crunch time

Testing

Thirty-two sharpened number two pencils and a stack of practice tests just arrived in my box. I looked through the tests. Fractions. Decimals. Time. Geometry.

"Eek!" I said out loud. I hadn't taught any of this yet. Will someone please explain to me why we must have everything taught by March? Am I wrong, or aren't there three months left of school?

I gave a big sigh and walked into the classroom.

"Good morning, boys and girls," I said. "I'm afraid I have some bad news. I cannot read to you after lunch anymore. We cannot have any more discussions. I do not have time to look at your stitches or your mosquito bites or your tadpoles. We have to get ready for the test!"

Why do we continue to give these tests? I ask myself. And why are we placing more and more value on them every year? We know that they do not accurately measure what a child really knows. We know that they do not indicate how well a child is doing in school. We know that one of your best math students can fill in one wrong bubble on the answer sheet and get a zero out of ten in math.

One of these days I'm going to get my courage up. When the tests arrive in my mailbox, I'm just going to send them right back with a note saying, "Sorry. Can't do. We're looking at tadpoles today."

- from 32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny
by Phillip Done

staring into grace

I read an article today about Kevin Connolly, a photographer born with no legs who goes around the world taking pictures of the stares that he gets from people. I read the article out of curiosity, which interestingly enough, is the exact same human intuition to which the artist attributes the stares. What stuck with me most from reading about Connolly was that he was not offended by people's stares. It did not make him feel less human. He did not get angry when people's gazes lingered trying to take in the differences they saw. Instead, he chose to recognize a fact that seems so obvious, but one that we often miss: people are human. We're curious. We want to know. It's natural.

How many times did Jesus feel the same way? All around him people stared at, mocked, even attacked him because of his differences. He was unlike anything they had seen. But he knew that they were imperfect. Flawed. Human. And not only did he choose to accept them, he chose to love them. That's grace.

http://www.therollingexhibition.com/

to my two

You keep me real. You speak grace into my life. You accept my awkwardness, my dryness, my doubt. You let me cry about things that are sad and things that are happy. You make me laugh. You keep me young. You talk with me about God and about boys, all in the same conversation. You give advice. You give the best hugs. You give yourself. You make me laugh. You make me forget the rest of the world and its standards. You encourage me at moments I need it most, even without knowing it. You make funny faces. You make me dinner. You make time for me. You make me laugh. You show me the light of Christ in your words and actions. You spill that light into me when I'm around you. You shop, talk, joke, and pray with me. You dream for me even when I can't imagine it for myself.

You make me laugh.

Thanks.

current obsessions

in no particular order...

orbitz sweet mint gum

sudoku puzzles

reality "talent" shows (ie: American Idol, Top Chef, Project Runway)

Jodi Picoult books

real estate I can't afford

NCLB (No Child Left Behind) reform

string cheese

my laptop

"greening" my lifestyle

cabin fever

a summer memory

scent of cut grass and a charcoal fire
swallowing bitter beers and trying to like the taste
a wedge of lime and plug it with your thumb
dog chases fireflies blinking teasingly
and conversation on the back porch
spilling
into
humid

night

boogers are funny

My students were making a list of who is the funniest in the class. Having heard the top five, I expressed my surprise and outrage that I was not considered for one of the positions, namely the top one. So we staged a secret competition. Me versus the funniest kid. All day another student took score secretly. Criteria included number of times the class laughed at that person (oops, I mean WITH that person...), intensity of the laughter, and ability to deliver the line without collapsing into a heap of giggles. Now, I admit I was at an unfair advantage, because let's face it, I get way more talk time than the kids. But, I am proud to admit I have officially earned the coveted "Most Hilarious" title in my class. So what that it was bestowed by a group of 26 fourth graders? They're the funniest people I know.

laryngitis

Have you ever lost your voice before? Mine currently sounds like a series of raspy croaks with intervals of unintentional squeaks and various other noises I didn't know were possible from an adult voice box. I'm like a broken microphone catching only every other word and cracking into ear-splitting feedback forcing others to cover their ears and shudder in pain. It's rather annoying. No, annoying isn't adequate. It is debilitating.

Now before you go thinking I'm just being over dramatic, (which I never am, how on earth could you accuse me of such a crime!) let me explain. I communicate for a living. I use my voice like an artist uses paint or a carpenter uses tools. As a teacher so much of what I do requires me to speak. My words can paint pictures of pioneers and parallelograms, make tears evaporate from crying eyes, and stop a nine year-old pencil-launcher in mid-throw. I need my words. And I can't have them. Now you see the problem.

But here's the silver lining: without the sound of my own voice, the rest of the world takes over. I'm hearing my family, my students, and my friends more clearly. They have great ideas. They have beautiful lives that I miss when I'm always the one speaking. The wind chimes outside my window, Missy Higgins on my iPod, my dog barking at a squirrel. Mozart who?

The best thing I've done has been to go on a long walk and listen for God. I always tend to think when God speaks it is going to be some kind of booming echo across the valleys, but God is rarely is what I expect. He is subtle in the way he communicates with us and if we are too busy listening to the sound of our own voices we will miss what he has to say. So many times I sit down to pray and I talk ceaselessly from "Dear God" to "Amen", leaving no room for the Holy Spirit to lean down and whisper in my ear. This morning, his voice was on the wind as it swirled around me. "Come to me. Keep coming. Don't hide. This is all for you." Words of love that spark feelings of homesickness; it's been so long since I've let him speak.

What do you need to hear from God? That he has a plan for you? That he will never leave you? That you are a masterpiece of his creation? Maybe the best thing you can do for God today is lose your voice.