How to Win at Church (but lose at everything else)

Tune in, church goer, I'm about to tell you how to succeed at church.  This will be particularly helpful if you are

a.) New to the church scene

b.) Old to the church scene but feel your ratings are slipping

Having grown up in church, I am sufficiently qualified to be writing this post.  I have an abundance of "church cred".  If I were to go all Apostle Paul on you Philippians 3 style, it'd look like this…

~Attended 10 churches in four states and two countries

~AWANA

~VBS

~Bible drill team

~Jr. High leadership committee

~Youth choir

~Discipleship group

~VBS prep/performance team

~Chorale

~Percussion

~Hospitality team

~3 mission trips

~Sunday school teacher

~Nursery worker

~Weekly small group

~Women's ministry Bible study

Let's just say, I know a thing or two about church.  Take it from me, there are things to do, and things not to do if you want to win at church. 

1. Show up.

To win at church, you kind of have to be there.  Sundays are a must.  You can miss for the occasional summer vacay or mission trip, but as a general principle, be there on Sundays.  You have to establish a physical presence if you want to win at church.

Note: You don't need to be there all the time, or be too eager about it.  That might give off a weird vibe, like you're a little too excited to be at church.

2. Fit in. 

The specific application of this one depends on the kind of church you attend.  If it's a down home church south of the Mason-Dixon Line and has a name like First Baptist Church of Chattanauga, you'll be wearing skirts and suits and a respectable amount of bling.  If it's more of a "mega-church", you'll have some flexibility, but don't skip your eyebrow waxing appointment this week and pick up a new bottle of that J.Lo mascara on your way home today.  If it's less of a church and more of a "scene" or "venue" or "worship experience" kind of place, head to American Apparel (or the nearest Goodwill) and take your best hipster friends with you to figure out what floral high-waisted shorts you should buy.  The point is, look like the people who go to your church. 

Note: This is an important one.  If your budget doesn't allow for name brands, put clothing on your list for Christmas and birthdays and do the best with what you've got.  Don't let on that you don't shop where everyone else does.  What they don't know won't hurt them.

3. Name drop.

This is also church-specific, but there are some names that are pretty universal to drop.  Just mentioning that you were reading John Piper's latest blog will up your church ratings.  Names like C.S. Lewis, John MacArthur, Augustine, and Francis Chan, will also put you in the runnings for winning at church.  It's even better if you just drop last names.  Bible references are ok, but hot blogs and podcasts are better.

Note: You don't need to actually read the whole book or listen to the whole podcast.  Studying a lot is kind of dramatic and might make people uncomfortable, which won't make them like you. 

4. Get involved.

Don't let this one scare you.  If you want to win at church, you only have to be marginally involved.  Small groups are a good way to check this item off your list.  They're fun, there's usually food involved, and they don't usually require too much study or reading.  You don't need to share anything deep.  When other people are sharing, squint your eyes a little and nod empathetically.

Note: Don't get too involved.  People might ask you to do things that squeeze your schedule or tax you relationally.

5. Give.

I know, this is another traditionally scary one.  Don't worry.  To win at church, you only have to be seen giving.  It doesn't really matter how much.

Note: You want to be seen as a faithful giver with a hint of generosity.  Giving "until it hurts" can make other people feel convicted about how much they give or make them think you're taking this whole church thing a little too seriously. 

Disclaimer: This blog post is about how to win at church.  Following these steps will put you on the path to winning at most American churches.  It won't put you in leadership or help you form meaningful relationships.  It won't help you grow or change.  It won't really require much of you at all, which is perfect, right? 

Isn't that why you go to church?

Little Miss Sunshine

If you're not sure you want to win at church but lose at everything else, that's a whole different blog post.

Summer

I love it when the days are long,
when spring has relinquished sensitivity
to summer's passionate, unrelenting fire.

I love it when darkness flees at 5:30,
and sunset's golden train slinks away
reluctantly at half past eight.

The skies grow cumbered with clouds, heavy with the summer monsoon
and the air is thick with the sticky
foreknowledge of rain.

I love it when the days are long,
when jasmine's botanical myrrh pervades the air
like a sudden I love you.

So You Think You Can't Dance?

If you had somehow peered into a crowded venue in my corner of the world blaring banjo and fiddle, you'd have seen my happy soul whirling and dipping.  Expressing how much I like dancing is about as difficult for me as expressing the principles of calculus.  You'll just have to take it on faith that I like it a whole heaping lot and if I had to choose between apples and chocolate or dancing, I'd pick dancing, and you know how I feel about apples. 

I always love to dance, but some nights are better than others, depending on the crowd, the music, the quality of dancers who ask you to dance, and all that.  Last night was a particularly good night because two of the best dropped in, plus that random guy from Utah, and the swim coach who's always teaching aerials.  I was spun within an inch of my happy life.  In between reading cues and holding in screams that inevitably come from being upside down, I got to thinking.  What are the things that make it easier to dance?  If I were to teach someone enough to pass for a good dancer what ought they know, a sort of choreographical Pygmalion, if you follow. 

Things You Ought to Know if You Think You Can't Dance (but want to, or need to)

1. Feel the beat.  If you can wrap your heartbeat around the rhythm - internalize it so you could walk out the door and keep the beat - you'll be ahead of a fair few.  Guys, although it's not the best case scenario, you can tap our hands as you hold them, or our back if it's gentle and not creepy, if it keeps you on beat. 

2. Hold a hand.  I firmly believe one could dance with only the ring and middle finger.  If you can anchor those two in the center of your partner's palm and use it as a pivot point for turns and basic steps, you'll find it easier to move.  Don't get too hung up on keeping a grip on their whole hand; it restricts movement. 

3. Read.  A fisherman reads a lake to figure out where the fish are.  A pirate reads a map to figure out where the treasure is.  A volleyball player reads the court to figure out where to defend.  (I'd give you a basketball analogy, but you'd just be more confused than helped.)  A dancer reads their partner to figure out their comfort level with the moves, their rhythm and patterns.  It is rare that a dancer (guy) doesn't have a certain set of favorite moves.  If you can figure those out and start reading them a little, you'll follow better. 

4. Keep yourself on your toes.  Literally and figuratively, stay on your toes.  Literally, when you're turning, get on the balls of your feet.  You'll turn more fluidly.  Don't go around walking on your toes.  (That's #4 on the list of How to Look Like a Weirdo.)  Do turn and transition on your toes.  Figuratively, pay attention.  Guys, pay attention to the level of expertise your girl has.  Teach her something new, but don't dance at a level way over her head.  She'll feel dumb.  Girls, pay attention to your guy's cues.  Some are stronger cue-ers than others. 

5. Don't look at your feet.  I am guilty of this all the time, but don't do it!  If you're dancing with a talker and you can manage it, talk to them.  Look over their shoulder.  Look deeply into their eyes… or not.  Avoid the feet. 

6. Smile.  Don't look like you're deep in thought constipation trying to match footwork and rhythm.  Don't knit the brows.  Don't stick out the tongue in concentration.  Smile. 

7. Don't stop believin.  Have a little confidence.  I've met very few people who I'm convinced are a lost cause on the dance floor.  If you can clap and count to 4, you can dance.  

There you have it, six things you can take to the bank and cash in for dance success.  If you have more to share, let me know and I'll add them to the list.  Dancing is social, and the process of learning should be too.

Happy dancing,

Little Miss Sunshine

News from Room 8

That last post was a bit of a, uh, downer.  This week, however, was absolutely God sustained.  (Am I really surprised?)  I survived, and the PCs did too.  Sunday night, all I wanted to do was cry, quit, and be a waitress.  (My Australian taco joint was that fun.)  At small group on Monday night, we talked about living life with the end in mind.  God wins.  Love wins (not in the you-know-who-starts-with-R-and-ends-with-obBell way).  Jesus and people who follow Him win.  No tears.  No discouragement.  No sadness.  Dancing and singing and running in fields and everything good about life here will be there.  Living with that in mind makes it a little easier to get through the sad and the lonely and the broken here.  Every morning this week, my alarm has gone off at 5:28AM and the first thing through my mind and my mouth is WE WIN.  I may lose every battle from here to the end of the world, but by golly, our good God has won the war. 

 

Happenings in Room 8 have been neither crazier or more mellow than usual.  Kids say funny things.  Kids say insightful things.  Kids call you out if ever you say one thing and do another.  Kids push the envelope.  Kids envelope you in tight squeezes.  They make you proud, and they embarrass you.  They're sneaky and impish and dramatic and sensitive and wonderful little terrors. 

I'm learning all kinds of things about teaching and myself and my PCs.  PC1 is absolutely obsessed with ninjas.  PC2 will catch any loophole you never knew existed.  My kids are too loud.  The reading specialist told me that yesterday.  She gave me some ideas for expectation posters… something I should have had from the beginning, and might have if I hadn't gotten hired 4 days before school started.  Teaching is a competitive sport.  Pride has to be crushed if you're going to be a good teacher.  You can't go around thinking you're awesome.  That attitude doesn't lend itself to collaboration and growth.  Planning and prep is the skeleton of teaching, but passion is the lifeblood.

Some days I don't want to be a teacher.  I'd rather have an office job where I can wear clothing that you can't sit on the floor in or run around or jump rope in.  I'd rather be a waitress where I leave work at work.  I'd rather be a sky diving instructor or rock climbing guide or dance teacher - one of those hobbies that turns into a job.  I'd rather do ministry or travelly jobs mingled with camp and fling stability to a young wind. 

Most days I want to be a teacher.  I want to be there to see PC5 make a jump in her reading score.  I want to be there when PC13 is crying and just needs to bury her face in someone.  I want to be there when PC7 tames his temper.  I want to jump rope.  I want to teach my PCs why the Gettysburg Address matters.  I want to read aloud to them.  I want to be there to tell them failure isn't failure unless they stay down and don't grow because of it. 

It's hard.  I have a few tough nuts to crack.  I feel young.  Half of the time, I feel young and inexperienced and adrift, and half of the time I feel young and part child myself, able to enter into the lives of my PCs.  Oh, I love them so much. 

Little Miss Sunshine, Room 8

Doing a Hard Thing

Friday night, I got home from work around 7:15.  Where I work, school gets out at 1 on Fridays.  I kind of wanted to collapse in a blubbering heap on the tile.  Instead I ate tortilla chips, a banana, walnuts, ice cream and an apple - in that order - for dinner and watched TV for the remainder of the evening.

I don’t really do hard things.  In the history of my life, there have been rare instances (I can't think of one right now, but surely somewhere there was one) when I have done a truly hard thing.  There's not a shred of modesty in this.  I'm being honest.  Growing up, it wasn't difficult to avoid hard things because I lived a moderately fairytale-esque life.  It was the whole white, middle class, happy family scenario.  There was no gang war to live through, no digging through trash for breakfast, no babysitting five younger siblings and trying to do geometry homework. 

In school, it might have appeared like I was doing a hard thing.  I got good grades, scored high, gently kicked the SAT in the face, graduated from college with honors, blah blah blah.  It's not my fault I'm a driven first born who picks things up quickly.  That's not something I did.  I could've chosen a double major, or at least a major and a minor like some of my friends.  I took fun classes with my extra time instead.  There was Tap Dancing, Nutrition, Public Speaking, Spanish, to name a few. 

I've run a couple half marathons.  I didn't have the gusto to do the real thing.  I probably couldn't run five miles today.  I played volleyball for a little team and did a lot of bench warming.  I took piano lessons for almost ten years but don't play much now.  I love gardens, but I'm not so good at keeping plants alive because I forget to water them.  I paint my nails one color, forget the chevron or the plaid or the Indonesian ladybug design.  I read my Bible most mornings, but still have trouble putting it into practice. 

Enter big girl teaching job… Now this, this is a hard thing.  Boy howdy, is it a hard thing.  I can pretty safely say it's the hardest thing I've ever done.  The sheer physical demands of it are hard.  I'm up at 5:30, running around with kids from 8:15 to 3, working until 5:30 or sometimes later.  There's always work on the weekends.  Every sense must be heightened.  Crisis can be averted with a quick preventative shake of the head while having a conversation about what a noun is.  It's like being 15 again listening to my dad's driving advice - my head is perpetually on a swivel.  Thankfully, I have been blessed with a heaping lot of energy, so keeping up with 23 eight year olds isn't too far out of my ability range. 

Aside from being physically demanding, there's the great weightiness of being a teacher.  For one year, I am in charge of the education of 23 children.  People keep reassuring me that I can't ruin a kid in a year, and I hold tightly to that.  It is on my shoulders to help them excel, catch up, maintain, or whatever verb describes them at their level of learning.  It is on my shoulders to manage (if not meet) their parents' expectations of what their kid should be able to do.  There are meetings with specialists, emails to counselors, forms to be filled out regarding behavior management and individualized spelling lists.  All that aside, I am also responsible for modeling character, integrity, grace, justice, good vs. evil, and absolute truth for kids who may never hear the Gospel anywhere else. 

All those things are hard, and I haven't even mentioned teaching yet.  There are 23 levels, 23 personalities, 23 different gifts and combinations of learning styles to work with.  There are 23 little people that I love dearly and want to see succeed to the best of their capabilities in a world that has rigorous, dynamic demands.  Where do I even begin to make sure I am teaching to the whole child, pushing my high kids and my low kids, challenging them to take ownership of their own education, planting in their minds now the potentials for higher education?  Sure, I've seen videos of great teaching, and I can tell you all about great things to try in your classroom, but when it comes to applying all these great things, it's HARD.  I can talk all day long about great teaching, but then I hand out worksheets to my kids instead of giving them PlayDough to work on their spelling words. 

It's hard when you have a kid sobbing and explaining to you that she didn't want her brother to be born with a broken heart or Down's Syndrome or Autism.  It's hard when you have a kid sobbing because kids are spreading rumors about them or yelling at them or excluding them.  It's hard when all you want to do is love them and tell them all about Jesus because He's the only one who can fix that hurt. 

Sometimes I don't know if I'll survive this year.  Teaching takes things from you that other jobs don't.  It also gives you things that other jobs can't.  Tuesday, my kids had a rough day at P.E.  I picked them up from the gym only to find some of them crying, most of them sullen and upset, and a bad report from the coach.  We had a thorough talking to after that and before they went to P.E. on Thursday.  When I picked them up Thursday, I found them in the same state as Tuesday.  The coach was shaking her head, and most of them were sitting staring at the floor.  I launched into a lecture, only to be interrupted by the coach who said, "Nah, Miss Sunshine, they were fine" and all of my blessed precious children chimed in with jubilant shouts of "we got you Miss Sunshine, we tricked you!".  I was the proudest, gladdest, relieved-est person on campus that day, giddy with glee and so happy for my little P.C.s.  It's worth it when there are PCs fighting over who gets to hold your hand as you walk from class to the library, or one who says, "Thank you for teaching us today, Miss Sunshine, have a good weekend!" or "Miss Sunshine, I'm going to miss you at summer break" when it's only October.

Maybe I'll survive another three quarters, slowly, one meaningful day at a time.  For once, maybe I'll do a hard thing.

Only by God's grace,

Little Miss Sunshine

If You're Gonna Play in Texas, You Gotta Have a Fiddle in the Band

 

Long before I arrived in Texas, it had been decided that my friend Liz, and I would go two-stepping.  This is only unusual for one reason.  Before this summer, Liz was not a country music fan.  She's a dancer to the core, but Keith Urban and Tay Swift were not on her list of iPod favorites.  All that changed when, well, I don’t know what miracle occurred, but now she's all about fiddle and banjo.  

I consulted my resident experts, and the verdict for a Wednesday night of two stepping was "Cowboys" in Arlington.  (Now, mothers, grandmothers and concerned aunts, know that I don't set my pretty painted toes inside a bar to get sloshed, smashed, wasted, etc., etc.  If it is even conceivable to go to a bar and not drink, conceive that thought in your kindly concerned minds, because I go to two step, not two fist.) 

Liz and I went (got lost) and met Cody and some of his friends there.  In Cody's praise, he's not much of a country or dancing fan, but he's a good sport and came along.  All this fall and summer, I've been two stepping in AZ, so I was excited to see if I actually knew anything, or if there was a whole other universe of real Texas two stepping.  We walked in and crinkled our noses at the smoke.  I haven't been in an indoor venue that allows smoking in years.  I thought that was a little 20th century of them, but we forged ahead.  Cody introduced us to his friends and we stood around and talked a little. 

Now, if you've read my other dance posts, you know I don't go dancing to have nice conversation.  I gave Liz and Cody some of my strategy, and they looked at me amusedly.  Going dancing is a lot like fishing, except that you act as both the bait and the fisherwoman.  You should smell nice and look nice- not shady, just nice.  You have to pick good fishing spots that aren't too crowded by other people fishing.  This means staying away from large clusters of girls, but don't pick remote corners either.  You have to keep your hands free in case someone wants to dance with you and he needs to take your hand and get on to the dance floor post haste.  Cody was surprised at that, but I assured him it happens.  Sometimes twirling your hair or doing other (cute/dumb) things has the effect of a fishing lure with a lip to make it skim across the water - eye catching. 

After this brief tutorial, I pointed out a spot I thought was perfect for tipping the odds in getting asked to dance - a stool on the edge of the dance floor where I could watch the dancing but be next to the walkway.  I told them to watch and wait.  Sure enough, as soon as the song ended and people came streaming off the dance floor in search of their next partner, presto, there he was.  "He", we'll call him Mr. Teal Shirt Guy, or Mr. T for short, wasn't a cowboy, wasn't originally from Texas, and probably wasn't originally from America.  He was slightly creepy and had an accent I couldn't place. 

Nevertheless, following my rule, I said yes.  Good thing I did, too, because that guy could dance.  Mr. T flatteringly declared me one of the best dancers there.  His personal space bubble was a little small, but I figured with Cody and his friends around, there wasn't reason for real concern.  He asked me to dance a couple other times that night, which is sort of against general protocol, but some people don't know about general protocol.  At that juncture, a girl has to make some decisions.  Dance with the great dancer who's slightly creepy, or sit on the sidelines?  That's up to you, but I danced. 

As soon as I came off the floor from dancing with Mr. T, I resumed my post and promptly got asked to dance by the guy holding up the pillar opposite me.  His name was RJ and he was huge.  When I say huge, I mean probably 6'5" and muscles the size of Samson.  He had similar transitions to the ones I've seen in AZ, which made him easy to follow.  He didn't say much, but we danced a couple times.  

  [Perhaps this would be a good time to note that guys who are not 6'5" with muscles like Samson should not feel incapable of being a memorable dance partner.  That's silly.  It's just like when you tell your friends about that gorgeous blonde you met at the gym once.  It's just a descriptor, not a condition for being awesome.]

Between these dances, I sat and talked to Liz and Cody or Cody's friends.  Some of Cody's roommates asked me to dance and gee whiz, they knew what they were doing on the dance floor.  They had all kinds of cues (that I kept missing), but they were nice about it.  I also danced with Cody, who completely downplays his dancing talents.  There were line dances and hip hop breaks and general merriment all night.  We quit about, well, sometime before 1, and went home. 

There's just something about fiddle and banjo and boots and twirling and dipping that makes life great.  My first experience with real Texas two stepping was a good one, and I have a hunch there will be a return to it before too long.  Thanks to Cody for being our bodyguard and Liz for falling in love with country music. 

Just remember, girls, boys are fish; you are fisherwomen and bait.  I don't mean bait in a slimy, sparkly chartreuse Power Bait sort of way, more like a clean lined bass lure with a little lip sort of way.  Don't fish where it's crowded, but stay in sight of friends in case you reel in a fish you can't handle and need a little assistance.   

Love and banjo,

Little Miss Sunshine

Chipped Teeth and Longhorn Steers - stories from fall break

You know this, but one perk of being a teacher is the school holidays.  This week is Fall Break at school, so I took off last Friday night for Arkansas for my beloved alma mater's homecoming.  A quick description of the university I went to - all those college brochures you got after you took the SAT.  There are people clustered on the quad, professors doing one-on-one work, social gatherings aplenty.  All those things are real where I went to school. 

As soon as I rolled into town, I tackled my brother and his soon to be wife, cleaned up from my ghastly (though without mishap) red eye flight, and hit the quad.  Homecoming Saturday is spent on the quad seeing people.  The clubs and orgs have their tables set up and alums browse by and reminisce about things they used to be a part of.  I didn't do a whole lot of browsing, more running, screaming and hugging.  Oh, it's good to see old friends.  The professors were much the same, though they didn't really carry their own weight in the screaming department.  That's ok, they have to have a little more decorum than I do. 

I felt like my heart was coming home.  It was as though I'd never left.  On the walk from Audrey's (Jordan's fiancé's apt), which was also my old apt, I felt like I was going to class.  I skipped, and trotted, and twirled.  I considered resisting the urge, but I promptly discarded that idea.  That afternoon, we all went to the homecoming football game.  Don't ask me who won, I don't know.  There were too many people between me and the football field for me to actually watch much of the game. 

Afterwards I threw on a dress and heels and went to the early show of Tiger Tunes.  You don't know what that is, do you?  To say that it's a song and dance show is like saying The Phantom of the Opera is a musical.  It's a big deal, swathed in tradition and sometimes there are glowsticks and lightshows  (thank you, Kappa Miners show).  I screamed and whooped my lungs out, which is a bit unfortunate because the early show isn't that kind of show.  The Saturday early show is usually filled with parents who need to put children to bed early and grandparents who want to see their grandkids perform.  What these two groups of people don't generally understand is the principle of Performer/Audience Reciprocity, which can be understood in this way:

The performers on stage are energized by the feedback of the audience.

The audience will give enthusiastic feedback if the performers on stage are giving an energized performance.

The conclusion of this stage energy conundrum is CHEER LOUDLY whether or not the show is good because the show will get better when you do, giving you a real reason to cheer loudly.  I didn't have time to explain this to the people sitting around me, but I don't know if they would have listened if I had.  I just turned around and went to the late show and enjoyed the more enthusiastic crowd filled with riled up college students and young alums. 

After the Saturday late show, one of the clubs hosts an after party complete with a band on the quad and a truck bed full of ice and rootbeer.  They have a chugging contest, which is how I chipped my tooth.  I danced some line dances and was on my way through the crowd to go to bed (it'd been a while since I'd slept), when they started the contest.  They announced the first round between Girl 1 and Girl 2.  Girl 2 had disappeared or chickened out so they were calling for a replacement. 

[Perhaps this is where I should explain my over eager propensity for raising my hand.  Magic shows, camp games, whatever it is, as soon as they call for a volunteer, the joints in my right arm stiffen and up it goes as though manipulated by an unseen puppeteer.  It is an involuntary action that volunteers me for all kinds of outlandish things.]

Up went my arm and suddenly I was the replacement.  I'd never chugged rootbeer (IBC, to be exact) before, but I'd always wanted to see if I could.  So I did.  And I won.  I also got rootbeer all over Mom's new Banana Republic eggplant cardigan (but it washed out, so it was OK).  A few minutes later and I was competing against a girl they called by her last name.  You can generally assume that girls called by their last names are going to beat you at a chugging contest.  And she did, and it was amazing.  Somewhere between GO! and DONE!, I chipped a tooth.  I felt it after I was finished and walking home, slightly sticky.  I must have smacked the bottle against my front tooth a bit aggressively in the adrenaline rush of trying to force carbonated liquid sugar down my throat. 

The next day, after more [subdued] screaming and seeing people at church, I left for Texas.  I feel as though sometime during my senior year of college, all my friends happened to be gathered together and made a unanimous decision to move to Texas, mostly Dallas, Texas.  I must have been grading things or working on homework or something because I missed the memo.  All that to say, the nearest and dearest all live in Dallas now, so to Dallas I went, where there was more screaming and hugging and exclaiming. 

We ate great food, watched TV, painted our nails, went to Sprinkles and Starbucks and generally did a lot of wonderful nothing.  It's a bit odd to see our grownup selves gathering for dinner, but it's just nice to be together again.  Wednesday night we went dancing, which I will tell you all about in another post.  There were late night conversations and games of spades and lazy breakfasts of cereal and coffee.  There was also the Texas State Fair. 

Yes, I did eat a footlong corn dog and a fried Snickers bar at the State Fair of Texas.  I sat in King Ranch F350 Fords and saw a Texas Longhorn steer.  I spent the day with my aunt, uncle, cousin and some of their friends from back home.  I like Texans.  They're a spirited, down to earth, tough sort of person, enough to make me want to study regionalism in the US, but that's another story. 

That night, Liz took me to the airport, where I met curly-headed-extroverted-Jesus guy.  We chatted about mission projects we'd done and where we'd been in life and our beloved churches back home as we power walked to security, both being late for our flights.  It was a nice way to end a vacation, with a guy asking how he could pray for you, just because you're family. 

That's how Fall Broke,

Little Miss Sunshine

Party Fail

Streamers hung like Spanish moss from the ceiling.  Table was set, punch bowl gleaming and brimming with red sweet stuff that I hoped wouldn't be spilled on the carpet.  I slipped into my heels a minute before 3 and finished folding the napkins.  Eggs were deviled, petits were foured, and sands were wiched.  The guest list had been carefully crafted from among my most valued and sympathetic friends.  This would be the pity party to end all pity parties. 

Friends began to arrive, coming in by twos like Noah's Ark.  They looked so happy in their twos, always someone to run a three legged race with or hold your punch glass while you went to the bathroom or a large database of shared memory to draw on when you couldn't remember the name of your dear cousin Harry's fiancé. 

After a few rounds of exchanging pleasantries, we got the party started.  Someone asked how things were going with finding someone to be a two with, instead of forever a one - holding my own punch glass and forgetting dear cousin Harry's - anyway.  I launched into my tale of despairing woeful one-ness, hoping to reap some quality pity.  One of the husbands, not given to pity, straight away instructed me to hold out for the best, which another chap echoed with comments that whoever he was had better be quality or he'd have something to answer for. 

This wasn't the sort of pity I was hoping for, so I tried again.  I took the Charlotte Lucas angle, wondering aloud if one could really be enthralled by romance anymore, or if things weren't mostly logistics and dealing with human flaws and managing expectations influenced by romantic ideals.  Vanauken writes as though the world without the girl he loves might never find spring again or hear another nightingale.  He quotes from an unknown poet in A Severe Mercy.

To hold her in my arms against the twilight and be her comrade for ever - this was all I wanted so long as my life should last… And this, I told myself with a kind of wonder, this was what love was: this consecration, this curious uplifting, this sudden inexplicable joy, and this intolerable pain.  p.29

But that's all stuff and nonsense.  Romantic fluff penned by mad poets and whispered by swooning lovers.  Much better to pick out someone with a decent job and of good character.  Anything more than that is asking a bit much.  Is it, really?  One of the girls questioned.  To want the someone who you plan on spending the rest of your life with to be fascinating and to impassion you to be yourself and unlock things in you that no one else ever could - that doesn't seem too much to hope for. 

This pity party was turning into a royal shamozzle.  Not only was I getting no pity, but the cynicism I had so carefully nurtured was withering before my eyes.  What I was hearing from my dearly loved twos was don't rule out the ordinary good guys, but they'd better be the cream of the crop ordinary good if they were going to pass the friend test.  With that, the party ended.  There were a respectable number of leftovers, and no punch was spilt in the writing of this post.

In conclusion, I've been denied pity, but given hope.  Yes, I'm still a one.  Yes, someday I'd like to be a two.  When will that someday come?  Only God knows, and only God knows whether he'll like to dance or like poetry, or live in some abominable climate like Sasketchewan or Florida.  Instead of being so concerned with knowing, I've concluded that my time would be better spent living.  

Cheers to faith under frustration,

Little Miss Sunshine

Falling out of Planes on Purpose

(Disclaimer, this is not a picture of me.)

While not characterized entirely by this trait, I have been known to be (at times) a bit impulsive.  I'm not sure if this latest episode of adrenaline overdose is indicative of that or more a product of premeditated madness.  Either way, I spent my Saturday morning doing something regarded by some as a maniac's pastime - falling out of a plane on purpose.  (Marketing reps tend to call it skydiving.)

It started when I got a best friend who liked adventure as much if not more than I do.  We'd talked about jumping out of a plane sometime on purpose together as a fun thing to do.  With me going away to college and Australia and her traipsing around France and various African countries in the summertime, we couldn't seem to find the right time.  Enter Brave Dave (Zanna's also adventurous bf).  Because he is both a good boyfriend and adventurous, he bought her skydiving for her birthday and made it an open invite to whomever wanted to come.

I jumped in (and out of the plane) with both feet.  We picked a day, and I was instantly mentally committed.  It was nuts, and I knew it.  I also knew that if I didn't do it now, well, I'd probably do it in the next five years.  Anyway, I figured I'd carpe the diem and sign up.  I opened the invite up to my small group, but only one friend was game enough to come with.

5:25 comes early on Saturday, somehow earlier than on a Monday-Friday.  Anyway, I rolled out of bed, pried open my eyeballs and shrugged on a t-shirt from working at Compass Wilderness (I thought it might bring a little cotton courage to have "rafting, climbing, hiking" on my shirt), and brushed my teeth - I think.  I made it to Zanna's house where I met up with Brave Dave and Jordan the Adventurous.  We jumped in Brave Dave's truck and set off for sky diving HQ. 

Once we got there, they showed us a video that, in sum, reminded us repeatedly that what we were about to do was statistically safe but that we could still die.  We initialed six pages of releasing ourselves to death by stupidity before paying at the window.  After that, I met my lifeline, whose name was Sam.  He was an old hippie with a goatee.  The way he acted, skydiving wasn't any great feat, so I felt better about my decision to fall out of a plane on purpose. 

I stepped into a full body harness and Sam coached me through an elaborate set of instructions… squat, head back, feet together.  That was about the extent of our prep session.  We climbed into a tiny little plane that had been gutted and refitted with two benches and set of seat belts along the sides.  Despite the seat belt, I didn't feel exactly safe when they decided to OPEN THE DOOR after we took off for "ventilation".  It took a few minutes to reach 13,000 feet.  Yes, ladies and gents, 13,000 smackaroonies.  Those highways were looking mighty small from those plane windows. 

I was about halfway down the bench, with a group of pros and Dave and Zanna on my left and Jordan on my right.  Before I knew it, lickety-split, the group of pros had linked together and were out the door in what looked like an atomic formation from high school chemistry.  I sure wasn't thinking about chemistry at that moment because suddenly everyone was scooting down the bench TOWARDS the gaping open door.  Oh dear.  Oh dear.  Oh dear.  Dave was out the door, then Zanna.  I thought about balking.  Every neuron in my brain was resisting to this strange form of voluntary certain death.  Somehow I was on the edge of the gaping hole and before another thought could zip down the pipeline, Sam and I were out the door. 

Terror turned to ecstasy.  I was flying!  And screaming bloody murder!  The freefall lasted about 50 seconds.  Let me tell you, it was an awesome 50 seconds.  If you turn your hands like rudders, you spin on your belly as you're plummeting toward earth.  That's fun.  Sam had told me that most people think they can't breathe, so just to scream and that would help.  I'm not sure I needed a reason to scream.  I wasn't conscious of the distance to the ground, just that I was flying, but it was safe because somewhere in my prefrontal cortex was resting the thought that Sam had a parachute and this was statistically quite survivable. 

All of a sudden, Sam pulled the cord and there was a tug and we were floating like a feather on the wind.  That's when I realized how high we were.  Sam let me pull on the handles that steered the parachute.  We spiraled like a colorful tornado, first one way, then the other.  I felt pretty sick, but I didn't mind.  We floated some more and then came in for landing on a large, grassy landing strip.  No broken ankle, no broken neck, I had survived. 

Was it worth it?  Absolutely.  Would I do it again right now as I sit typing this in my living room?  Absolutely. 

Questioning her chemical dependence on adrenaline,

Little Miss Sunshine

Being Peter Pan

Sometimes I think my soul is too young to be a teacher.  It's too hard.  Too hard to stand on the sidewalk during playground duty when all I want to do is kick off my shoes and run through the field catching passes with the boys playing football or tuck in my shirt and hang upside down from the monkey bars with the little girls in their pigtails.  It's too hard to be fierce and stern and dare them to make a sound while I'm trying to teach them two digit subtraction when all I want to do is lead them in a rollicking singing dancing frolic. 

Oh, I know, teachers ought be firm and not smile until Christmas.  That's a lot of hogwash.  I have trouble not laughing at their ill-timed jokes in class.  They're too funny, too alive, too uninhibited.  I get nervous just thinking about someone walking into my classroom during snack time or dance party time.  There are children sitting quietly in their seats happily crunching away on their granola bars.  There are also children forming conga lines to a verb rap or hollering requests for "Oh, Say Can You See"  ("The Star Spangled Banner" - their favorite song).  Will the teacher or administrator or (heaven forbid) the superintendent understand that this is childhood happening?  That NeverLand exists for moments during the day in my classroom? 

 

I feel like Peter Pan with my Lost Boys (and girls), co-conspirators on a mission of adventure and discovery.  It is my job to teach them to be brave and bold and live lives of honor.  I must lead them to be lovers of poetry and investigators of physics and chemistry.  They ought to know that whether done in a team or alone, work is something accomplished with passionate creativity and excellence.  Whether they are now or not, they ought to leave my room as connoisseurs of literature, whether the Gettysburg Address or The Magician's Nephew.  If they look at Renoir and say Ren-oy-er, I will have failed.  

Sometimes, teachers get confused.  They get the idea that school should be a quiet place.  They think that the important thing is children doing what they're told.  They think that the AIMS or Stanford15 or whatever standardized test it is must be studied for.  Being a new teacher, other ideas are still alive in my memory.  Walking in a straight, quiet line is not a life skill.  When's the last time you had to do it?  Probably 5th grade, unless you've been in a chain gang recently.  What is the class you remember the most material from?  It is not likely the one where you sat silently listening to a teacher lecture (aka daydreamed about what's for lunch, unless you had class with Dr.Mrs. Sonheim, Motl or Wight).  The purpose of education is not passing tests, but understanding what it means to be human through history, geography, geometry, chemistry, music, art, literature and jump roping.  If students can artfully express themselves and carefully examine ideas, don't you think they'll survive that test, whatever it is? 

Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing, no one's listening, and no one is interested in learning.  I want to cry and read Shakespeare and run down a grassy hill and climb trees instead of be a teacher.  I must have to crack down on them and be harsher.  I will never be a good teacher.  A good teacher would be more organized.  A good teacher would this and that.  After some moping and self-lecturing, I remember the difference between Peter Pan and Charlie Brown's teacher.  One has a young soul, and one does not.  You cannot teach children to fly and loathe being among the stars.

Muddling through the first year of being Miss Sunshine,

LMS