School Lockdown

"Attention staff...WE ARE IN LOCKDOWN," came the announcement over the PA system in our school. It was Mary, our school secretary who made the call. Mary is the poster girl for cool-calm-and collected; but today her voice was different. Fearful. This was no drill; it was the real deal.

We sprang into action. Close the blinds. Hide the students.  Joanne runs across the hall to check the restroom for stray students and dashes down another corridor to lock the door to the playground. We hate this part.  If we hear gunshots it's agreed that we will not open the door to let her back in. She will be on her own out there. The students come first. She sprints back and Terri, who's watching anxiously through the blinds at the doorway, allows her to slip quietly back into the room and re-locks the door.

Now we wait. I try to control the trembling in my hand as I stroke the head of little Angelica, who sits under a table next to me. She looks up at me, her eyes are big and round and full of anxiety. "Is this for real?" she whispers.

"Yes honey. Hush. We'll be fine." But I wonder. I pray silently for guardian angels and policemen; and try to recall comforting Bible verses. He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord; he is my refuge...

Time.Ticks.By.

 Every sound is magnified. I strain to hear voices in the hallway or God-forbid...gunshots. Someone coughs. I cringe. It's grade-school. Somebody's always got a cold. Absolute silence is impossible in a roomful of third graders. The halls are strangely silent. Eerie. The table I'm crouched under is kid-sized and my joints are stiffening up from being hunched into a little ball. I try to adjust myself a bit. Peeking up at the clock I see that it's been about twenty minutes. Where are the police? I look toward the windows, searching for shadows or perhaps the sun reflecting off a windshield of a of car entering the parking lot. Nothing. Where are they? An airplane buzzes lazily overhead. It feels otherworldly. Surreal.

The fear is subsiding as time passes and I am no longer trembling. I look around the room. What can I use for defense? Books? Overhead projector? Chairs? This is not good. There is nothing within reach that I could use as a weapon. I whisper to the librarian who's hunched up under the table with me and Angelica, "If we have to, we can turn this table over and shield ourselves." She nods. Not much of a plan. But it's all we've got.

With my 'plan' in place, my thought turn philosophical. If we get out of here...should I keep this job? Is it worth this kind of risk? If something really happens in this room will I sacrifice my life for a child? The answers were easy and immediate. Yes. Yes. And Yes. I wish I had my cell phone so I could text my husband and children. Note to self: Keep your cellphone with you at all times.

Across the room Joanne is crawling on her hands and knees toward the a closet. What on earth is she doing? She places trash can inside the closet, then beckons a boy. He crawls, commando-style to the closet and goes in and closes the door partway. Then he comes out. It dawns on me. He had to pee.
I have to chuckle. Custodian's gonna love that!

It's been over an hour. Finally, a voice comes over the PA. "This is Mr. B. You are in no immediate danger but we will remain in lockdown for a while longer."

I could feel a collective sigh of relief coming from every classroom in the school. Then a short time later, another announcement. Partial lockdown. We can move about the school, but are safely locked inside. And then... it was over.

Sometime after 10 a.m. on May 2nd a 911 caller said that there was a man with a rifle at the local high school and that gunshots had been fired. A short time later another 911 report was made that there was a shooter at the hardware store. At the same time there was a stabbing at a home near an elementary school. The police; figuring the events were somehow connected; ordered a lockdown of our entire school district. A SWAT team was sent to the high school where every room and student was searched. In all, Two high schools, two middle schools, five elementary schools; several thousand children were locked down for about an hour and a half. In the end it appears that the man who committed the stabbing and later shot himself had called in the reports to throw police off his trail.

Thankfully, we were all safe. The stabbing victim survived. And in a way, this event turned out to be a blessing. This is my Facebook post following the crisis...

Dear friends,
I've been giving a lot of thought to the hour or so we all spent in lockdown in our school district. In retrospect, I've come to see that the experience was a unique gift. Blessedly, without experiencing a terrible loss, we were all given a chance to view ourselves and others through the lens of a crisis. Who were we for that hour? I know personally, and heard from others; we were ordinary people who were willing to try and protect children first. That's who we--who YOU were for that hour. And that's who we--who YOU really are. What an exquisite gift! (But I still hope it never happens again!) 

-----



And so dear friends, in closing, please; when tempted to malign teachers, I hope you remember this story. I hope you remember that there are those of us who, when we initially answered the call of our hearts to teach young children; had no idea that it might involve sacrificing our very lives for them. And yet we remain true to the profession. Of course there are bad teachers; and please, by all means--hold us to the highest standards! Expect excellence, your kids deserve no less. But always remember that one day it could be your child or grandchild crouched under that desk with her teacher stroking her hair, hugging her and reassuring her that she will be OK. That teacher is willing to give her life, if necessary, to protect your baby.

So this summer break,

 instead of griping about all of the time off that your children's teachers have...

 

 wish us well.  

***

 

Purple is My Faborite...From the Heart of a Para-Educator

     Note to the Reader...

People often ask me what I do as a para-educator. It's hard to explain. Para-education, for me, is loving children where they are. Then the teaching follows. This piece is entirely fictitious; there is no Pietra. And yet there are thousands of Pietras out there who would never make it in school without the love and care of a group of wonderful people called Para-educators.

Purple is My Faborite...From the Heart of a Para-Educator

     You're standing in the doorway to Mrs. Lincoln's second-grade classroom scanning the room for the new student, Pietra, a recent transfer from another state. Her transcripts say she's got behavior issues, and possible learning disabilities. It's the age old chicken-and-the-egg question...is she behind because she won't behave...or does she misbehave because she struggles to learn?  Mrs. Lincoln is busy helping children find their desk so you wander into the room and help incoming children hang their backpacks and coats.
     It is there, under the coat-rack,  that you first meet Pietra. She's a scrawny-looking little thing with tangled yellow hair and dull blue eyes. Her faded party dress of purple organza (which you will later learn is her favorite and that she will wear most every day this year) is two sizes too big and hangs on her tiny frame like a potato sack. Yellow galoshes. You wonder whether she or her mother decided that yellow galoshes go with purple organza. Or does she even have a mother? Her wonky glasses are perched precariously atop a button nose; they make her eyes appear twice as large as they really are. Her lips are pursed in a defiant pout and she is holding onto her backpack for dear life. She eyes you suspiciously.
     "I see you've met Pietra," says Mrs. Lincoln with thin smile, "she's not making good choices today. Her directions were to hang up her backpack and to take a seat at her desk, but as you can see, she's not following directions."
     Mrs. Lincoln looks exhausted. Of the twenty-eight children in her classroom; five have special needs. One barely speaks English. Last week, after seeing black and blue bruises on the arms and legs of one of her students, she called CPS. The parents, livid with her; threatened to file discrimination charges to retaliate. And today her classroom has a foul fecal stench; one of her students has encopresis and has inadvertently pooped his pants. Despite the freezing weather, she's opened all the windows...trying to air the room out. It's chilly in here. You try not to breath too deeply and button up your cardigan.
     "Hi Pietra, I'm Mrs. Smith." you say quietly.
      No response.
     "I love your purple dress!"
     She eases up a bit, but still clutches the backpack. "Purple's my faborite."
     "Mine too!" you lie.
     A para-ed's favorite color is purple, red, black, brown, blue, green...any color; as long as it build rapport with a wary child.
     "So whatcha-got in your backpack?"
     You're too smart to try to take the backpack. Tried it before with other kids. It's a Bad scene.
     "My Princess Barbie."
     "Can I see her?"
     "My Daddy bought it for me."
     Her voice is filled with Pride. Awe. Affection. Grief.
     "Wow, that's so special! Did Daddy bring you to school today?"
     "He's in jail. But he's comin' home in Nobember," she brightens, "and when he does, he's gonna get me a castle for my Barbie!"
     A broad smile spreads across her tiny face. She's actually kind of cute when she smiles.
     "It's the doll..." you explain to Mrs. Lincoln, "it's her connection to her father." 
     For that week, Pietra is allowed to keep her backpack safely beneath her chair. Often she pulls the Barbie out, just to make sure it's still there; and to tell her classmates about her Daddy and the castle and that he's coming home in Nobember. It's a huge distraction to her and to the other students; but necessary to keep her on an even emotional keel.
     Over the next several months and years Pietra's struggles become your very own. You try to become the One.Constant.Thing in her life. When dad gets out of jail and he keeps her home for a week to celebrate; you tell her you miss her and encourage her to come to school every day. When you read in the papers that he's been picked up again on drug charges; you meet her at the door with a special hug. You make up silly alphabet games to teach her letters; and when she finally learns to read; you have a BIG celebration and boast about her to anyone who will listen. No matter that she's two years behind. The main thing is...she's learning. Slowly, sometimes painstakingly,  but she's learning. Two steps forward, one step back.
     You know, and you dread the day that is coming; when she will become REALLY angry. At her father. At life. At her disabilities. At the system. Why does her father act this way? Why was she born into this family and not that one? Why is she reading first grade books in sixth grade?
     "Did you know," she asks as she sits quietly coloring her map of the United States, "that he never bought me that stupid castle for my Barbie doll? He promised!"
     Then she adds..."But he always found money for drugs."
     "I know, honey," you say softly.
     She's in sixth grade now. There's no way to sugar-coat the facts. So you tell her the truth.
     "You've had a hard time of it and people that you should be able to count on have let you down. But look who you've become in spite of it all! Remember when we met that day...under the coat rack? Back then you couldn't read. Couldn't do math. But you worked hard, and you learned. And if you keep working hard, you will learn more... I promise. You will become more than you ever could imagine if you don't give up. Please, Pietra, don't let yourself down!"
     She looks dubious. Though you've always tried to keep your word to her, you know it might not be enough. How many broken promises...broken dreams can one child endure? How many times can a broken heart heal?
     It's sixth grade graduation day and she gives you a wallet-size school photo. (You anonymously paid for her pictures this year, selfishly hoping she'd give you one, and you're thrilled when she does.) You take the picture home and proudly position it on the fridge, right next to your children's photos. She's grown so pretty. Her long blond hair is pulled into a pretty French-braid. Her wonky old glasses replaced with flattering ones that accentuate her lovely blue eyes. She's filling out; becoming a young lady. The form-fitting purple shirt she is wearing in the photograph attests to that. You look at it and smile. Purple. It's still her faborite color!
     Purple has become your faborite color too.
     Next fall there will be another child. He will be hiding under a coat-rack. Or she will be sitting in the hall outside her classroom, sulking. You will say "Hi, I'm Mrs. Smith. I love your green tennis-shoes. Green is my favorite color you know. Really... is it your's too?!"

***



 

Flying Fairies and Monster Trucks...and Penguins in the Freezer

I was helping out in "Mr. Smith's" kindergarten class this morning. I go there every day for a few hours to help struggling students master their ABCs and 123's. This week before the holidays has been especially busy as unsteady little hands ever-so-carefully paint watercolor pictures, cut out jaggedy snowmen, and get all sticky as they glue snippets of green crepe-paper onto wreath shaped posterboard. 

This morning as Mr. S. was taking roll, he asked each student this question, "If you had all the money in the world, what would you buy Mrs. Rorvig (that's me) for Christmas?"

Here are a few of their ideas...

A diamond purple bracelet
A flying fairy
A big monster truck with flowers and hearts on the wheels that I can mash old rusty cars with
A penguin that I can keep in the freezer (my favorite)
An angel fish
A beautiful dress with diamonds all over it
A computer
A fancy necklace
A beautiful Christmas tree
5 cookies
A horse
A ring. Not just any ring but one that sparkles.
A Seattle Seahawks colored pickup truck


The sheer joy and pleasure on their little faces as they described in great detail what they wanted to buy for me was the sweetest Christmas present ever. Because it's not about the present; but that they love me enough to wish such wonderful, magical things for me.

Am I not the richest person in the world? No doubt...I am.

So I wish you the Merriest Christmas filled with flying fairies, penguins in the freezer, monster trucks with flowered wheels, fanciful necklaces and angel fish. And most of all I hope that you will experience the pure love of a little child...as we remember that one precious Child and the gift He brought to us on that Wonderful Night.

Merry Christmas Friends! Merry Christmas!

Two Heartwarming Stories

I want to tell you two stories. The first is one I read some time ago in "The Power of Intention" by Wayne Dyer. The other story is about someone I know.

There was a man, relates Dyer in his book, who's son was severely disabled and attending a school for children with disabilities. The boy's father attended a school fundraiser, and after praising the school and it's employees, he asked a troubling question...

"Where is perfection in my son Shaya?  Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children can. My child can't remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection in that?"

The audience was shocked and silenced by the man's painful question.  He went on to answer his own question. "I believe that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way that people react to this child. He went on to relate this story about his son.

One afternoon Shaya and his father went past a park where neighborhood boys were playing baseball. Shaya asked his father, "Do you think they'll let me play?" Shaya's father knew that the boys probably would not appreciate having his awkward son on their team...but he also knew what it would mean to his son to be able to join in, so he asked the boys if Shaya could play.  Surprisingly, the losing team agreed to allow the boy to play. Even more surprisingly, they allowed him to bat. As he stood awkwardly at home plate, it was clear that he could not hit the ball. The pitcher moved closer and lobbed the ball gently toward him. Shaya still couldn't make contact, so a team-mate stepped up and helped him hold the bat. With help, he managed to hit a dribbler right to the pitcher. "Run, run!" his team members shouted, so off he went. The pitcher slowly scooped up the ball. It would be an easy out. And since the bases were loaded, if Shaya somehow scored, the pitcher's team who now lead the game would lose. Nevertheless, the boy purposely threw the ball far over the first baseman's head. Everyone from both teams cheered and waved him on to second. The throw to second base was somehow 'dropped.' On to third...there were more errors made in Shaya's favor. And finally home. The boys all cheered wildly and lifted him onto their shoulders. Shaya was a hero that day.

With tears in his eyes the father related, "...that day, those boys on that baseball field reached God's level of perfection for them."

Now I will tell you another story.

Last week at school I was monitoring the children having breakfast. I will tell you at this point that our school is a Title 1 school. This means that many of our kids come from families who depend upon free and reduced-price breakfast and lunches. It's nothing short of a Godsend.

I was chatting with a group of children who were happily munching on waffles when I felt a tug on my shirt. "That girl over there is crying," reported the little boy who was tugging at my shirt.

I walked over and put my arm around her. "What's wrong, honey?"

"I can't eat." She broke into huge sobs. Her wailing and tears made it hard to understand what she was saying, and I was trying to figure out why she couldn't eat. Was she sick?

"Katrina", a coworker approached me. "I've got this handled," she said as she steered the girl to a table and handed her a plate of waffles. The crying stopped. The little girl picked up her fork and began eating. She gradually regained her composure and even managed to laugh a bit with her friends.

When I later asked what had happened, Katrina told me that the child's family had been reassigned from 'free breakfasts' status to 'reduced price' breakfasts. But  for some reason they either hadn't known or couldn't afford even the nominal cost of the breakfast, so the girl was told by the cashier that she had no money on her account.  While I'd been talking to the crying child, Katrina was putting money on her account.

 This kind of thing happens every day at my school. Someone shows up with a warm coat for a child who got off the bus all shivery because he doesn't have warm clothing. Another group of folks chip in to help a family get the electricity turned back on when the power has been shut off.  Another person regularly scours book stores on her days off  to find books for students that haven't any at home. And at Christmas, lots of people bring presents for entire families who wouldn't have anything otherwise. I could go on.

There is nothing wonderful about poverty. It is terrible and ugly and debilitating for those who suffer from it.

But the other morning; when my friend Katrina placed a plate of waffles in front of a teary-eyed child and turned her tears into a smile; I think God smiled too.

Every day I'm blessed to watch God's perfection working through the actions of my friends and co-workers.

***

 

What Makes the Ordinary...Extraordinary

Every day I drive past this certain little coffee shop on the way to work. I rarely stop there because I brew my own tea most every morning. However, the other day the shop's reader-board caught my eye. It read, "Thanks for a great 2012!"

I was impressed! I mean, how many businesses are saying that 2012 was a great year? You don't hear that on the nightly news! Why, most of the companies I've been hearing about are still complaining about the recession. But this non-descript little drive-through coffee store out in the middle of nowheresville was actually thanking their customers for helping them have a great year.

I started trying to mentally account for their success. I knew that their product wasn't so special because I've been there a few times, and their tea and hot chocolate were just OK.(I couldn't speak for their coffee because I don't drink it anymore.) So it's wasn't their location OR their product.

"Hmmm," I wondered. "What is the key to their success?"

My passenger reached over and thumped me on the forehead.

 "Silly girl..." he said. "What does their SIGN say?"

"It says thank you for a great 2012."

"So what does that say about the business owner...besides that she's doing well?" he queried.

The light-bulb finally came on.

"Ohhhh, I get it...they are grateful; and they tell their customers as much."

"Good girl; now you're thinking! An attitude of gratitude can take something ordinary and make it extraordinary. Isn't that what you're constantly telling your students? So now... let's make it more personal. How was YOUR 2012?"

Well I've been so busy thinking about how I want 2013 to be, that I had to take a moment to really stop and recount what went on in my life last year.

"Well, it was really good, now that you mention it. I've been pretty healthy and happy. Our children and grands are doing well. Hubby has fully recovered from some physical issues that seemed pretty serious a few years ago. We've both got jobs, and I just adore the kids I work with. So yeah, it was a good year, when you really think about it."

"And are you grateful?" asked my friend.

"Yes, of course!" I replied.

"And did you thank those who helped you last year?"

"Well, not in so many words..."

I was feeling a little sheepish. That little story in the Bible about the 10 lepers that Jesus healed came to mind. Remember? He healed 10 of them and they all ran off to show themselves to the priest so that they could be declared 'clean' and allowed back into society. But then 1 of them turned and ran back to Jesus and said 'thanks.' Jesus asked him where the other nine were. Apparently Jesus felt sad that only one had enough courtesy and gratitude to tell him thanks.

How many good things, I wondered, have happened to me in 2012 that I took for granted?  I knew the answer...too many to number.

I turned to my Friend. "Thank you, Lord. You've been so kind to me all year. I can't even count all the times you've helped me out. My family, my marriage, my job, health, a home, why even this nice car we're driving in...literally everything I have is because of You. I'm so sorry not to have mentioned it before. Thank you Lord, for a great 2012!"

"You're welcome," He answered quietly.

And so, having made things right with my BFF, Jesus, by thanking Him for all of his blessings in 2012...I want to acknowledge YOU.

Readers, Thank YOU for your visits, kind words, and encouragement in 2012. I know you don't HAVE to read my blog; but you do...and for that I am truly grateful to you. Blessings to you!

Let us all go forward into 2013 with an attitude of gratitude, which according to my Friend of Friends...makes the ordinary extraordinary!

Most of my photographs, like this one, are of ordinary things because to me, the ordinary is so very beautiful. This photo makes me feel somehow like I am almost coming home after a long journey. I imagine a happy reunion inside with loved ones who've been waiting...

Friday night, takeout food, and Househunters!

Whew! First week of school...I made it but am I ever pooped! I came home from work today with every intention of making some BLT's out of the yellow cherry tomatoes from our garden. But I was feeling drowsy, so decided to curl up on the sofa for a little cat-nap. That was 4:30. Hubby came home at 6:00 to find me snoozing away. Change of plans...No BLT's tonight. Instead we got take-out lasagna from Syros and dined in front of the TV--watching my fav show; Househunters International. Ahhh, Friday night, shoes off,  takeout dinner, vegging on the sofa and watching Househunters! Perfect.

***

If You Let it Happen

'Andy' struggles. He struggles with school. He struggles with life.

 He's my reading student--a sixth grader. Sometimes he tries really hard. Sometimes he acts like he doesn't care...but I know he does.

He lives in poverty; as so many Native American children do.  I know he feels unloved and neglected by his family, and he thinks he's a nobody. But I know he's not.

When Andy came to class with a book of poetry under his arm, I was curious. It was called "My Heart Soars" by Chief Dan George.

"Where'd you get this, Andy?" I inquire as I examine the contents of the book.

"I dunno. I just picked it off the shelf of free books in the foyer 'cause I knew I was s'posed to bring somethin' to read."

The words on the pages of the book were stunningly beautiful. Some of the finest poetry I'd read.

"Andy, Chief Dan George is a great man, a great poet. May I read some of his work to you?"

"Sure."

Andy settles into his chair and looks intently at me with those beautiful, soft, searching brown eyes. I clear my throat and begin to read.

"Words to a Grandchild, by Chief Dan George," I begin.

Perhaps there will be a day

you will want to sit by my side

asking for counsel.

I hope I will be there

but you see

I am growing old.

There is no promise

that life will

live up to our hopes

especially to the hopes of the aged.

So I write of what I know

and some day our hearts

will meet in these words,

--if you let it happen.

I feel tears coming to my eyes as I think of my own grandchildren, and my hopes that someday their hearts will meet with mine through my writing. I blink back the tears and proceed. Andy is aware that I am moved. He leans forward to listen more intently.

In the midst of a land

without silence

you have to make a place for yourself.

Those who have worn out

their shoes many times

know where to step.

It is not their shoes

you can wear

only their footsteps

you may follow,

--if you let it happen.

Oh how this dear boy needs a place for himself...and footsteps to follow. My voice cracks as I continue.



You come from a shy race.

Ours are the silent ways.

We have always done all things

in a gentle manner,

so much as the brook

that avoids the solid rock

in its search for the sea

and meets the deer in passing.

You too must follow

of your own race.

It is steady and deep

reliable and lasting.

It is you,

--if you let it happen.

You are a person of little,

but it is better to have little

of what is good,

than to possess much

of what is not good.

This your heart will know,

--if you let it happen.

I am in awe. Chief Dan George is speaking directly to this child...calling out his gentle nature, his shy ways, and his meager circumstances...and I, well I have become an oracle of his words. Andy is rapt with attention, hanging on every word.



Heed the days

when the rain flows freely,

in their greyness

lies the seed of much thought.

The sky hangs low

and paints new colors

on the earth.

After the rain

the grass will shed its moisture,

the fog will lift from the trees,

a new light will brighten the sky

and play in the drops

that hang on all things.

Your heart will beat out

a new gladness,

--if you let it happen.

Each day brings an hour of magic.

Listen to it!

Things will whisper their secrets.

You will know

what fills the herbs with goodness,

makes days change into nights,

turns the stars

and brings the change of seasons.

When you have come to know

some of nature's wise ways

beware of your complacency

for you cannot be wiser than nature.

You can only be as wise

as any man will ever hope to be,

--if you let it happen.

 Our ways are good

but only in our world

If you like the flame

on the white man's wick

learn of his ways,

so that you can bear his company

yet when you enter his world

you will walk like a stranger

Guilt overwhelms my heart as I read this. How often have I seen our native students feeling strange and foreign in my world. I pause, but I cannot bear to look into Andy's eyes. It is I, at this moment, and not Andy who feels foreign. Who am I, a white woman, that I should be reading these wise words, this prophecy of sorts, to Andy? And yet...I am here and I am willing and I am all that is available to this boy right now, and so I read on.

For some time

bewilderment will,

like and ugly spirit

torment you.

Then rest on the holy earth

and wait for the good spirit.

He will return with new ways

as his gift to you,

--if you let it happen.

Use the heritage of silence

to observe others.

If greed has replaced the goodness

in a man's eyes

see yourself in him

so you will learn to understand

and preserve yourself.

Do not despise the weak,

it is compassion

that will make you strong.

Does not the rice

drop into your basket

whilst your breath

carries away the chaff

There is good in everything,

--if you let it happen.

When the storms close in

and the eyes cannot find the horizon

you may lose much.

Stay with your love for life

for it is the very blood

running thorough your veins.

As you pass through the years

you will find much calmness

in your heart.

It is the gift of age,

and the colors of the fall

will be deep and rich,

--if you let it happen.

Yes dear Chief, and now you speak to me! I am finding much calmness and richness in this autumn of my life. Now tears are streaming down my face. Andy is staring at me...quietly waiting for me to continue.

As I see beyond the days of now

I see a vision:

I see the faces of my people,

your sons' sons,

your daughters' daughters,

laughter fills the air

that is no longer yellow and heavy,

the machines have died,

quietness and beauty

have returned to the land.

The gentle ways of our race

have again put us

in the days of the old.

It is good to live!

It is good to die!

--This will happen.

I wipe away the tears.

"Andy, are you going to keep this free book? Because if you are not...I will take it-but if you want it, I will buy my own copy."

His eyes meet mine.

"I will keep this book. I will show it to my grandfather."

Yes Andy, you keep the book.

Grace has ordained that you find the book

and that you share the words

with your Grandfather.

It is meant to be,

--if you let it happen.

***

Note: I've changed Andy's name to protect his anonymity...but he is real--and he matters.

Too Pooped to Post

     Hi.
      School started last Wednesday. After staying up all summer until 1 a.m. and lounging in bed until 10 a.m., I'm back on a schedule. Up at 6:30 a.m. and back in bed by 10.
      Every year my work schedule changes. This year I'm a morning greeter, followed by doing literature and spelling with special needs 3rd and 4th graders, then lit with 5th and 6th graders. After that I'm off to kindergarten. Our poor kindergarten teachers each have 29 students this year. It's like herding cats! I have a 45 minute lunch/break, then its math time for the first and second graders...followed by 3rd and 4th graders, then 5th and 6th graders.
     Our school buses have not been arriving on time because the person who schedules them quit abruptly, and nobody seems to know what's going on. They completely eliminated service to one of the main roads on the Lummi Reservation where several of our students live. So the students have to catch a bus at our school, then go to another school and transfer to another bus which will take them to the end of their road...where they will walk home. This isn't easy for the little guys! So I've been staying after my scheduled shift and making sure that the older kids know exactly what/where they're supposed to be, and asking them to keep an eye on the younger children. Two days ago a bus driver was so annoyed with his rowdy passengers that he parked in the school lot and refused to take them home until they settled down. They sat there for a whole hour! I think (hope) he was dismissed after that. I know that driving a bus is trying job, but c'mon! 
     Our school computers aren't working right and we can't open our mail or use the internet, and as of today many classrooms still have no computers at all for their students. Notwithstanding, I found the usual form in my mailbox demanding that I pledge not to surf the web while working. No problem! I have neither the equipment nor the time to surf the web.
     I'm pooped! My feet ache from being on them all day and by 10 p.m. I'm asleep in the recliner. Hence, fewer posts and comments. I expect to be acclimated to my new schedule in a week or so.
     I love my job. I really mean that. Wouldn't want to do anything else!

Confessions of a Long-Distance Grandma

They left this morning; Heather and the kids. 'Leaving Day' is always hard for me. Today was worse than usual. Maybe it was the gray clouds. It might be because this is the second 'Leaving Day' this month. (My son John's family left two weeks ago after spending a week here, and I was very melancholy for a few days after that.)

Or perhaps it's because I'm so aware that time is passing swiftly. Jordynn, my oldest grand-daughter is no longer a child, but a young lady. And though I see my Portland grandchildren several times each year and we try to cram as many good times and happy memories into the summer weeks and the holiday weekends as possible... still I will not get to attend all of their birthday parties. I will miss seeing Isabella and Dane score soccer goals, and Junior's first touchdown. Sofie will grow like a little weed. In a year or so, the little red step-stool that I put in the bathroom so she can wash her chubby little hands by herself, will not be needed. It's likely that Jordynn will go to her first prom and I won't see her dress in person. I won't get to go to the pumpkin patch with Ana, or help her carve pumpkins.

This is the first time that I couldn't conceal my tears when they left. I went into the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water, took a deep breath, and walked out to the driveway for last minute hugs. Though I tried to hold it together, my heart sprung a leak and the tears sprang from my eyes.  I gave them quick hugs said good-bye with a croaky voice- then retreated into the house.

It was too early to start cleaning house, so I filled the tub with bubbles and crawled in with a new book. Koda wandered in and lay down on the bathmat to keep me company. She misses them too. I think later I'll walk to the Lynden Dutch Bakery and have some split pea soup with a raisin bun. Food always helps.

Soon I'll turn my thoughts and energies toward the school year. The Resource Room, where I work with special-needs and economically challenged children, will be full of new and returning students. Some will be happy and excited...some will be frightened and anxious. As I look into their little faces I will remember the vow that I made twelve years ago. That was the year that Heather and her husband Edgar relocated to Portland, taking my first and (then) only grandchild, Jordynn with them. I cried for two weeks. Then I dried my eyes and prayed this prayer..."Lord, if you will promise to take good care of my children and grandchildren--my babies...I give you my word that I will take good care of your babies. I will treat every child I teach with all of the tender-care and kindness that I would give to my own grandchildren."

I will keep my word, and God will keep His...soon I will be playing soccer with other people's grandchildren. I will hug them on their birthdays and cheer wildly when they score touchdowns. I will tell them that they are special and smart and lavish them with praise and love...as though they were my own grandchildren. Then on special holidays or long weekends I'll board the train to Portland, where I'll be met with an abundance of hugs and laughter and joy...and once again see that God has kept his promise to me.


***

Breanne's Smile

     She was crying. That's unusual for little 'Breanne'.
     She's a little slip of a thing with long, straight red hair and freckles that cover her tiny face. Her eyes are large and round as saucers; almost too large for her face. But my how those eyes sparkle when she smiles-and she always smiles. I sometimes suspect that she has invisible wings, and is really a little fairy or elf from a magical forest.
     But today my little sprite-friend was crying.
     "Whats the matter honey?" I asked.
     "My finger hurts real bad".
      Huge teardrops were rolling down her freckled face. She showed me the injured finger, but there wasn't much to see...it was covered with a bandaid.
     "When did you get this bandaid?" ( I asked this because often our poorer students' families can't afford bandaids. They try to keep them on as long as possible, and I've seen some putrid sores hidden under dirty old bandages.)
     "Today."
    I examined the finger closely and noticed that the bandaid was on way too tight. Her little finger was white and puffy from the pressure. I'm sure her finger was throbbing in pain. Whoever had bandaged it must have been in a hurry.
    I could sympathize with her situation. Just this week I'd had a minor procedure done in the doctor's office. It didn't work as well as they hoped, so they decided to refer me to a surgeon. But the surgeon isn't available for 2 weeks. When I called to ask the nurse if it was OK to postpone taking care of the problem for two weeks, she hurriedly said, "Yeah, as long as it doesn't get unbearably painful or start bleeding profusely." Not terribly encouraging.  So I called my insurance's on-line nurse for some reassurance. (This feature of my insurance plan has been a God-send.) She told me just what to do and how to get along until the surgery. It's going to be fine... I just needed someone to tell me that.
     That's what Breanne needed. Some assurance. So despite the fact that at that moment I really needed to be somewhere else; I took her to the school sick room and removed the bandaid. Whoa! Now I could see why it hurt! Her little 'fake' fingernail had bent back and broken right in the middle of the nail, causing the real nail to crack also. But the fake nail wouldn't come off. So we ran cold water over it for awhile and daubed it dry. Then I loosely appled a new bandaid. A little smile was returning to her face.
     In the meantime; the person who'd put the first bandage on her came in.
     "I TOLD YOU that those fake nails are NO GOOD!" she lectured, then walked out in a hurried huff.   
     The smile faded.
     So I told her a silly joke and gave her a hug. The smile returned. Like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.
     Now I'm not bragging or trying to compare myself to the other 'bandaging lady'. I get hurried and huffy too. But today I remembered to slow down; and to stop and think about how someone else might be feeling.
      And I thought I'd tell you this little story to remind you. There are lots of important things competing for your attention. Most of them aren't really that important in the grand scheme of things. Don't let the clock or your day planner become your dictator.  Let your heart dictate your actions.      
     That's what I did today. I put a bandaid on a little girl's finger. I did some other stuff too; grown up, important stuff. But that best thing I did today was to get Breanne's smile back.

"And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones...will certainly not lose his reward."  Matthew 10:22

Heartbroken Again

There are days that my job breaks my heart. Today is one of those days. A very special student of mine moved away today. At this very moment she and her family are driving across the country to a new job and a new life.

I knew in my heart when I entered the education field some eight years ago, that I would be working with poor children. This is my passion, probably because I grew up poor. We always had enough to eat, a home, and clothes on our back; but not a lot more than that. I remember one really hard time when my mother was unable to work for about a year because of complications from a broken ankle and Dad couldn't work because he had emphysema. Tough times. But not nearly as hard as some of the things my students have to endure. Some of my students face homelessness, living in foster homes, hunger, learning disabilities, and yes; relocation is a by-product of being economically disadvantaged.

My little friend's family, though, is very fortunate; her daddy has landed a good job-and for that I am so grateful. And I've certainly seen more tragic things than the relocation of a family. It's just that I'll really miss this precious child. She has a gentleness and kindness about her that is so uncommon. I wish you could see her pretty face; how it lights up when she is praised or learns a new skill.  She's been really stoic about the move; but today was tough. She didn't cry; but when she handed me her spelling test;  she'd drawn a picture of herself on it; with tears falling from her eyes. My eyes welled up with tears too, when I saw it, but I held it together for her sake.

It seems that lately there's been a lot of bad press about my profession. Some say we're not doing a good job. Others think we earn too much money. I can only speak for my situation. My wages are more that 50% less than what I was earning in the business sector. Financially, it makes no sense for me to do what I do. But I do it because I love children. I love to see that special glint in their eyes when they've just caught on to what I'm teaching them. I love their enthusiasm; their innocence and their inquisitiveness. And I want to make a difference in their lives. I work hard at it, but it isn't always easy. My heart gets broken alot. But it's worth it...they're worth it.

So, goodbye, my gentle little friend. God bless you and keep you safe in the palm of His hand, and once again, I'll trust in Him to bind up my broken heart as He has promised me in his Word.

Luke 4:18  The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted...