liked this video so much.

It reminded me of one of my favorite camp stories.  I worked for 8 summers at a camp that mainstreamed children with special needs into cabins of "normal" campers.  There was a family who came to camp.  The parents were older, with grown children, and they had then adopted 3 children with special needs.  The oldest of these kids was Sean, a young man with cerebral palsy.  He was in a wheelchair and difficult to understand, but Sean was blessed with the biggest and brightest smile in 4 counties.  Wherever he went, he brought sunshine with him.  He was loved by every member of our staff.  In his last summer at camp, Sean was put in a cabin of uber-popular teenage boys who would be staying for 2 weeks.  Sean would only be there for one.

Although I knew that Sean's counselors would take care of him, I worried that these boys (who could be rough and loud and, let's be honest, a little obnoxious) would either A) overwhelm and intimidate him or 2) completely ignore him.  I crossed my fingers, hoped for the best, and kept my eyes peeled.  

I knew things were going okay; I hadn't been called for any major problems with them so that took care of concern A.  I wasn't so sure about the second.  It wasn't until the boys figured out that not only was Sean going home while they would stay another week, he also probably would not be back the following summer.  They came to us at lunch, asking if they could throw a goodbye party for Sean after Free Swim.  They planned to let Sean go early with his counselor, and they would get ready.  The boys -- these rowdy, self-absorbed, uber-popular knuckleheads -- gave up their favorite activity to decorate their cabin with streamers and banners and homemade cards.  When he and his counselor pulled up on the golf cart, the boys were lined up on the front porch to welcome him back, hooting and yelling and dancing around.  Sean was so excited, clapping and swaying, that he almost fell out of the golf cart, and his smile could have powered all the lights in Fort Worth AND Dallas in that moment.

In that moment, though, Sean's smile had nothing on the smiles of those 9 other boys.  When I saw that kid at the end of the video, describing how that play changed him, how it made him want to be kinder and more helpful to others, I saw my rowdy boys in his face.

In my circle of camp friends, it is well-known that I had not wanted that Unit Coordinator job with those god-awful teenagers that summer.  I had been a little-kid counselor, and I had kicked and screamed about taking that job.  I was an elementary education major until that summer, and when I think about memories like that, it's no wonder that I switched the following semester.

Throwing that party for Sean didn't mean those boys were any less rowdy or any less of knuckleheads.  It didn't mean that they never caused me trouble again or never made another mistake.  It didn't even guarantee that they would see the importance of their own actions.  But it did mean that, for a few minutes at least, they were a lot less selfish and a little bit more grown-up. 

Those moments don't happen often for teenage boys, but when they do, it's important to stop, think about all those sympathetic head nods, and know, "better me than you".

A Trip Down the Road

In most jobs, people work hard, struggle, and even want to give up sometimes.  But in most jobs, people tend to see the product of their struggle, the effects of their hard work.  Being a teacher doesn't always pay out that way.

I look at my junior high kids -- especially my boys -- and many times I catch myself wondering, "What on Earth is going to happen to these kids?  How will they ever learn?  How can I expect them to keep a job, raise a family, or pay the light bill when they can't even remember their locker combination for more than 3 hours in a row?"

And, in just 2 years, they're gone.

Sure, they're just down the road at high school, but in the midst of training a whole new crop of 7th graders, I sometimes get too busy to get on down the road.  I find myself in a seemingly never-ending cycle of immaturity and irresponsibility.  The kids outgrow us or think we won't remember.  They are looking to the future (as we hoped they would) and sometimes forget their past.

So unlike most other jobs, teachers don't always get to see the pay-off.  Sometimes, you just have to go seek it out.

Tonight, at the high school homecoming game with two other Mustang teachers, there was lots of pay-off.  So many former students, excelling in classes, marching in the band, scoring touchdowns, and even taking the homecoming crown.  I saw college students and college graduates and incredible moms and dads who never stopped believing in us or them.  I saw students who had done a complete 180 in life, creating opportunity from nothing.  It was a night full of smiles and hugs and "Oh my Gosh, I can't believe it's you!"  When they're with us, growing up seems impossible, but once they're gone, it happens in the blink of an eye.

And after a long, long week of struggle at school, it was well worth a trip down that road.

840 Minutes

I was at work for 14 hours today.  I have words.  They might make sense.  I'm not sure.

Here's my day in a nutshell:

1. Arrive at 7:15 AM.  Work for 45 minutes.
2. Go to duty.  Yes, I do my duty out on the back patio in front of everyone.  I do my duty with Russ.  We talk while we do duty.  Sometimes, parents ask me questions while I do my duty.
3. Yes, Chris Drury, that duty talk was just for you.  And it's listed as item #2.  Because we're all blessed with the humor of 7th grade boys.
4. Teach a lesson.
5.  Informal meeting while while working.
6.  Teach same lesson.
7. Lunch
8.  Pick up my class and a discarded wrapper for a condom off the back porch as two boys squealed in dismay.
9.  Said a prayer that some kid filled it with water and just made a very awkward water balloon.
10.  Laughed about that image.  It could be totally legit.
11.  Taught the lesson for the 3rd time.
12.  Killed a roach and saved a roomful of terrified children from said roach.  It was tiny.  It was barely a roachette.
13.  Taught the lesson... again.
14  Taught it one last time.
15.  Meeting.
16.  Duty!  Twice in one day!
17.  Leadership team meeting -- 90 minutes.
18.  Twenty minutes of the volleyball scrimmage.
19.  Prepare sub notebook, sub lesson, and create escape plan for my not-so-good-might-erupt- with-change student because I won't be there tomorrow (for a day-long meeting) and that is a BIG change.  Please pray around 12:15.
20.  Read and re-read my sub notes to make sure that even a 7th grader can follow them because sometimes substitutes don't show up and then, basically, a 7th grader MIGHT BE RUNNING MY CLASS because they don't go tell anyone there's no teacher.
21.  Left at 9:15.
22.  Got dinner, drove home.

Yeah.  Teaching.  How hard could that be?

But every class was genuinely upset that I wouldn't be there tomorrow.  Even the wild boys.  That alone was worth all 840 minutes at work today.

You take the victories where you can get 'em, I say.

Five Minutes of Tears

Yesterday wasn't a great day.

I couldn't sleep at all last night since I A) self-sabotaged my sleep schedule by avoiding my anxiety and 2) I spent the whole evening unable to turn off my thoughts anyway.  I tried reading (300 pages), writing, even a boring Tom Cruise movie.  Nothing.  So at 5:30 AM, I gave up and decided to just see how far I could go, knowing full well that things would probably end in tears at some point.

Today I went to school.  I was severely disappointed to see my room.  It was full of leftover materials for me to clean out (including some terrible and strange artwork).  It was full of tables that don't work for me as desks (too clunky and cumbersome to fit 30 kids in).  It had a platform stage and a desk that was bigger (and more stubborn) than I and a huge unfinished sheetrock display box covered in butcher paper (as a projector screen maybe?).

And no window.  I haven't seen the sun in my classroom in 8 years, y'all.

So, at 9:45 AM, I sat down with my chicken biscuit and Diet Coke and cut loose some whiny, embarrassing, selfish tears.  I tend to be super-dramatic when I'm overly tired.  It's not pretty.  I fully admit it.  Then, after about 5 minutes of wallowing in self-pity, I realized that it was stupid to cry over something I haven't even attempted to correct.

I went to see my principal who told me, basically, that the tables are an easy fix.  Then later, she and the vice principal's came down to investigate.  They got a horde of 8th graders and custodial staff to do the desk swap.  Then they started breaking down the monster desk and investigating where it could be better used.  One of them whipped out an exacto knife and started cutting away the gross old carpet on my odd little "stage", determining that it could be pulled right up.

There was no hesitation.  There was no "we'll see what we can do".  They just jumped right in and started examining the problem.  I liked it.

I don't know that this will translate into a better school year or more success.  But I did like the fact that I felt awful and lots of people -- other teachers and students included -- were willing to pitch in to make me feel better.  I'm not good at asking for what I need, but maybe with a little practice, I'll get better at it.

Moral to the story:  Allowing myself 5 minutes of tears is okay if there is 5 hours of production to follow it up.  It can't be the other way around though, and I have to remember that there are people in my life willing to lend a hand if only I reach out.

And now, I'm on 32 hours of no sleep and a serious high from tonight's Rangers game.  (A little Kinsler and KittenFace always makes things better, no?  Thanks again for the incredible tickets, Leslee!)

Good Dog

There are a few people who can make you smile just to think of them.  Those are the types of people that everyone should have in their lives.  They make you feel loved and needed.  They are always happy to see you, and they're always down for a snuggle.

And sometimes they're not people at all.

This is Big Sam.  He's not a person, but he doesn't really know that, so don't spoil it for him.

He belongs to one of my best friends, Laurie.  Her extended family rescued him from the pound as a puppy. He went to live on their family ranch to replace the former black lab, Moses.  But when her aunt was moved to a nursing home, there was no one left to care for Sam on a regular basis, and Sam came to camp.

Upon arrival, his presence was felt immediately, and he took to it pretty quickly.  I've never met a dog who was as unfazed by hordes of children running at him, screaming his name.  They would crowd about him, 15 or 20 at a time, petting him, tugging on his ears, and snuggling his stinky snout.  I think his tolerance mostly centered around the fact that little kids tend to be sticky with candy and are known to carry beef jerky in their backpacks.  To travel around camp with Big Sam was something akin to being the roadie for the Beatles; you're necessary to manage the crowd but not much else.  I spent many summers as Sam's human sidekick, even sharing the title of "Assistant Director". He dealt primarily in curing homesickness and snack clean-up while I mostly dabbled in paperwork and scheduling.

Sam is a little weapon-shy.  He's a total failure as a bird dog.

Popular

Pretty sure that kid had ketchup behind his ear.

Katie and Sam

He was invaluable on more than one occasion though, most notably with a camper who had erupted and run away.  After a tense 15 minute chase around the lake, I came upon her, poised at the edge, threatening to throw herself in and die.  I managed to grab her in a panicked snatch.  As I squeezed her tight, her tiny fists beat upon my back.  Little did I know that Big Sam was behind me charging to the situation (Big Sam does not run).  He got between us, shimmying and licking her face, drawing her attention out of her furor and back to reality.  I'll never know if he thought he was saving me or her, but, in truth, he probably saved us both. His timing in a crisis is almost as impeccable as his timing for dinnertime and daily snacks.

Sam is always a good sport, letting us dress him up and humiliate him on several occasions just for the benefit of marketing or a good laugh.  We paid well, though.  Milkbones every day at 3 PM.

Sam at the Ranch

Sam with the mowing gear on.

Riflery goggles.  He was not pleased.

Not a squeaky toy that he can't destroy.

Checking cook-outs in the mule.

Snuggling with Jamie

Sneaking into the chicken chair when no one's looking.

When none of us returned to camp this summer, there was a certain sense that maybe it was just time to move on. Admittedly, there probably haven't been very many people missing my paperwork skills, but I feel pretty confident that they could've used a good camp dog a time or two this summer.

Tomorrow, I'll go to the Ranch with my best friends, and when I get in the car, there'll surely be a very fat, very happy, black dog shimmying in the back seat, ready to say hello.  And I'll surely give him a big smile.  

And maybe a Milkbone.  

They Grew in Their Hearts

Last Friday was a special day for my family.  Last Friday, the number of Nazworths in the world increased by one more.  Set your clocks backs, world; we tend to run a little late.  And we're kind of stubborn. Deal with it.

A long time ago, some doctors told my sister-in-law, Becky, that due to her cancer treatments as a child, she'd not be able to have children.  What those doctors didn't know is that people like Becky are MADE to be mothers.  I've never met a kinder, gentler, more caring soul in the world.  And the fact that she not only puts up with my brother but loves him intensely adds so many points in her Heaven column.

(Don't worry, I love my brother too, but it's my little sister duty to give him Hell even when I'm supposed to be being nice.  He'd expect no less.)

And you know what?  My brother surprised the sh*t out of me by being a spectacular dad.  I don't say it to be mean at all.  He will be the first to tell you that most people frustrate him/drive him crazy.  But I guess if those people are little enough and cute enough, he'll cut you a few breaks.  I'd like to think that he cut his parenting teeth, bossing me around all those years.  However he did it, though, it worked.  Those boys adore him.

It hasn't been easy.  When Jim and Becky decided to adopt through the foster care system, I worried.  A lot. I've worked with a great many kids in the system, mainly through camping, and their stories aren't easy.  As a friend of mine says, "You don't get in that system for nothing."  They don't take them away for feeding the kids Pop-Tarts and not making them wash their feet.  I worried about the emotional strain.  I worried about the guilt in wanting to save them all.  I worried about what would happen if kids were sent back to their bio parents.  And some of that happened, and it was devastating.

But it didn't stop my brother and sister-in-law.  They knew that somewhere out there, there were kids who needed them.  Kids who deserved them.  Kids that they could save from some pretty severe circumstances.  And there were.  And they did.

I can't even begin to imagine the leap of faith it takes to trust yourself to be a parent -- either through birth or by adoption.  I don't know if I could risk my heart the way that Jim and Becky did not once but several times. I was in awe of their courage to go after their dream of being a family.  I'm still in awe of it.

On December 21, 2012 -- a day that most people predicted an ending for our world, Jim and Becky's world began anew.  This is the day that they officially adopted Isaiah.  When the judge asked my brother to hold up his hand to be sworn in, Isaiah immediately gave his dad a high five.  It was so fitting, I think, and such a clear picture of Za's personality.

And this past Friday, Isaiah's little brother, Jaxson got his day in court as well.  I don't know that high fives were exchanged, but there was some serious attempted foot-eating that occurred.  That's Jaxson with the attempted foot to mouth maneuver.

Due to changes in the foster care system, Jim and Becky had to be very private about what they shared about the boys -- including pictures -- on social media.  Nothing makes me happier now than to see them brag, just like every other parent, on Facebook.  I waited until Jaxson's adoption was final before posting; it just didn't feel right to mention one without the other.

Baby Isaiah

Baby Jax

More Jaxson:

More Isaiah:

 

 

Easter pics:

 

And Mom and Dad:

 

This morning, Becky posted that today it hit her that she was "finally a MOM" and included the phrase, "they grew in my heart".  I loved that; it is so very true.  And I'm so glad that she and my brother kept planting that dream.  The world's a much more beautiful place with those boys in it.

True Story: John Deere Changed My Life

When I was 10, I was a Girl Scout.  In fact, I was a Girl Scout for a really long time, but at 10, I was a scout who was desperate to go to summer camp.  I didn't realize it at the time, but my family didn't have the extra money to send me to a week of overnight camp.  The year before, my mom had recruited the local junior college basketball team, the Lady Bulldogs, to buy and sell hundreds of boxes of Thin Mints in order to send me, but I think that the next year, there was some kind of Cookie Moratorium laid down by the coach.  I was devastated at the possibility of not returning to camp.

Somehow, my dad -- the King of the Trade -- worked out a deal with the camp's site manager that he would mow the camp property all summer in trade for my time at camp. My dad had a big ol' John Deere tractor that he and my brothers ran tirelessly all summer to supplement our income, and now that I think about it, that tractor changed my life.

• I went to camp for 4 more years until Camp Cibola closed.
• My wonderful memories and realization of camp's influence never left me.
• In 1995, on a trip through the student union at ASU (a school I chose because I'd been to student council camp there), I applied for a job at Camp El Tesoro in Granbury, TX.
• At El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.
• I kept going back to El Tesoro for 8 summers as a counselor, program director, assistant CIT director, and, yes, even the camp nurse.
• At ET, I decided to change my major from Elementary Education to Secondary Ed.
• At ET, I met Heather Wilson who introduced me to Linda Denson.
• Linda Denson hired me at Nichols Junior High (even when she didn't TECHNICALLY have a job open yet).
• Thirteen years and over 1,200 students later, I am still at Nichols Junior High.
• Also, while at El Tesoro, I met Laurie Johnston, one of my many mentors in how to work with children.
• Nine years ago, LJ talked me into volunteering at Camp Carter YMCA to help start a camp for blind and visually impaired children.
• I became the day camp bus driver, the camp nurse, and the assistant camp director.
• In 2012, I became the director of overnight camping for Camp Carter.
• In 26 years as either a camper or staff member, I've worked with thousands of children and hundreds of staff members.
• Over 200 of my most valued, creative, generous friends and acquaintances came either directly from my time at camp or from a connection at camp.
• Statistically speaking, if you're reading this, you're one of those 200. 

Almost every decision I've made, every goal I've accomplished, and every dream that I've dreamed has been a result of my time at camp.  Nearly every person I interact with on a frequent basis is somehow a result of my time at camp.  Every place and moment and friendship is connected, and camp is the undercurrent of them all.

All because of a John Deere tractor.

This year, Camp Carter YMCA has set a goal to raise $63,000 to provide scholarships for both day and overnight camp for area youth.  As of this morning, we had $14,000 left to go.  We are hoping to raise that amount in the next 6 days.  I cannot promise you that I'll run a marathon to earn your donation.  Or walk 60 miles.  Or jump rope a thousand times.  But what I can promise you is that your donation, if you choose to make one, will change a child's life. 

Remember... not everyone's parent has a John Deere trade up his sleeve. 

If you would like to donate, you can do so in one of two ways: 
A) Go to Camp Carter's website, and follow the "donate" button located at the top.  Choose "Camp Carter's Annual Campaign". 
--OR--
2) Email me at coachnaz@hotmail.com or DM me with your mailing address and your pledge amount.  You don't have to pay right away.  You can pay out your pledge in installments if that makes it easier.

And, for the record, apparently there's a Kindle Fire being raffled off for those campaigning for Camp Carter.  Y'all know how I feel about e-readers, so if I win, I'll raffle it off to one of my donors!

And I Uttered a Foul-Mouthed Little Prayer

For all of you who have kids I will say this:

I don't know how you do it.

I mean, I get the gist of things.  You have a child.  He or she is the light of your life, the apple of your eye, and, on occasion, the slightest pain in your ass.  But to have a child... this little version of you, running around, representing your skills as a parent, scraping knees, falling in love, falling apart... How do you handle that as a parent?  As a person who is hell-bent on protecting this precious and fragile thing while still being hell-bent on him learning his lesson, how do you step aside and watch him go?

I'm just a teacher.  I'm just a coach.  I'm just a summer camp director.  I'm not a parent.  I am without children.  But with thousands of children.  Tonight I went to catch a game at the high school my students feed into.  It was a fantastic game -- one of the best all-around performances I'd seen from the girls in a good long while.  It was a see-saw battle that literally was up for grabs until the last ticks of the clock.  In the final 1:45 there were 6 freethrows made (by both teams) and almost as many turnovers/bad passes (by both teams) and a significant injury to one of our best players.

Two of the starters tonight are former players of mine.  Super-talented players with enormously kind hearts, gracious attitudes, and smiles that light up the gym.  And skills.  Did I mention the skills?  But here they were, in an incredibly important game, and all I could see were their little junior high baby faces in too-big uniforms.  It melted my heart a little.  And then, when the late-game injury occurred, who did the coach bring in but another former Lady Mustang.  She'd seen only limited playing time in the first half and none in the second.  And here she was, stepping in, ice-cold, with 30 seconds left.  I prayed the only "mom-type" prayer I knew for her:

"Please don't let her eff this up."

Then I quickly wondered if God would be upset with that one but realized that He probably doesn't like take-backs anymore than he likes the eff word (even when abbreviated).  I felt bad for even saying it -- for thinking she might -- but all I could worry about was how she would feel if she were to make a mistake.  I couldn't bear thinking about how unfair it would be, to come in for only a few seconds, to that kind of pressure.

I turned to my fellow coach, a mom of 3, and said, "I don't know how you do this."

"Do what?" she asked.

"Sit here.  With no control.  And just watch your kids surf the rise and fall of success and failure.  I didn't give birth to anyone -- not one kid -- on that floor right now, and I feel like I'm going to vomit, I'm so nervous."  And then I quickly took my pulse.

"It's hard," she admitted, "but you just do."

I thought about that.  I am a teacher and coach and summer camp director.  I have no children, but I have thousands of children.  Do you have to give birth to a child to know their labor pains?  Tonight, I saw so many of my former students and athletes.  I lost track of all the hugs and smiles.  I heard college plans, updates on brothers and sisters (who were also former students), lots and lots and lots of grade reports and track practice complaints.  I saw the best of my best -- all the growing-up reasons I love to teach.  But I also saw a few who weren't on the crest but were in the valley instead.  Low or struggling or regretful; lost on "the wrong path" or dealing with things far beyond the normalcy of high school life.   In that moment, I found myself in the valley as well, and it was hard.  I found myself struggling with what to tell them.

I wondered again about what Terry had said.  She hadn't just stopped with "it's hard".  She also reminded me that "you just do".  So, I re-directed the wave, just as I had only a few years before, and tried to instill some motivation, provide some guidance, and reinforce the idea that, no matter what mistakes they make, I love them.

Do you have to give birth to a child to know their labor pains?  No.  No, I don't believe so.  Once you've chosen them, and they have chosen you, the two are linked somehow forever.  Somehow the steadiness of that link, the surety of that choice, makes the pain worthwhile.

Oh, yeah... And that precious little, ice-cold former Lady Mustang coming into the game with 30 seconds left?  She caught the ball under the basket, pivoted in, ducked an opponent flying at her full-speed, and took a completely unnecessary shot so high off the backboard I thought it was going to go over the top and out of bounds.

It went in.  I couldn't believe that flippin' ball went in.  I couldn't believe that she had the guts to shoot it; I wouldn't have.  I'd have played it safe.  I wanted her to play it safe.  I prayed a horrible, little, foul-mouthed prayer for her to play it safe.  The whole time I had worried about the chance of her making a mistake, I was completely ignoring the possibility of her joyous success.  The other team tossed in a couple of freethrows that could've tied the game were it not for that basket.  Her score kept us 2 points ahead -- just enough to pull an upset, thrill the crowd and her teammates, and prove something really important to me: 

I don't know how you parents do it.  I really don't, but I'm so very glad you do.  And also?  God doesn't like take-backs, but maybe He doesn't mind the eff word.  But to be safe, I think I'll avoid them both when it comes to asking for favors.

All Hustle, No Bieber.

I'm a junior high basketball coach.  For some people this equals the statement, "I like to bang my head against the wall".  But it doesn't.  What it really translates to is, "I like a challenge.  I like to see growth.  I like impacting a kid's life in one of the last possible times people experience real change.  Also, I don't mind banging my head against the wall". 

Because, let's face it, sometimes I do feel like I'm banging my head against the wall.  But it's usually worth it.

Tonight, I said goodbye to my 8 game conference winning streak (if you go back to last season which I do because it sounds better).  We lost to a team that is always tough on us and always provides an exciting game.  I detest losing, but if I have to lose, I want it to be an opponent I respect at least.   And I do.  They're scrappy little gym rats who dive for the ball like it's got Justin Bieber's phone number on it.  I like that about that team.  The hustle; not the Bieber.

We fell apart in the 2nd quarter.  An 18 point fall apart.  I'd like a do-over on that dang 2nd quarter.  We're not an 18 point fall apart kind of team.  But at halftime, we made adjustments.  Things got a little better but not a lot.  Yet in the last minutes of the 3rd, when we just didn't seem to be making headway, I looked into their eyes and asked them not to quit.  And they responded.  They fought hard.  They followed direction. They made significant growth.  They made me remember why I like to play this crazy game, why I like to coach this crazy game, why I, specifically, like to coach this crazy team.  Tonight, I didn't mind banging my head against the wall because a realization finally set in for them -- that they can do more than they think.  That they were better than they think.  That they are scrappy and tough.  That a little hustle takes you a long ways.  For at least 8 minutes, they were different.

They were all hustle.  Without the Bieber, of course.

And I love that about my team.

Photographic Memories...

My dear friend, Courtney, sent me this link the other night.  She said I would fall in love with it, and I, of course, totally did.

She knows me too well, that girl.

Some of them are funny and bring a simple smile.  Others bring on that surprise sob.  You know the one.  The one where you think you're just doing a sharp gasp and then suddenly there's tears and noise but no words.

No?  Just me?  Then how are we friends?

Here's one of my favorites from the site.

Dear Photograph,

Thank you for everything we had.
@jonathanstampf



Anyway. Take a look. It's a relatively new site, but I think it's exquisite. I hope you do too.

Its Conflict is Its Essence...

Yesterday began with a phonecall announcing a birth. Yesterday ended with a phonecall announcing a death.

I told you. The Universe must keep its delicate balance.

One intense love appears only hours before another drifts away,
Both visits unexpected.
Two moments unexplained.
Life breathes in. Life breathes out.
A son for a father. A grandson for a husband.
Hope for sorrow.
Tears of relief for sobs of pain.
A lifetime of memories yet to come for a lifetime of memories to remember.
These are the trades that are made.
Backdoor dealings between Fate and Coincidence.
Rejoice.
Release.
And the cosmic tumbler continues to shake the dice.

Because Without the Bitter, Baby...

...the sweet ain't as sweet.

That's right, I just quoted Vanilla Sky. Even though I am probably the only person I know in this world that liked that movie. Yet much of my philosophy of life does originate from my guru, Cameron Crowe. The fact that such a phrase is uttered in a sci-fi fable about cryogenics means nothing to me.

Because it's true.

Today was a day that I've been dreading on two fronts.

1) With budget cuts looming above all of our heads, I have known that lay-offs are possible for anyone. Today, in my room, stood one of my very favorite "anyones", still reeling from possibilities laid out to him. It left me dazed and broken-hearted.

and

B) Two of my dear friends (who happen to dearly love one another) had a baby. Dread, you ask? How so? Because the odds have been overwhelmingly stacked against them. Because all the research I did about their situation made me want to crawl into a hole. Because I hate to see anyone I love so pained and worried. Because to wish for mere survival doesn't seem like a big enough wish, yet you are terrified to ask for more.

But when you are dealt the bitter, sometimes the sweet will follow. This is the cruelty of the Universe's balance scale; it rarely ever lifts you to the stars or leaves you flailing on the ground. Its conflict is its essence. Before either of us had time to dry our eyes, a message arrived.

Three pounds, fifteen ounces of stable, breathing sweetness to sit upon the other side of that scale.

The shadow of goodbye shouldn't travel with such a fragile light of hello. But hello anyway, darling boy. Welcome to the world.

Do What You Do...

For many people I know, their job is just their job. They show up at 8:00. They leave at 5:00. A lunch break. Maybe a smoke break. Some chit chat with co-workers and knocking some tasks off the to-do list.

When they go home, they might worry about a deadline. Or an evaluation or even how they'll pay the rent.

I go home and worry about who will wind up pregnant. Who will go to jail. Who will graduate on time if at all. I twist my hands over how my students will ever remember to pay the electric bill someday if they can't even remember to bring back their homework. I wonder if the bruises on their arms are really from falling down. I question who is worrying about these children when I see them, still on the back porch of the school at 8:00 at night or at 6:45 in the freezing cold morning, shivering without even a jacket.

I grew up in a school, in a town, where if you can't feed your family, everyone knows. Everyone knows because there just... aren't... that... many... of you. Where if you're at school at 8:00 PM, the principal gave you a lift home. Where everyone is expected to graduate and teen pregnancies and jail terms were still thought of as statistics as opposed to realities.

I live in a different world now. I am reminded every day.

Tonight, I saw a student who hasn't been in my classroom in 8 years. A student who redefined laziness. His biggest exertion in my class was to roll his eyes, smack his lips, furrow his brow, and let out an exasperated sigh every time I asked/re-directed/prodded him awake. I can clearly remember worrying, night after night, about where life would land him. I was pretty sure it was nowhere good.

Truthfully, I am still unsure as to where life landed him. His appearance is relatively unchanged. His slow walk still feels like molasses running uphill, and I still get the eyeroll every time I "be startin' in wit' dem questions". And he evades "dem questions" when they get too personal, too near things he doesn't want his ol' teacher to know. And I am now careful in what I ask because, believe me, some things are better left unknown. But every time I see him, he is looking out for his little brother. He is shaking hands with every person he encounters, shooting his slow, easy smile at every kind face he sees. Even before I see him, he is ambling toward me, arms outstretched. And he hugs me around the neck and asks me if I "still be doin' whatchoo do?"

For a split-second, I take a break from worrying and just enjoy the moment.

And then I respond, "Of course I AM still doin' what I do. I don't BE doin' anything else." Which, of course, is met with an eyeroll and a lip smack.

But this time, it's followed with a slow, easy smile.