Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it's not what's killing America's families. The real demise of this country's family unit: Public school's love affair with homework. Yes, and I can prove it.
Homework makes me ugly, inside AND out. In the last few years, my youthful complexion has given way to a highway of fine lines and dark circles. My hair is a wiry, tangle of white strands--the latent effects of stressful afternoons spent re-teaching long-division and Shurley-method grammar, reviewing math facts and reading books. Even though I love my kids and feel like I have spent hours of intentional instruction pouring into their character, I have just about ruined it all by the way I approach an afternoon of after-school busy work. I don't know who's more frustrated: me or them. A monster lives inside me, though, and he likes to rear his ugly head about 4:00 in the afternoon.
I hesitate to use the "When I was a kid..." argument, but truly when I was a kid, I had no homework until at least the fourth grade, and even then it was only to study for the weekly spelling test and prepare for the occasional book report. The Georgia Performance Standards are overwhelmingly confounding, and in an effort to squeeze in so much information through identification, analysis, and computation, tiny little hearts have been hardened to the world of possibility available only to the properly educated. My little second grader cries nearly every day when he gets off of the bus. And I don't blame him; I want to cry, too! He's been holding it all together since he got on the bus at 7:02 AM. Now it's 2:27, and instead of embracing him with the warmth of a happy hug and a plate of homemade cookies, I'm the drill sergeant who barks, "Find something to eat quick, and let's get started!"
A typical week's homework sheet looks something like this:
Reading:
Practice Workbook pages 57 and 60
Read at least 20 minutes each night
Be prepared to take two accelerated reading tests this week.
Grammar
Complete attached worksheet, front and back.
Math
Math Homework book pages 33 and 34
Complete the attached worksheet, front and back
Complete three optional activities from your choice-activity sheet
Practice math facts for 20 minutes daily.
Spelling
Correct dictation sentences from last week's spelling test.
Complete three optional activities from the Spelling choice-activity sheet
Be ready for Spelling Test on Friday
Other
Complete Creative Writing Project and turn it in on Thursday
His teacher is our school's Teacher of the Year. I know she's amazing. I don't want to "throw her under the bus" (Really, I don't!), but I am overwhelmed by all this work...In the background, the dog is barking because someone is at the door, I am responsible for keeping this young one focused, checking the work, preparing dinner, entertaining the pre-schooler, and helping my two other kids with their homework, one of whom is a pre-pubescent nightmare (God help me!).
Worst of all, these daily to-dos interfere with precious, quality family time. Both boys play football, and my daughter is a soccer player. Three days of weekly practice, twice-a-week tutoring, and music lessons mean that almost as soon as homework is complete we are wolfing down a quick dinner and headed out the door, so the kids can release some of that pent-up energy with other kids their age in the arena of organized sport.
Once upon a time, (for it surely seems like a fairy tale from long ago), we ate dinner together every night. Conversation was light and happy, as we talked of our day and enjoyed each other's company. Every Thursday was "Current Event" night. The kids would find a news article, summarize it for the rest of us, and we would ask questions about what they read. Sometimes we would talk through our weekly Parent Connect ideas from church on Sunday. Occasionally, we would tell jokes, do tricks, or laugh through "Would you rather....? questions. No matter what, we were never in a hurry, there was always time for seconds, and our family was together, managing the day's tension and demonstrating love and stability before bedtime.
Since I've already bitten off everyone's head, chewed them out over disorganization and lack of focus, and swallowed hard before gearing up for a fresh round of nagging, I'm rarely very hungry by dinner-time and it seems no one is ever very excited over what I have made anyway. Slowly, homework has devoured us, and I have nothing left to serve--certainly not the gentle and quiet spirit I was hoping to foster this week. No one here is winning "Mother of the Year." I am a miserable failure.
Homework is killing our family. It's a slow and painful death, shrouded in the guise of intellectual promise and future success. I wholeheartedly believe in reading everyday, even practicing those mundane math facts, but between a litany of pesky word problems and comprehensive reading exercises, I'm doing a horrible job of keeping up with the rest of the household responsibilities. We sometimes try to do the math facts thing during bath time, but isn't that supposed to be a time of refreshment and rejuvenation? True to their word, Johnson's Calming Baby Bath does not invigorate the brain. By the time those little ones are tucked in their beds, their heavy eyes struggling to comprehend the pages they are supposed to read before drifting peacefully to sleep, I am cursing public education and writing scathing blogs.
My real homework is suffering miserably. Toys are askew, the laundry needs folding, I'm behind on my filing, and what I really want to do is sit on the sofa with my husband and have a decent conversation; I don't even care if it's about home or work, but please God not HOMEWORK.
Anything but homework. I'm worn out and worn down. If you can underline the subject and two verbs in that sentence and compute the amount of time I spent writing this essay, and determine the main idea and write an alternate ending, you deserve an A+. As for me, after I get the lunches made, agendas signed, and pack some supplies for tomorrow's special science project), I'm going to bed. I have to do this all over again tomorrow.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Thorn in my Side
The Bible tells us that Paul battled a "thorn in his side." I don't mean to minimize or make light of it, but I have a thorn, too, and as ridiculous as it is, I am being completely honest with you when I tell you that it brings me great anguish. I've harbored this thorn since the day I was born, although it has taken various forms. As a tiny baby, I could have been called "Onion-head," for I was as bald as a bat. As a three year old, I wore a blanket on my head and even tied it in pig-tails in an effort to give myself the appearance of long hair. Then, as an elementary school student I envied the straight, long tresses of my friends. Mine wouldn't grow and what did was a wild tangle of frizzy locks. As a freshman in college, I yanked out my first gray hair, and my battle with the mop on top continued in a whole new way. I began a strict color regiment, and then just over a year ago began permanently straightening it. The color quickly fades, and the permanent straightening process is a joke. My stubborn coiffure maintains it's curly quirks, despite my best efforts to the contrary.
And so this is what our friend Paul says to the Corinthians, "To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me". (2 Corinthians 12:7-9, NIV)
I hesitate even to bring up this passage, because to compare myself to Paul is beyond ridiculous. You may be reading this blog post, and thinking, "Is she FOR REAL? This is what she has to deal with...curly hair? I would LOVE curly hair." And that's true. Many people would love to have curly hair. I assure, you, however, that you would not want mine. The time and effort required to give it any semblance of manageability, in addition to the sheer amount of product consumed to tame the mane is enough to fill a cesspool two acres wide. I don't even want to consider the amount of money I have spent on relaxers, conditioners, balms, sprays, oils, mousse, gel, and restructuring cremes. I tell you, my cabinet is a filament graveyard, filled with half-empty bottles of stranded promises. I'm no longer bald or gray, but my locks are a far cry from beautiful.
As I write this, I am contemplating additional treatments and a drastic haircut that I fear will make me look like the stereotype I've been fighting for the last twelve years: MOM. I love being a mom, so like my mini-van, perhaps my hair can serve as an additional badge of honor. Accept the burden and embrace the blessing. Right? My husband whispers this verse in my ear, and even though my vanity tries to drown it out, I know the words are true:
I Peter 3:3-5: Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. 4 Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight. (NIV)
I do so desire that gentle and quiet spirit. To be valued by God is so much more desirable than that of the world. The peer pressure (which, by the way, does not end when high school is over) is so overwhelming, though, that I am having a hard time keeping this verse at the forefront of my thoughts and prayers. Inner, unfading beauty...beauty that doesn't need special treatment and that instead rests in the quiet understanding of what God is doing in me is my hope.
I just hope I don't lose any hair over it.
And so this is what our friend Paul says to the Corinthians, "To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me". (2 Corinthians 12:7-9, NIV)
I hesitate even to bring up this passage, because to compare myself to Paul is beyond ridiculous. You may be reading this blog post, and thinking, "Is she FOR REAL? This is what she has to deal with...curly hair? I would LOVE curly hair." And that's true. Many people would love to have curly hair. I assure, you, however, that you would not want mine. The time and effort required to give it any semblance of manageability, in addition to the sheer amount of product consumed to tame the mane is enough to fill a cesspool two acres wide. I don't even want to consider the amount of money I have spent on relaxers, conditioners, balms, sprays, oils, mousse, gel, and restructuring cremes. I tell you, my cabinet is a filament graveyard, filled with half-empty bottles of stranded promises. I'm no longer bald or gray, but my locks are a far cry from beautiful.
As I write this, I am contemplating additional treatments and a drastic haircut that I fear will make me look like the stereotype I've been fighting for the last twelve years: MOM. I love being a mom, so like my mini-van, perhaps my hair can serve as an additional badge of honor. Accept the burden and embrace the blessing. Right? My husband whispers this verse in my ear, and even though my vanity tries to drown it out, I know the words are true:
I Peter 3:3-5: Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. 4 Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight. (NIV)
I do so desire that gentle and quiet spirit. To be valued by God is so much more desirable than that of the world. The peer pressure (which, by the way, does not end when high school is over) is so overwhelming, though, that I am having a hard time keeping this verse at the forefront of my thoughts and prayers. Inner, unfading beauty...beauty that doesn't need special treatment and that instead rests in the quiet understanding of what God is doing in me is my hope.
I just hope I don't lose any hair over it.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Lessons from the Football Field
There's almost nothing in the world I like less than football. I wish I liked it. I wish I loved it. I have two boys that play, and they eat, sleep, and live football everyday all the time all year long. I think I dislike it because I don't understand it. In high school, I learned what "first and ten" meant, and then after that I stopped paying attention. The announcers speak a foreign language and the players are like bees doing a secret dance. I just don't get it.
I love hearing of families getting together over the weekend to cheer their favorite team on TV and share a bowl of chili. My family never did that. My dad is a runner, which is a fairly solitary sport, and my mom is only a fan of the rivalry that occurs in the context of a daytime TV courtroom. Thus, I never sported a colored jersey or painted my face in an effort to spur the local team to victory. I longed to be a part of that sacred season because it always looked like everyone was having such a grand time, slapping each other on the back and high-fiving it all over the place. Whenever I did get invited to a game party, I sat on the couch stuffing my face full of all the yummy snacks just so I would have an excuse to get up and refill the other plates in the room. Something to do, you know.
I wonder sometimes if that's how people feel who don't go to church. Because they don't understand it, they stay away. There they are, sitting quietly in their seat in the audience, and they have no idea what's going on. On stage, a few musicians might be leading a song and in front of them some people are waving their hands in the air. Then they sit down, and a bucket is passed. The pastor prays for God to bless those that have decided in their heart to give, leaving those that haven't and don't understand the real reason for the bucket wondering, "Will God bless me, too"? After a message peppered with history and logic, they file out the door with the rest of the crowd, uncertain what to do with the information and vowing never to return.
The scenario I just described is not what happens at my church. Even though we sing, pass the bucket and listen to a message, I feel like we do a really good job explaining WHY we do them and giving people space to ask the questions that will help them figure out God and his role in their lives. We strive to be a church that un-churched people love to attend. Everything we do is filtered through the lens of the answer to this question: "Will ________ help lead people into a growing relationship with Jesus Christ?" I love being a part of a movement like that. Together, we are all trying to figure it out, and I am praying that even the ones that begrudgingly sit in the audience will come away with their very first piece of "first and ten" knowledge, knowledge that will tease them into coming back for more.
Apparently, I have a lot to learn about football, but if the world can get excited about a bunch of boys in matching uniforms scrambling over an oblong leather flotation device and ramming each other in the head with metal helmets, I'm pretty sure a Spirit filled church can inspire people to come back week after week to hear God speak on the rivalry brewing since the beginning of time and to witness miracles beyond what has ever been seen between the goal posts. This is no "holy huddle"; this is the brilliant story of humanity, of you and me, and God's plan to redeem the world unfolding as we each begin to understand our own personal playbook under the direction of the greatest owner, coach, and manager of all time.
In the bleachers at my sons' football games, I may not be able to follow the ball or understand calls like "holding" or "fumble". I go to the games because I love my boys and I see the joy in their eyes when they're playing their favorite sport. I want to share a little bit of that with them. With a few caring people alongside me explaining things as we go along, I am praying that I become a raving fan. Maybe one of these days, when they ask for volunteers to call the games over the loudspeaker, I can raise my hand and come forward.
And that's exactly what I'll do with the friends who visit my church. When they have questions, I will join the conversation. I don't ever want to hear someone say they hate church, especially when the reality is that they simply do not understand it. I want people to see the joy that overflows that room, touching the lives of those leaving and living, and thinking, "OK, I didn't totally understand everything. But that was fun, and I learned something new, and so I'm coming back next week."
See you there.
I love hearing of families getting together over the weekend to cheer their favorite team on TV and share a bowl of chili. My family never did that. My dad is a runner, which is a fairly solitary sport, and my mom is only a fan of the rivalry that occurs in the context of a daytime TV courtroom. Thus, I never sported a colored jersey or painted my face in an effort to spur the local team to victory. I longed to be a part of that sacred season because it always looked like everyone was having such a grand time, slapping each other on the back and high-fiving it all over the place. Whenever I did get invited to a game party, I sat on the couch stuffing my face full of all the yummy snacks just so I would have an excuse to get up and refill the other plates in the room. Something to do, you know.
I wonder sometimes if that's how people feel who don't go to church. Because they don't understand it, they stay away. There they are, sitting quietly in their seat in the audience, and they have no idea what's going on. On stage, a few musicians might be leading a song and in front of them some people are waving their hands in the air. Then they sit down, and a bucket is passed. The pastor prays for God to bless those that have decided in their heart to give, leaving those that haven't and don't understand the real reason for the bucket wondering, "Will God bless me, too"? After a message peppered with history and logic, they file out the door with the rest of the crowd, uncertain what to do with the information and vowing never to return.
The scenario I just described is not what happens at my church. Even though we sing, pass the bucket and listen to a message, I feel like we do a really good job explaining WHY we do them and giving people space to ask the questions that will help them figure out God and his role in their lives. We strive to be a church that un-churched people love to attend. Everything we do is filtered through the lens of the answer to this question: "Will ________ help lead people into a growing relationship with Jesus Christ?" I love being a part of a movement like that. Together, we are all trying to figure it out, and I am praying that even the ones that begrudgingly sit in the audience will come away with their very first piece of "first and ten" knowledge, knowledge that will tease them into coming back for more.
Apparently, I have a lot to learn about football, but if the world can get excited about a bunch of boys in matching uniforms scrambling over an oblong leather flotation device and ramming each other in the head with metal helmets, I'm pretty sure a Spirit filled church can inspire people to come back week after week to hear God speak on the rivalry brewing since the beginning of time and to witness miracles beyond what has ever been seen between the goal posts. This is no "holy huddle"; this is the brilliant story of humanity, of you and me, and God's plan to redeem the world unfolding as we each begin to understand our own personal playbook under the direction of the greatest owner, coach, and manager of all time.
In the bleachers at my sons' football games, I may not be able to follow the ball or understand calls like "holding" or "fumble". I go to the games because I love my boys and I see the joy in their eyes when they're playing their favorite sport. I want to share a little bit of that with them. With a few caring people alongside me explaining things as we go along, I am praying that I become a raving fan. Maybe one of these days, when they ask for volunteers to call the games over the loudspeaker, I can raise my hand and come forward.
And that's exactly what I'll do with the friends who visit my church. When they have questions, I will join the conversation. I don't ever want to hear someone say they hate church, especially when the reality is that they simply do not understand it. I want people to see the joy that overflows that room, touching the lives of those leaving and living, and thinking, "OK, I didn't totally understand everything. But that was fun, and I learned something new, and so I'm coming back next week."
See you there.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Leave Your Mark
Every morning, I take my dog Hammy for a walk. This morning, there were a few other dogs playing together at the end of the street. Hammy stopped, they all sniffed each other, and we continued on our way. On the way back down the street, thankfully we did not encounter the other dogs. There's actually quite a little canine hierarchy--Hammy barks at Wimberly, Georgia snaps at Hammy, Trestle chases Hammy, and Hammy abuses Hazelnut. To my great relief, they had all gone home for breakfast. Still, Hammy stopped where they had been, sniffed, then promptly peed on that tiny piece of earth. He just had to leave his mark.
It's the same way with our kids. As they grow older and work to distance themselves from us, what they're really doing is screaming, "I'm here!" They're territorial over the things that belong to them and work tirelessly to prove that they have their own style and sometimes even their own language. I don't mind it. I don't always understand it. But I don't mind it. I want them to spend the years they have with me figuring out who they are and their purpose in the world. Better to do that now when Gavin and I can help guide them than when they leave our home for good and find the world a cold and selfish place.
I guess all living creatures share a desire to "leave their mark." We all want to make a difference in the world. I think that's one of the reasons why it's so patronizing for a stay-at-home mother to hear the words, "You have the hardest job in the world. You are right where you need to be." Those words carry some truth, but in addition to leaving my legacy to my children, I also have a desire to do something great in the world.
To that point, I am in the midst of a fascinating book called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Lacks was a cancer patient at Johns Hopkins in the 1950s when her cells (named HeLa) were taken without her knowledge, then grown and sold and multiplied a million times over. Her family, living in poverty and without health insurance, found out about the cells more than twenty years later. In this book by Rebecca Skloot, they assert that what they now want most of all is for the world to know that Henrietta Lacks was a real person. Her cells made her famous, but to her children, the heart and soul of the woman they knew as "mom" matters most of all.
The Bible teaches us that God is enough, that we don't have to spend our days proving to ourselves or anyone else that we are capable of great things. Even though I know that's true, I've also always felt the faintest bit of discontent. It's one thing to know that God is all I need, but it's quite another to realize that he made me to do something and to be something. Just because the Holy Spirit lives in me doesn't give me permission to sit around on my rear all day and contemplate life. Quite the opposite. The Holy Spirit in me should literally be inspiring me to be everything God intended.
One day, my children will want to know who I was and what I did. What did I care about? Who did I love? What did I fight for? How did I live? I want them to know that God was and is enough for me and that all the things I ever did were not in an effort to please people but to experience for myself and share fully with others the blessings God gave to me.
Where will you leave your mark, and how will you make it count?
It's the same way with our kids. As they grow older and work to distance themselves from us, what they're really doing is screaming, "I'm here!" They're territorial over the things that belong to them and work tirelessly to prove that they have their own style and sometimes even their own language. I don't mind it. I don't always understand it. But I don't mind it. I want them to spend the years they have with me figuring out who they are and their purpose in the world. Better to do that now when Gavin and I can help guide them than when they leave our home for good and find the world a cold and selfish place.
I guess all living creatures share a desire to "leave their mark." We all want to make a difference in the world. I think that's one of the reasons why it's so patronizing for a stay-at-home mother to hear the words, "You have the hardest job in the world. You are right where you need to be." Those words carry some truth, but in addition to leaving my legacy to my children, I also have a desire to do something great in the world.
To that point, I am in the midst of a fascinating book called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Lacks was a cancer patient at Johns Hopkins in the 1950s when her cells (named HeLa) were taken without her knowledge, then grown and sold and multiplied a million times over. Her family, living in poverty and without health insurance, found out about the cells more than twenty years later. In this book by Rebecca Skloot, they assert that what they now want most of all is for the world to know that Henrietta Lacks was a real person. Her cells made her famous, but to her children, the heart and soul of the woman they knew as "mom" matters most of all.
The Bible teaches us that God is enough, that we don't have to spend our days proving to ourselves or anyone else that we are capable of great things. Even though I know that's true, I've also always felt the faintest bit of discontent. It's one thing to know that God is all I need, but it's quite another to realize that he made me to do something and to be something. Just because the Holy Spirit lives in me doesn't give me permission to sit around on my rear all day and contemplate life. Quite the opposite. The Holy Spirit in me should literally be inspiring me to be everything God intended.
One day, my children will want to know who I was and what I did. What did I care about? Who did I love? What did I fight for? How did I live? I want them to know that God was and is enough for me and that all the things I ever did were not in an effort to please people but to experience for myself and share fully with others the blessings God gave to me.
Where will you leave your mark, and how will you make it count?
Monday, August 29, 2011
What My Child Taught Me
Every night either Gavin or I give our youngest daughter a bath. Tonight, it's my turn, and I am watching her dance and twirl as the water runs. Happy and carefree though she is, I can hear the nightly news in the background. The talking head drones on, and I am vaguely aware of what he is saying. Hurricanes and tornadoes and terrorism and war, and I wonder at what point a child ceases to be such a free spirit and instead is taken hostage by all that is wrong with the world. I thought to myself, Right now, I am all that to her. Everything she knows about the world is what I have taught her, but most importantly what I have shown her. By my example, am I demonstrating love and compassion, hope and stability? Have I prepared her to navigate uncertainty, selfishness, jealousy, greed, and loss?
To twirl with such abandon, drunk on her own happiness, dizzy with creativity and brimming with sweetness is God's gift to children like her. And although many of the world's children live in poverty and abuse, and might only wish to dance and sing, little Cari Jill is not one of them. I have been given an amazing gift, and the gift brings with it an enormous amount of responsibility. As she grows, so will her circle of influence. It is my job to make sure that the center of that sphere is as strong as it can be. That way, when the yuck of the world surrounds her, what centers her will be the foundation of her years as part of our family. Sure, there will be disappointments. Even failures. But my most trusted source of comfort is that Gavin and I don't have to raise our children by ourselves. Our church partners with us to guide us every step of the way. This week, they taught her this:
"As for God, his way is perfect."--Psalm 18:30
Is there anything else she needs to remember?
To twirl with such abandon, drunk on her own happiness, dizzy with creativity and brimming with sweetness is God's gift to children like her. And although many of the world's children live in poverty and abuse, and might only wish to dance and sing, little Cari Jill is not one of them. I have been given an amazing gift, and the gift brings with it an enormous amount of responsibility. As she grows, so will her circle of influence. It is my job to make sure that the center of that sphere is as strong as it can be. That way, when the yuck of the world surrounds her, what centers her will be the foundation of her years as part of our family. Sure, there will be disappointments. Even failures. But my most trusted source of comfort is that Gavin and I don't have to raise our children by ourselves. Our church partners with us to guide us every step of the way. This week, they taught her this:
"As for God, his way is perfect."--Psalm 18:30
Is there anything else she needs to remember?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Experience Necessary
I attended a fundraising dinner last night for a local non-profit. It was a beautiful dinner and clearly a thoughtfully planned event. Yet, in the last fifteen years of which I have been a part of this organization, this dinner has been dreadfully predictable. I was sad to learn that the services they are able to provide have been cut and many families must be turned away due to a lack of funding. I was waiting for an engaging presentation by the executive director and a couple of live, personal stories from friends of the organization. These were not to be, and so I waited for the big draw, the one thing that really drives people to these events...not the food, not the silent auction, not the opportunity to write a check on their behalf, but the KEYNOTE SPEAKER!
This particular speaker spoke with the cadence and force of a former trial lawyer. I don't know anything about law, but perhaps in the context of a courtroom scenario it is beneficial to jump all over the place in the notes. Maybe the technique confuses the jury and so sways them toward a more favorable verdict. At any rate, this woman obviously lived a fascinating life and out of her mouth her heart spilled the stories of some of the amazing things she has seen and done. Captivating and entertaining were these stories, to say the least, but I really wanted her to share with me the answer to these two basic questions:
1. How have your life experiences affected your life both negatively and positively?
2. How have your responses to your life experiences shaped who you are today?
If she had answered those two questions, then I could have answered two for myself.
1. Based on what I heard today, what can I learn from you?
2. How will I behave differently?
In the end, I think her speech had something to do with setting goals and being a hero. Her impassioned words, however, meant nothing in light of these unanswered questions. Contemplating this tonight, I was thinking of my own life experiences. Based on a recent interview by our life insurance underwriter, both my husband and I lead pretty boring lives. Yet every singe time a choice is presented to me, every single person I meet and engage in conversation, every single book I read and reflect on its truths, every time I make a choice between two opportunities, I am shaping my unique future. If I view every single decision I make in light of the outcome of my choices, the potential for personal growth is unstoppable. It's time to be more intentional.
This particular speaker spoke with the cadence and force of a former trial lawyer. I don't know anything about law, but perhaps in the context of a courtroom scenario it is beneficial to jump all over the place in the notes. Maybe the technique confuses the jury and so sways them toward a more favorable verdict. At any rate, this woman obviously lived a fascinating life and out of her mouth her heart spilled the stories of some of the amazing things she has seen and done. Captivating and entertaining were these stories, to say the least, but I really wanted her to share with me the answer to these two basic questions:
1. How have your life experiences affected your life both negatively and positively?
2. How have your responses to your life experiences shaped who you are today?
If she had answered those two questions, then I could have answered two for myself.
1. Based on what I heard today, what can I learn from you?
2. How will I behave differently?
In the end, I think her speech had something to do with setting goals and being a hero. Her impassioned words, however, meant nothing in light of these unanswered questions. Contemplating this tonight, I was thinking of my own life experiences. Based on a recent interview by our life insurance underwriter, both my husband and I lead pretty boring lives. Yet every singe time a choice is presented to me, every single person I meet and engage in conversation, every single book I read and reflect on its truths, every time I make a choice between two opportunities, I am shaping my unique future. If I view every single decision I make in light of the outcome of my choices, the potential for personal growth is unstoppable. It's time to be more intentional.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Of Pride and Pain
My older daughter had braces put on her teeth today. I thought we were headed to the orthodontist for a quick consultation, but to my surprise, a rare open schedule on this particular day brought with it an opportunity to fill her mouth full of metal and wires. The staff presented us with a choice: do it now or re-schedule later. Either way, we were doing this thing. Because I had no plans, and my daughter thought it fortuitous that she would miss P.E., we decided to go for it!
Actually, I am very proud of Christiana for choosing to begin the grueling eighteen month long process of tug-of-war on her teeth. Truly, the decision took a fair amount of fortitude on her part. She often procrastinates and has zero tolerance for pain. Since the day she was born, she has cried every day of her life. I fill my prayer time by begging God to give me the patience to endure it and to work with her to build both the relationship I have with her, as well as the one she has with her heavenly Father. She is tender-hearted and sensitive but also full of angst and sadness. And because she is in Middle School, her perspective on life in general is a little skewed, to say the least. I love her madly, and I see glimpses occasionally of the woman she will one day become. Today's bravery ranks as one of those, and I made sure to congratulate her on such a grown-up decision.
Of course, tonight her eyes brim with tears, and through the mumbling of clenched jaws, I cannot understand a word she says. I gather, however, that she is starving and can neither do her homework nor go to sleep. Two steps forward. One step back.
Romans 5:3-4: "...but we also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character, and character, hope." Suffering, at its best, is uncomfortable and at its very worst, unbearable. Regardless of our temporary perspective, however, this unpleasant sensation in us yields abundant fruit.
The first time I felt true suffering was during the labor of my first child, the very one of whom I am writing now. Breathing through the contractions, I noticed a cartoon on the wall. "
Honey", I said, "read me that cartoon. It looks funny." Anything to take my mind off the contractions.
Gavin squinted at the wall, and said, "I don't think you want me to read that cartoon."
But I persisted. "Yes, I do. Read the cartoon. NOW!"
The cartoon in question was actually a copy of the hospital's face pain chart, a handy little reference of facial expressions rated on a scale of 1-10 and designed to represent a person's felt pain. The first one depicted a perfect little happy face and the last a distorted monster of one. Not funny.
I persevered through the pain, and when my tiny baby girl was delivered into my arms, I felt an enormous surge of power. The next three times I endured labor I was able to withstand it and each time I think my character developed a little more fully because I had the hope that once again a precious little child would soon join our family.
Braces are a minor thing. She is not dying. She is not paralyzed (although she may think she is). She is not confined to a wheelchair for life. We are simply putting a little bit of pressure on her teeth in an effort to straighten things out a bit. Outwardly, her appearance will change. Inwardly, I want her to character to evolve. She is not suffering, any more than I was as I was breathing through those contractions all those years ago. But I want her to understand that this first baby step in a direction that seems uncomfortable brings with it great rewards down the line.
Actually, I am very proud of Christiana for choosing to begin the grueling eighteen month long process of tug-of-war on her teeth. Truly, the decision took a fair amount of fortitude on her part. She often procrastinates and has zero tolerance for pain. Since the day she was born, she has cried every day of her life. I fill my prayer time by begging God to give me the patience to endure it and to work with her to build both the relationship I have with her, as well as the one she has with her heavenly Father. She is tender-hearted and sensitive but also full of angst and sadness. And because she is in Middle School, her perspective on life in general is a little skewed, to say the least. I love her madly, and I see glimpses occasionally of the woman she will one day become. Today's bravery ranks as one of those, and I made sure to congratulate her on such a grown-up decision.
Of course, tonight her eyes brim with tears, and through the mumbling of clenched jaws, I cannot understand a word she says. I gather, however, that she is starving and can neither do her homework nor go to sleep. Two steps forward. One step back.
Romans 5:3-4: "...but we also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character, and character, hope." Suffering, at its best, is uncomfortable and at its very worst, unbearable. Regardless of our temporary perspective, however, this unpleasant sensation in us yields abundant fruit.
The first time I felt true suffering was during the labor of my first child, the very one of whom I am writing now. Breathing through the contractions, I noticed a cartoon on the wall. "
Honey", I said, "read me that cartoon. It looks funny." Anything to take my mind off the contractions.
Gavin squinted at the wall, and said, "I don't think you want me to read that cartoon."
But I persisted. "Yes, I do. Read the cartoon. NOW!"
The cartoon in question was actually a copy of the hospital's face pain chart, a handy little reference of facial expressions rated on a scale of 1-10 and designed to represent a person's felt pain. The first one depicted a perfect little happy face and the last a distorted monster of one. Not funny.
I persevered through the pain, and when my tiny baby girl was delivered into my arms, I felt an enormous surge of power. The next three times I endured labor I was able to withstand it and each time I think my character developed a little more fully because I had the hope that once again a precious little child would soon join our family.
Braces are a minor thing. She is not dying. She is not paralyzed (although she may think she is). She is not confined to a wheelchair for life. We are simply putting a little bit of pressure on her teeth in an effort to straighten things out a bit. Outwardly, her appearance will change. Inwardly, I want her to character to evolve. She is not suffering, any more than I was as I was breathing through those contractions all those years ago. But I want her to understand that this first baby step in a direction that seems uncomfortable brings with it great rewards down the line.
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