All my life I've wondered about the ways that events occur, how people come together, where paths intersect. Is it God's plan? Fate? Destiny? Coincidence? Dumb luck?
When something incredible happens, we're quick to call it part of God's plan or the Universe smiling upon us. Yet in tragedy or despair, we cry out at the unfairness or blame our bad luck. We are Fortune's fool. Later, in processing our grief, we might still arrive that this is all part of a Master plan in which we are being tested, our strength and weaknesses revealed.
And what happens when joy is born of grief? When something beautiful is born from ugliness? How does one reconcile that paradox? How do you celebrate something that is only yours as a result of incredible sadness? Was that terrible day pre-ordained, its sacrifices sealed? And if so, does the guilt ever fade? The guilt of the gratitude for what you now have?
Will that shine ever lose its shade?
And should it?
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Letting Go
I'm a camp girl. It's true. I am.
I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.
But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.
If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.
I spent four summers as a child at camp. I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995. And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another. Until this one. For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.
How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now). It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss. But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt. I've run out of room for the hurt.
I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard. They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage. And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup.
I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago. I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words. I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie. Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me. It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength. It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever).
There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.
Sometimes, I don't think of it at all. And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia
And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp. See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends. So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.
It was pretty amazing.
The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp. Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.
On the way out, we saw a group of new camp counselors, readying themselves for the beginning of their summer. They were stationed all along the path out, past the bell, through Main Lodge, and across the swinging bridge. To each, I wished out loud a happy and safe summer, but inside, I harbored a jealousy so heavy and thick that I struggled to draw my last breaths of that sweet cedar air.
As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history. I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all. I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart. I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.
But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz, I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.
And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.
I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.
But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.
If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.
I spent four summers as a child at camp. I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995. And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another. Until this one. For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.
How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now). It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss. But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt. I've run out of room for the hurt.
I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard. They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage. And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup.
I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago. I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words. I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie. Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me. It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength. It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever).
There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.
Sometimes, I don't think of it at all. And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia
- the feel of the wooden benches in Main Lodge
- the sound of the bell at mealtimes
- Flag Medley
- the thrill of finding a friendship rock
- the tepid water of July creek walking
- the rush of the waterfall at Shannah's Lagoon
- the smell of cedar
- the sound of cicadas
- the shake of the swinging bridge
- the blare of the WWII speakers at the slab
- the pop of a bow and the thwack of a bulls-eye
- the pop of Miss Maddie's wooden spoon as you reached for a roll (an obviously unnecessary roll)
- the smell of Miss Linda's homemade cinnamon rolls
- the cool breeze through the chapel
- the singing, the laughter, the tears
- Diet Cokes and picnic tables
- the sweating at Council Fire
- the sweating at lunchtime songs
- the sweating at rest time
- the sweating that began as soon as you got out of the shower
- My God, the sweating. Always. The sweating.
- the way Lower Pool completely shredded your toes
- sprinting past RuLoHo at midnight
- Screened in cabins
- Screech Owl
- The Big White Truck
- The lock on the CC
- The sandals in the safe (they're probably still there. Nobody could open that damn safe.)
- dancing on desktops in the office
- late night programming
- 2 AM all-camp planning
- Montana's cheese fries
- trail rosters
- circle-up
- the Blackmon-Mooring van
- the Live Oak grove
- the Redwood 'Hood
- the Horizmen
- fireworks on the Brazos
- secret campfires at the point
- secret smokes behind the maintenance barn
- Pig-Out Day
- the glare from the road
- the shade of the trails
- dance parties
- kitchen raids
- ice cream on the back porch
- and on and on and on...
And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp. See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends. So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.
It was pretty amazing.
The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp. Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.
 |
| Elliott making his way across the swinging bridge for the first time. I love the casual hand in the pocket. No big deal. |
A little video of the first crossing of the wiggly bridge.
Squeals of fear were soon replaced with "I like it now!"
Hayrides up to middle camp.
A little chase outside the new lodge to avoid breaking
something inside the new lodge.
Elliott and Marcus. Destined to be camp buddies.
There's still water in Fall Creek. It's obviously not July yet.
The new equestrian center.
The new lodge.
The new office.
Marcus making friends.
Tyler, just dealin' with it.
Kathy, LJ, Elliott, and Courtney. And a little photobomb by yours truly.
Sweet giggles.
This is the old bell. It is a fixture in the life of camp.
These are my old friends. They are a fixture in the life of me.
18 years in the blink of an eye.
The new "old" bell. But still old friends. They're the best kind, you know.
As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history. I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all. I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart. I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.
But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz, I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.
And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Just Me and my Daddy Dean
Today is Father's Day. After 37 of these things, you'd think I'd get better at remembering to send a card. But in true Nazworth fashion, I wait until the last minute and always wind up late. So instead of a card, it will be a blog post dedicated to my Daddy Dean. That's what my grandmother always said I called him. I don't remember it, and I don't know where I would've gotten it, but I like it.
My dad taught me many things in my life.
He taught me that most things can be fixed with duct tape and WD-40. And if it can't be, then I should just call him.
He taught me to check the oil and tires before I leave on any trip and that you should plan to leave by 1:00 if you're really shooting for 4:00.
He taught me to pitch a softball, make a freethrow, sink the 8 ball, and shoot dice. He taught me to ride a bike and roller skate and he tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift (or how to read the owner's manual and figure it out on my own).
He taught me that humor is a common language, and he helped me master the art of a well-timed one-liner.
He taught me about working hard and playing hard. He taught me that you have to earn a win and that by earning it, it's even more meaningful.
My dad could shoot pool with either hand, play 18 holes one-handed, or beat you at dominos giving up a 50 point advantage.
He loves babies, animals, fried fish, and Little Debbie snack cakes. He always wore a pearl snap shirt, lambchop sideburns, and a baseball cap. He's still rarely seen without a ball cap. He's flawed, just like the rest of us, but his imperfections and struggles have never stopped him.
He's been a farmer, a night-club manager, a small business owner, a volunteer firefighter, a pilot, a race-car driver, a long-haul trucker. But mostly he's just been my dad. And I'm pretty damn thankful, every day, for that.
This is my dad.
My dad taught me many things in my life.
He taught me that most things can be fixed with duct tape and WD-40. And if it can't be, then I should just call him.
He taught me to check the oil and tires before I leave on any trip and that you should plan to leave by 1:00 if you're really shooting for 4:00.
He taught me to pitch a softball, make a freethrow, sink the 8 ball, and shoot dice. He taught me to ride a bike and roller skate and he tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift (or how to read the owner's manual and figure it out on my own).
He taught me that humor is a common language, and he helped me master the art of a well-timed one-liner.
He taught me about working hard and playing hard. He taught me that you have to earn a win and that by earning it, it's even more meaningful.
My dad could shoot pool with either hand, play 18 holes one-handed, or beat you at dominos giving up a 50 point advantage.
He loves babies, animals, fried fish, and Little Debbie snack cakes. He always wore a pearl snap shirt, lambchop sideburns, and a baseball cap. He's still rarely seen without a ball cap. He's flawed, just like the rest of us, but his imperfections and struggles have never stopped him.
He's been a farmer, a night-club manager, a small business owner, a volunteer firefighter, a pilot, a race-car driver, a long-haul trucker. But mostly he's just been my dad. And I'm pretty damn thankful, every day, for that.
This is my dad.
My dad was the first in his family to graduate from college. I was the second. And I'm proud to have graduated from his alma mater.
This is my dad and my mom. Although it's Father's Day, I feel like she needs an appearance too. He'd be the first to tell you that without Wanda, there is no Dean. They just celebrated their 40th anniversary last month.
 |
My mom, dad, and mom's best friend, Aunt Patti. They were not the "stay at home" kind of crowd.
Dean with a beard. Still looks weird to me.
Cuddling with the catch of the day.
Dean, the farmer. They're probably just fixing it with some WD-40.
The next four pics are of my dad and my brothers. The first two are my oldest brother, JD. And the next two are my other brother, Jimmy Ray.
   
I had to crop this photo to avoid indecency charges. Put a diaper on, man.
One of the things I'm most proud of, however, is that those boys turned out to be pretty spectacular dads of their own sons.
JD and Hunter: Way Back
Hunter and JD: Closer to now.
3 generations of Deans -- James Dean, Roy Dean, and Hunter Dean. And a Wanda.
Jim and Isaiah
Naptime. Dads are good at that.
My favorite picture of Jim and his favorite tiny superhero.
My dad is a goofball. Although he takes great pictures, the ones I love most of him are those with goofy faces.
  
As you can tell, goofiness -- much like our tardiness -- is a family trait.
  
My dad can sleep anywhere. Including in the middle of feeding me.
 
Luckily, by the time Hunter Dean arrived, he was a little better at it. Or maybe we just snapped the picture too early.
This is my dad today -- whipping me at dominos. He'll admit that he's not quite as fast or young as he once was, but neither am I and that's okay. Because no matter how old I get, this is how I see us.
Just me and my Daddy Dean.
Happy Father's Day, Dean-O. I love you bunches.
|
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Amazing Things Will Happen.
Normally, the last day of school is a pretty joyous day.
The students are usually all:
And the teachers are all:
Now, you can feel how you want to feel and say what you want to say about standardized testing or how we measure student progress here in the good ol' U.S. of A. That's your business. And you may or may not realize that A) every state's measurement standards differ. Or 2) that once you're in trouble with the Feds, you're in it... and you have to prove you're worthy by making AYP two years in a row. So finally) a school could actually be seen as a top-perfoming school in the eyes of the state and still continue to be seen as a failing school in the eyes of the federal government (See: Nichols 2010).
But, as I said, you can feel however you want to feel. Mostly, I just feel confused by it all.
AYP also advances in stages. When a school first misses the mark, they are in Stage I. On a side note, it has never escaped my attention that the AYP lingo is the same lingo we use for classifying cancer. Stage 1 is sort of shocking, but fairly isolated and easily treatable. But Stage IV... man, watch the eff out for Stage IV. Ain't nobody got time for that. Stage IV is devastation.
There is no Stage V in the cancer world, but there is in AYP. And that, my friends, is where we've found ourselves.
This year has been especially difficult. We, as a faculty, have been living and working and teaching in a metaphorical pressure cooker. There are, I'm sure, many people who have decided that somehow we've gotten what we've deserved. They will say that we didn't work hard enough or that we didn't use the right materials. Or that we should have tried this. Or that we should have tried that. Or that we must not really care. Or that we're a waste of time or money. Or that we should be ashamed. Or that we don't deserve a voice in our own fate.
Don't laugh. Don't doubt. Those are actual quotes I've heard -- some whispered behind hands, eyebrows raised. Others voiced openly and publicly. Mostly by people who have never worked in a struggling school.
It's been hard to wear the Scarlet "N". But we've done it, and we tried to keep our heads held high. In many ways, I've done it my entire career. I've been on the end of the sympathetic head tilt many a time when I've told other district employees where I teach. They react as if I told them I had a dreaded disease. Like cancer, I suppose.
So this week, the decisions of some led to the leaving of many. Today, it was very hard to celebrate the end of the school year. It was hard to remember the success of our students, and we've actually had many -- just not those that are measurable with a scantron and a #2 pencil. And it was very difficult to say goodbye. I'm not very good at goodbye.
See, the greatest thing about being a Mustang is that you are always a Mustang. I have heard, time and time again, that there is something truly special and unique about our building. Teachers leave and go to other campuses or districts, and they always report that they might like their school, but it just doesn't feel like home. The Nichols faculty is a family. We may not always get along or agree, but we love each other. We support one another. Teaching in a struggling school feels like going to battle, and our faculty has been in the trenches together for a really long time.
While I will remain at NJH next year, seeing so many of my friends leave today was tough. Some were leaving by their own choice while others were not, but it doesn't matter how they left. They left. And we will all have a tremendous amount to rebuild -- within our school and within ourselves -- no matter where we all land in August.
I wore one of my favorite shirts today. It's the last shirt I have from the grief camp I used to volunteer for. (It didn't escape my attention that there are, strangely enough, five stages of grief). The camp's motto is, "We cannot choose the way we are hurt, but we can choose the way we are healed." We have been hurt. We will continue to hurt.
But we can choose to heal. And, God, I pray that healing touches all our hearts soon. I don't know how or when it will begin to happen, but my suspicion is that it will start with the smile of a student in August. Or a hug from a colleague. Or a parent choosing to believe in each of us. I doubt that it will start with a test score.
Just as I was about to go to bed tonight, I saw a video that made me think of my school family. It's the farewell speech from Conan O'Brien when he left The Tonight Show under much scrutiny and a highly publicized controversy. The first time I watched it, I just watched it. But the second time I watched it, I heard it. And it went straight to my broken heart and placed a tiny band-aid. It may not hold for long, but it held long enough to make me believe that amazing things will happen.
Amazing things will happen, friends. Not just at Nichols but wherever we all land. Amazing things will happen because of who we are and what we've learned from one another. Amazing things will happen because we struggled mightily and never gave up. And there is beauty, real beauty, in standing tall in a fight that no one else thinks you can win -- in standing up when all you want to do, when all anyone expects you to do, is stay down.
They will happen. I believe it. I believe it in my heart, broken as it may be right now. I have to. And I hope you believe it in yours as well.
So, good night, my Mustang friends. But not goodbye.
The students are usually all:
And, admittedly, some of the teachers may do that dance, too. That's what happens on a "normal" last day. But today wasn't that day. This week just wasn't that kind of week.
In case you don't live in North Arlington or read newspapers or listen to just general gossip or speculation, you might not know what's been happening in my school. To make a long story short, we haven't met the standards set in place -- AYP (Adequate Yearly Progress) -- according to NCLB (No Child Left Behind). All those letters are federal standards, measured in accordance with state testing standards.
Now, you can feel how you want to feel and say what you want to say about standardized testing or how we measure student progress here in the good ol' U.S. of A. That's your business. And you may or may not realize that A) every state's measurement standards differ. Or 2) that once you're in trouble with the Feds, you're in it... and you have to prove you're worthy by making AYP two years in a row. So finally) a school could actually be seen as a top-perfoming school in the eyes of the state and still continue to be seen as a failing school in the eyes of the federal government (See: Nichols 2010).
But, as I said, you can feel however you want to feel. Mostly, I just feel confused by it all.
AYP also advances in stages. When a school first misses the mark, they are in Stage I. On a side note, it has never escaped my attention that the AYP lingo is the same lingo we use for classifying cancer. Stage 1 is sort of shocking, but fairly isolated and easily treatable. But Stage IV... man, watch the eff out for Stage IV. Ain't nobody got time for that. Stage IV is devastation.
There is no Stage V in the cancer world, but there is in AYP. And that, my friends, is where we've found ourselves.
This year has been especially difficult. We, as a faculty, have been living and working and teaching in a metaphorical pressure cooker. There are, I'm sure, many people who have decided that somehow we've gotten what we've deserved. They will say that we didn't work hard enough or that we didn't use the right materials. Or that we should have tried this. Or that we should have tried that. Or that we must not really care. Or that we're a waste of time or money. Or that we should be ashamed. Or that we don't deserve a voice in our own fate.
Don't laugh. Don't doubt. Those are actual quotes I've heard -- some whispered behind hands, eyebrows raised. Others voiced openly and publicly. Mostly by people who have never worked in a struggling school.
It's been hard to wear the Scarlet "N". But we've done it, and we tried to keep our heads held high. In many ways, I've done it my entire career. I've been on the end of the sympathetic head tilt many a time when I've told other district employees where I teach. They react as if I told them I had a dreaded disease. Like cancer, I suppose.
So this week, the decisions of some led to the leaving of many. Today, it was very hard to celebrate the end of the school year. It was hard to remember the success of our students, and we've actually had many -- just not those that are measurable with a scantron and a #2 pencil. And it was very difficult to say goodbye. I'm not very good at goodbye.
See, the greatest thing about being a Mustang is that you are always a Mustang. I have heard, time and time again, that there is something truly special and unique about our building. Teachers leave and go to other campuses or districts, and they always report that they might like their school, but it just doesn't feel like home. The Nichols faculty is a family. We may not always get along or agree, but we love each other. We support one another. Teaching in a struggling school feels like going to battle, and our faculty has been in the trenches together for a really long time.
While I will remain at NJH next year, seeing so many of my friends leave today was tough. Some were leaving by their own choice while others were not, but it doesn't matter how they left. They left. And we will all have a tremendous amount to rebuild -- within our school and within ourselves -- no matter where we all land in August.
I wore one of my favorite shirts today. It's the last shirt I have from the grief camp I used to volunteer for. (It didn't escape my attention that there are, strangely enough, five stages of grief). The camp's motto is, "We cannot choose the way we are hurt, but we can choose the way we are healed." We have been hurt. We will continue to hurt.
But we can choose to heal. And, God, I pray that healing touches all our hearts soon. I don't know how or when it will begin to happen, but my suspicion is that it will start with the smile of a student in August. Or a hug from a colleague. Or a parent choosing to believe in each of us. I doubt that it will start with a test score.
Just as I was about to go to bed tonight, I saw a video that made me think of my school family. It's the farewell speech from Conan O'Brien when he left The Tonight Show under much scrutiny and a highly publicized controversy. The first time I watched it, I just watched it. But the second time I watched it, I heard it. And it went straight to my broken heart and placed a tiny band-aid. It may not hold for long, but it held long enough to make me believe that amazing things will happen.
Amazing things will happen, friends. Not just at Nichols but wherever we all land. Amazing things will happen because of who we are and what we've learned from one another. Amazing things will happen because we struggled mightily and never gave up. And there is beauty, real beauty, in standing tall in a fight that no one else thinks you can win -- in standing up when all you want to do, when all anyone expects you to do, is stay down.
They will happen. I believe it. I believe it in my heart, broken as it may be right now. I have to. And I hope you believe it in yours as well.
So, good night, my Mustang friends. But not goodbye.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Pass It On...
There is a song I once sang, at a camp, not so long ago. Its opening lines are:
"It only takes a spark
to get a fire going,
and soon all those around
will warm up to its glowing."
It's a song we sing to celebrate the love of God, but, for me, it's also about celebrating the warmth we find within one another. The friendships we form and cultivate. The knowledge and guidance we provide to one another. That's what camp does -- more than any other place in the world. The light we find in each other, even those of us who may be old friends, grows within us and begins to change us. And it burns so brightly we feel as though the darkness may never creep up upon us again.
But it does. It always does. And it threatens to snuff out our joy, our hope, our light.
Last night, one of my camp family, Matt, was killed in a car wreck. This morning, one of my most precious and joyous friends, Jarrett, called to tell me. The pain in his voice and in his tears, the confusion and loss, cracked my chest open with grief.
Matt was a wonderful young man, and in the short summer that I knew him, I found him to be quick to smile but long on patience. He always seemed to be just off to the side, watching first, but wherever he appeared, he brought a calm and a peace to the situation. He had a quiet air and a quick wit, and to sit next to him at dinner was the prime spot to catch one of his quick jokes. As his supervisor, I cannot say I knew him well, but I know that he was well-loved by his friends and well-respected by his peers. And if you were to know them, you'd know what a fine compliment that is.
All day, I have grieved and worried. I have felt that darkness, so familiar an old friend, scratching at the door of my heart. When I heard Jarrett's voice on the phone, I felt my light flutter, and I worried. I worried about how these kids -- my kids -- will mourn Matt, the toll that grief exacts on people so young. How the unfairness of a life gone so quickly, so abruptly, can burn a hole in your spirit and rage uncontrollably. I worried -- I worry -- that it will engulf them.
I thought about Matt all day, and I thought about those closest to him. The more I thought about him, the less I cried. I even began to smile as the sun set before me. Because while he is gone, he will not be forgotten. The light of Matt, that spark I saw 2 summers ago, won't be snuffed out. It can't be because it burns on within each of us that had the privilege to know him. And it burns strongest in those who loved him best.
This one's for you Matt, and for all those who loved you, from the very first week you were a part of our camp family. Thank you for your spark.
"It only takes a spark
to get a fire going,
and soon all those around
will warm up to its glowing."
It's a song we sing to celebrate the love of God, but, for me, it's also about celebrating the warmth we find within one another. The friendships we form and cultivate. The knowledge and guidance we provide to one another. That's what camp does -- more than any other place in the world. The light we find in each other, even those of us who may be old friends, grows within us and begins to change us. And it burns so brightly we feel as though the darkness may never creep up upon us again.
But it does. It always does. And it threatens to snuff out our joy, our hope, our light.
Last night, one of my camp family, Matt, was killed in a car wreck. This morning, one of my most precious and joyous friends, Jarrett, called to tell me. The pain in his voice and in his tears, the confusion and loss, cracked my chest open with grief.
Matt was a wonderful young man, and in the short summer that I knew him, I found him to be quick to smile but long on patience. He always seemed to be just off to the side, watching first, but wherever he appeared, he brought a calm and a peace to the situation. He had a quiet air and a quick wit, and to sit next to him at dinner was the prime spot to catch one of his quick jokes. As his supervisor, I cannot say I knew him well, but I know that he was well-loved by his friends and well-respected by his peers. And if you were to know them, you'd know what a fine compliment that is.
All day, I have grieved and worried. I have felt that darkness, so familiar an old friend, scratching at the door of my heart. When I heard Jarrett's voice on the phone, I felt my light flutter, and I worried. I worried about how these kids -- my kids -- will mourn Matt, the toll that grief exacts on people so young. How the unfairness of a life gone so quickly, so abruptly, can burn a hole in your spirit and rage uncontrollably. I worried -- I worry -- that it will engulf them.
I thought about Matt all day, and I thought about those closest to him. The more I thought about him, the less I cried. I even began to smile as the sun set before me. Because while he is gone, he will not be forgotten. The light of Matt, that spark I saw 2 summers ago, won't be snuffed out. It can't be because it burns on within each of us that had the privilege to know him. And it burns strongest in those who loved him best.
The SFA crew -- AJ, Matt, Jarrett, and Destiny
Matt, at home on the range.
And they're not the type to let it flicker out. They will pass it along -- sharing his smile, honoring his life. I know this much to be true.This one's for you Matt, and for all those who loved you, from the very first week you were a part of our camp family. Thank you for your spark.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Ramblings on Demonstrative Adjectives and the State of Our Society
Anyone who knows me well knows that I really love my school. I do, sincerely. I started there 13 years ago, on a wing and a prayer because a kind-hearted crazy woman who hired me when she didn't really have a job for me yet.
I don't just work there; I feel called there. You know... Called. Capital "C".
The atmosphere, the culture, the population size is all so radically different from everything with which I grew up that, on a daily basis, I learn something brand new about the world.
Mind you, my love for my school doesn't mean I overlook our flaws. We have a ton of problems; some are within our control and some are not. It doesn't mean that I don't get tired and fed up and want to quit on a weekly basis. Because I do. Sometimes it's a weekly/daily/hourly basis.
But in the last two weeks, my co-workers and I have been visited by three different former knuckleheads. Wait. Not "former", more like "reformed". Because they changed. They grew. Something, somewhere, opened their eyes to a life they didn't want to live anymore. Then they felt confident enough to come up to our school, to their coaches, to their teachers and say the words that every junior high teacher lives for:
"Miss (or Sir)... you were right."
All three kids acknowledged who they once were and who they are now. They acknowledged what they did and then explained what they do now. One has a 3.8 and is applying to nursing school. One is a working mom. One is mentoring kids at another junior high. All of them were smiling. None of them did this alone. The working mom told a co-worker and me that "Life is hard, but it's good".
I like that. Life is hard, but it's good. That's wisdom and realism and God all in six words.
.....
I overheard someone, in passing a few months ago, say something about "these kids" in reference to the students at my school. It wasn't a nice reference, and I won't go into the entire conversation for two reasons: A) It's not worth my time. And 2) the only words that truly irked me were "these kids". I didn't know, right away, why they irked me so much, but, after much thought, I figured it out.
The disdain drips out of them.
It's incredible how much of your truest self can be revealed in just one tiny little demonstrative adjective such as "these".
I started listening to how others talked about the people surrounding them -- friends, kids, students, politicians, sports teams -- and it was so interesting to see the differences in attitudes. People who wanted to distance themselves from the problem (whether it be a political disagreement, a lost game, or a misbehaving student) used the demonstrative. "That guy", "this team", "those kids"...
But others chose to use a possessive pronoun -- "our President", "our boys", "my students". The people, even in disagreement, still identified themselves as part of that group simply through the use of a possessive pronoun. And, in thinking about the personalities of all the speakers, I realized that those using the possessive not only identified themselves as part of the group (or the problem, as it may be) but were actively looking for solutions to remedy their disagreement. The "demonstrators" were much more likely to be people who not only distance themselves from the problem but also rarely perceive their own actions as a possible source of the problem.
I wonder... Can you be a part of the solution without knowing that you've been part of the problem?
......
Thinking back to the days when the three reformed knuckleheads graced our classrooms and hallways, I know that there were many times when I referred to them as "those kids" or "that girl" or "this knucklehead". I know it because I'm human, and many times my flawed humanity is glaringly unattractive. I'm not proud of it, but I am real with it.
Yet at some point, some time, we must have taken some ownership in their worlds as evidenced by their return. Because as Henry Ward Beecher said, "What the heart has once owned and had, it shall never lose".
Whether we own their hearts or they own ours, is the only question we have left to answer.
I don't just work there; I feel called there. You know... Called. Capital "C".
The atmosphere, the culture, the population size is all so radically different from everything with which I grew up that, on a daily basis, I learn something brand new about the world.
Mind you, my love for my school doesn't mean I overlook our flaws. We have a ton of problems; some are within our control and some are not. It doesn't mean that I don't get tired and fed up and want to quit on a weekly basis. Because I do. Sometimes it's a weekly/daily/hourly basis.
But in the last two weeks, my co-workers and I have been visited by three different former knuckleheads. Wait. Not "former", more like "reformed". Because they changed. They grew. Something, somewhere, opened their eyes to a life they didn't want to live anymore. Then they felt confident enough to come up to our school, to their coaches, to their teachers and say the words that every junior high teacher lives for:
"Miss (or Sir)... you were right."
All three kids acknowledged who they once were and who they are now. They acknowledged what they did and then explained what they do now. One has a 3.8 and is applying to nursing school. One is a working mom. One is mentoring kids at another junior high. All of them were smiling. None of them did this alone. The working mom told a co-worker and me that "Life is hard, but it's good".
I like that. Life is hard, but it's good. That's wisdom and realism and God all in six words.
.....
I overheard someone, in passing a few months ago, say something about "these kids" in reference to the students at my school. It wasn't a nice reference, and I won't go into the entire conversation for two reasons: A) It's not worth my time. And 2) the only words that truly irked me were "these kids". I didn't know, right away, why they irked me so much, but, after much thought, I figured it out.
The disdain drips out of them.
It's incredible how much of your truest self can be revealed in just one tiny little demonstrative adjective such as "these".
I started listening to how others talked about the people surrounding them -- friends, kids, students, politicians, sports teams -- and it was so interesting to see the differences in attitudes. People who wanted to distance themselves from the problem (whether it be a political disagreement, a lost game, or a misbehaving student) used the demonstrative. "That guy", "this team", "those kids"...
But others chose to use a possessive pronoun -- "our President", "our boys", "my students". The people, even in disagreement, still identified themselves as part of that group simply through the use of a possessive pronoun. And, in thinking about the personalities of all the speakers, I realized that those using the possessive not only identified themselves as part of the group (or the problem, as it may be) but were actively looking for solutions to remedy their disagreement. The "demonstrators" were much more likely to be people who not only distance themselves from the problem but also rarely perceive their own actions as a possible source of the problem.
I wonder... Can you be a part of the solution without knowing that you've been part of the problem?
......
Thinking back to the days when the three reformed knuckleheads graced our classrooms and hallways, I know that there were many times when I referred to them as "those kids" or "that girl" or "this knucklehead". I know it because I'm human, and many times my flawed humanity is glaringly unattractive. I'm not proud of it, but I am real with it.
Yet at some point, some time, we must have taken some ownership in their worlds as evidenced by their return. Because as Henry Ward Beecher said, "What the heart has once owned and had, it shall never lose".
Whether we own their hearts or they own ours, is the only question we have left to answer.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Can a Snickers Bar Save a Soul?
Today I realized that, yes, a Snickers bar can save a soul. Even just a bite-sized Snickers bar.
Yesterday wasn't great. I was tired. Kids were crazy. Lessons failed. I had to take my victories where I could get them, even the bite-sized ones.
A student that I've never taught but somehow know (you know the kind that I'm talking about) decided that he wanted a piece of candy -- specifically the bite-sized Snickers bar that one of his friends won from me in class. So I told this student that if he had his shirt tucked in every time I saw him all day, I'd give him a piece of candy at the end of the school day.
Every passing period, outside my door, there he stood -- pointing at his shirttail which was neatly tucked in each and every time. Yet at the end of the day, he never showed for his candy.
Coming in this morning, I saw him in the hallway. When I teased him about ditching me, he told me that he'd had to go home early. I reminded him to tuck in his shirt (again) and told him to come see me after school. After all, a deal's a deal.
When he showed up today after school (with his shirt tucked in), I offered the candy jar. He excitedly grabbed his treat and made sure to say thank you. I also told him that because I trusted he had his shirt tail tucked all day (which he probably didn't), he could have another as well. His eyes got as big as saucers, and he asked me, "FOR REAL?"
I laughed and told him that I never joke about Snickers bars and that I don't trust just anyone. And then I proposed that every day I couldn't catch him with an untucked shirt, I'd pay up with a piece of chocolate.
He looked at me as though I'd just offered him 50 bucks. The disbelief was all over his face. When I reminded him that I was no joke, he was so gracious and polite that, for just a moment, I couldn't believe this was the kid I'd seen do the things I'd seen (and heard). Upon leaving, he thanked me one more time and shook my hand.
I wondered about his reaction. It seemed that any kindness, any genuine concern for him, was met with suspicion and disbelief, and it's taken me a couple of weeks just to get him to answer me when I say hello. I was saddened by it, but I'm also hopeful.
Today really wasn't that much better. Kids didn't do their homework. I was still tired. And I woke up to some awful news, but I took my small victory, and I treasured it.
Don't get me wrong, I am completely unsure that a Snickers bar can save his soul.
But it sure as Hell saved mine today.
Yesterday wasn't great. I was tired. Kids were crazy. Lessons failed. I had to take my victories where I could get them, even the bite-sized ones.
A student that I've never taught but somehow know (you know the kind that I'm talking about) decided that he wanted a piece of candy -- specifically the bite-sized Snickers bar that one of his friends won from me in class. So I told this student that if he had his shirt tucked in every time I saw him all day, I'd give him a piece of candy at the end of the school day.
Every passing period, outside my door, there he stood -- pointing at his shirttail which was neatly tucked in each and every time. Yet at the end of the day, he never showed for his candy.
Coming in this morning, I saw him in the hallway. When I teased him about ditching me, he told me that he'd had to go home early. I reminded him to tuck in his shirt (again) and told him to come see me after school. After all, a deal's a deal.
When he showed up today after school (with his shirt tucked in), I offered the candy jar. He excitedly grabbed his treat and made sure to say thank you. I also told him that because I trusted he had his shirt tail tucked all day (which he probably didn't), he could have another as well. His eyes got as big as saucers, and he asked me, "FOR REAL?"
I laughed and told him that I never joke about Snickers bars and that I don't trust just anyone. And then I proposed that every day I couldn't catch him with an untucked shirt, I'd pay up with a piece of chocolate.
He looked at me as though I'd just offered him 50 bucks. The disbelief was all over his face. When I reminded him that I was no joke, he was so gracious and polite that, for just a moment, I couldn't believe this was the kid I'd seen do the things I'd seen (and heard). Upon leaving, he thanked me one more time and shook my hand.
I wondered about his reaction. It seemed that any kindness, any genuine concern for him, was met with suspicion and disbelief, and it's taken me a couple of weeks just to get him to answer me when I say hello. I was saddened by it, but I'm also hopeful.
Today really wasn't that much better. Kids didn't do their homework. I was still tired. And I woke up to some awful news, but I took my small victory, and I treasured it.
Don't get me wrong, I am completely unsure that a Snickers bar can save his soul.
But it sure as Hell saved mine today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)