You Can't Do That

How many times have you been told, "You can't do that"? I don't mean you've been told no, I mean you've been told you can't when you feel you actually can. We go through school, relationships, jobs, challenges and we are faced now and then with people who speak too quickly or off the cuff. 

Growing up, I was part of a less than middle class neighborhood. Less than poor by many American standards. My schools were rough as we began each morning with a trip through metal detectors. You couldn't even get into a football game without a bag check and a pat down. You could feel the abuse so vivid in the souls of fellow students, but you didn't dare ask how that black eye came to be. If only we had just the parents to fear, but gangs were the majority in our world. Drive by shootings weren't rare. Gang rapes were common enough that the neighborhood didn't shut down when we heard of one. It was safer not to know. 

It was heavy enough that I knew I needed to shove it off as soon as possible. I would not stay here and raise a family. I was 7 when I chose Jesus instead of my circumstances. I was in 7th grade when I realized something wasn't right with my surroundings. 

I remember going to my counselor and asking to be put in a higher math class: I was college bound. Even he thought I was crazy. He said in an attempt to joke, "you're a bit too stupid for that kind of class." I left his office and made an appointment with the principal. "Give me a new counselor. I won't work with him anymore." 

As a teacher now, I can't even imagine what the office said about me when I left. I felt like I stood up to that guy, but they never moved me into the harder math class. I didn't press the issue because, in truth, he had shaken my confidence. So much so that I had to take an anti-math anxiety class in college. I sweet talked my way through high school math classes to get Ds. I didn't realize how much I needed this counselor. In his awful plan and hateful words, he shaped me. Rather God used that crap to shape me into something stronger. 

In high school, a girl said, "let's start a Bible club." I'll be honest. It seemed like a strange club, but I like the Bible and I like a good fight, so when I heard that she was told "You can't" by our principal, I got a lawyer. I was 14. I knew a lawyer from church and his office was downtown next to our school. I made an appt with him and started a petition. I took a notebook full of notes, went to the library to research a few court cases on his recommendation, and seriously thought about becoming a lawyer. Once my signatures were collected, I took my evidence to the principal. He asked the secretary to stay in the meeting as a witness. I asked to have my history teacher present as my witness. (I didn't even know what that meant). I won. He agreed that if I agreed not to be too religious that I could have my club. And could my lawyer please stop calling him? Sure. :) no problem, sir. The Bible club ended up being great. Read a little scripture. Do acts of kindness around the school. Good choice Mr. Brusa. You really were my favorite principal. Sorry my lawyer had to get involved. Thank you for telling me "you can't". I wouldn't be where I am without you. 

Tomorrow, I am going to teach at my church. It's a mile and a half outside my comfort zone, so probably exactly where I am supposed to be. As I've been reading and researching about Nehemiah, I am emotionally tied to him more when I read about these three men who made his work miserable. They kept up the incessant rant of "you can't, Nehemiah". They threatened him and his family. They came at him with swords.

 It's amazing to me, his response. Nehemiah and his men (and women) didn't walk away from this challenge. Instead they continued working, hammer in one hand and a sword in the other. Literally. 

This is the kind of faith I want. When someone tells me, "you can't" I want to pick up my sword and continue working. I want to remember who God says I am and to whom I belong. There are just so many things I truly cannot accomplish. Alone I'm nothing. But, "I can do all things through Christ Jesus who gives me strength" and I can stand firm on the promise that "He works all things together for his glory." "Whom shall I fear?" Certainly not some middle school counselor.  

How Do You Know You Are Walking The Right Path?

Everything around you seems to start sucking. I'm sorry I used the word "sucking", but I don't know another word. 

Some thoughts on suffering after studying it for the week:

When we suffer temptations or our kids seem to fall prey to temptations on repeat, we can feel reassured that the enemy doesn't like where we are/they're headed. 

When the enemy doesn't like where we are/they're headed, God does. Keep pressing in. Grasp hope and promises in that minute. At one point you will look down and realize you aren't just white-knuckling wishful thinking, instead you've got a fistful of peace. Notice I didn't say the problems go away. Rather you find yourself standing a little taller, shield about you, poised to stand firm. 

When we suffer it shouldn't be arbitrary. Even if what we are going through falls under natural consequences, don't let a second of it be in vain. Learn. Press in. Press on. Purpose to hear God and change. Repent. Turn about. Carry on. Take it like a man. Take it like a boss. But don't let it be useless. Don't simply sit and beg for it all to go away. You're in a mess. Watch how God turns every hard time to be used for good and his glory. Punch the devil in the face by standing in your doorway and singing to Jesus at the top of your lungs. You got this. God's got you. Make it count. 

And finally, don't let what Christ did be for not. Jesus opted to come here to this jacked up, most of the time sideways world, so he could trudge through a life we would someday relate to. He put on suffering. He walked into situations knowing his best friends would betray him before they knew they would. And do you know how he responded? He washed their feet. He knelt before Judas, and Emmanuel chose to serve a trader in the most humbling way. Christ spoke to Peter with love, not passively through hidden aggression at what was to come. He showed Peter that Peter was worth every sacrifice all the while knowing Peter would turn away from Jesus pretending never to even have been his friend. I don't respond this way. When I know someone has evil planned for me I roll through ten scenarios of how I can be meanest to them before they can get to me. Then I've won, right? Not according to this. 

I want to know how to suffer properly. I want to learn how to fight well. I'm finding it has nothing to do with quips and fists and sarcasm. 

Loving others is hard. Suffering is hard. I'm so grateful that we have an example to follow after. 

January

Whirlwind has got nothing on us. When's the last time I cleaned properly? Couldn't say. Changed my sheets? Probably a couple weeks. Sat face to face with my first husband? Can't remember. January has a knack for rushing in and sweeping us up, doesn't it? 

A co-worker stopped mid-sentence today and said, "what the heck? Is next week really February?"

"Yes. Ridiculous," I replied wearily. 

I'm refusing to believe it just flashed by me. I won't accept that it whizzed around like one of those janky firecrackers we threw around when I was a kid. I think they were called flowers. I'm taking stock. I'm archiving our accomplishments.  I'm inventorying my blessings:

My daughter posed for senior pictures. And she's beautiful, so I stared at them for a smallish eternity. 

Then she had the nerve to pass her driving test. Come tomorrow, she will be insured and driving herself to school come 9 aye em. I love this and hate it at all the same time. 

I did in fact date my favorite boyfriends. Several times actually. 

I've made it to the gym 18 out of 28 days. 

I've more than doubled my rate of gym days. 

I applied to and was accepted to begin a master's in theology with an emphasis in urban ministries at Grand Canyon University. I begin tomorrow. 

I fully and completely edited 6 chapters of my book. I know those mean the same thing. It's irony. I'm working on adding literary elements to my writing. 

Layla Grace was a boss at shooting on her rifle team. She took bronze in the junior Olympics. Bronze. She also is the number one shooter in the state at the JV level. Don't make her mad. Just don't. 

I realized I can't do every ambitious adventure, so I've stepped back, and let go of, and reclaimed my dreams and Involvment. 

I know it doesn't seem like it when you look up there at that crazy list, but I really have said "no". And I meant it. Because I can't possibly be a light to those around me if I'm running by them so quickly they only see a flash. How can I pour into someone God brings near if I don't take the minutes needed to look them full in the face? Lock eyes. Take a moment to pray for discernment and direction. I can't. 

The answer is I can't. So I won't live that crazy life. I'll open my grip and hand over a few fears and a few responsibilities until I feel the weight shove off my shoulders. 

Because really, here's what matters: my Jesus, my husband, my children. Everything else is just icing. 

Talk To Your Girls; Make It A Habit

I've heard a lot of women say their girls just stopped talking to them once they got to a certain age. I am sorry to say I have been this girl to her mamma. None of this is actually God's plan for a mother and her child.

I started researching parenting the minute I had my first kid. Before really. I read every book and took every class I could possibly get ahold of because I was placed on bed rest with that first little turkey, and she kept insisting on making an early appearance. As it turns out, in true rude gus fashion, she ended up being 14 days late. 14. 14 days. Late. I'm not over it. 

Anyway, my research consisted mostly of conversations with moms who have been there, who have good adults for children, and who were happy to be honest and not sugar coat things. If you don't currently have these people around you, find them. Stop what you're doing and go find them. Pray for God to bring these moms around you. Keep your eyes open at the next baby shower, party, or any gathering where any women seem to congregate. These women are your life line. They exist to teach you what you need to know to survive some trying parenting years. They aren't all hard, but those moments seem to happen often and with a sea of emotions. 

One amazing mother of four incredible kids suggested I start early with my girls to talk about the awkward stuff, so that when we got to the REALLY personal chats, talking about it would be old hat. Then my friend, Jessica, suggested this journal. 

Because I love writing and written records and journals so much, I felt this was the best route for me and my girls. Over the years I have purchased three, one for each daughter. Izzy, now almost 18, was an early teen when we started. I think she was about 12. She was really struggling with so many things, and I kept hitting a brick wall when I would bring up a topic. Any topic. Even simple questions. Then we started this book. 

I started with something simple. I guessed the contents of her bag, and when I passed on the book I had her guess the contents of my purse. Our guesses were crazy and funny and weirdly spot on. She was hooked. She got to choose the next topic in the book. She chose to draw pictures of her dream outfit for her first day of work. The doodling is what drew her in, I think. The relationship is what keeps me checking under my pillow every night to see if she has hidden it there with a new message.

Before we got started, we went over rules. 

• Do we use a special pen? Nah. Just make it legible. 
• Are drawn responses acceptable? When you draw like Isabelle they are. 
• How often should we pass the book back? Just get to it when you can, but know that someone on the other end is excited to see what you have written or how you have responded. 
• Do we share this information with other people (aka siblings, daddy)? No, never, unless we agree on it or unless I think something harmful is happening with her. I gave her permission to tell her dad anything I wrote, because. Let's face it. That guy has known me since I was a kid. He is in all my stories. 
• How do we pass the book on? We chose to hide it under the other's pillow.

I cannot stress enough how major this interaction has been in the relationships I have with each of my three daughters. We own three of these books now. And, yes, that can turn into a bit of a chore when I have three of these journals hiding under my pillow in one night. But talk about a worthy investment. The lines of communication are so far open. 

My girls have incredibly different personalities and therefore will share things differently. Some are so blunt and open I feel like I am perpetually sporting that shocked big eyed emoji face. You know the one? Another daughter is quiet, reserved, and honestly not as trusting. It takes a little more to get through her guards, but now that we have moved into the territory of personal body changes and boyfriends, I am happy to say that she is open with me about the things that matter. 

With my oldest getting things set to leave for college, this is a book I all treasure while she is gone. I may find a way to pass it on to her a few times a year even after she leaves, just to check in with her and give her a little piece of home when she is missing home. I don't know really. But I know that we have made it through her teen years with nearly zero typical girl dramas. Part of that is due to the fact that she is simply rad and she lives her life for Jesus. I am positive some of that is thanks to what we set up so early on: an easy path for dialogue. 

If you don't want to use a pre made journal, no problem! Take your girl out on a date and make up the page themes together. Or make it a birthday present. Here are some things we write about- they are both made up by us and preprinted by the authors of the book.

Top Ten Favorite Songs

Draw Your Dream Outfit

What's Your Favorite Bible Verse or Bible Character

Ten Ways You are Like Rory & Lorelei Gilmore

The Last (fill in the blank ) you just did/had { food you ate, person you talked to, book you read, movie you watched, etc.}

They go on to share some embarrassing moments, dreams of the future, what I was like as a kid and what she thinks she will be like as a mother. It doesn't really matter what you talk about. Just talk. Make it easy. Don't discipline. Be true. Be kind. Be encouraging. Be on purpose. It could change everything. 

2016

The song on my iPod had just finished, and I thought to myself "the next song that comes on is going to be the theme song for our next year." Naturally, it was Justin Bieber. I'm calling this a win. 

I laughed about it for a few minutes all to myself, told my kids what just took place inside of my head, endured their mock of my love for Justin Bieber, and then declared, "Jesus uses Justin Bieber to talk to me." 

It's only funnier that I've taken the idea of it all more seriously. The song? Purpose. 

Seriously?? JESUS USES JUSTIN BIEBER. 

The more I get into my new routine of things (more to come on this) the more I realize "PURPOSE" is the perfect word for my year. It's just a happy circumstance that there is a song about it. 

But really, what's the point of anything we do, of everything we do, of all the things we skip if there is no purpose behind them. Know your purpose. 

I want to know my purpose. I want my purpose to be God's purpose. I want to do all things on purpose, so that my God is glorified with the life I lead. So I earn the tombstone that reads, "she did what she could". 

Otherwise it may as well say "she stayed busy, but did very little." That's how I feel sometimes. Like my whole life is spent shouting into the wind. And do you know what I am beginning to realize? 

I jump to my feet when I'm offered something easy to accomplish. When something intimidates me or seems too hard, I hide. It's fear. Fear is bigger in my life right now than purpose. 

Well, not for long. Justin Bieber and Jesus have gone out of their ways to deliver me a message, and I'm stepping into it. I'm reaching deep. I'm stepping out onto that water. I'm staring that wave in the face. I got this. Well, I don't, but Jesus has got me. Who else shall I fear? 

Winter Break

Oh how I love the sound of that phrase. Winter break. Brain break. Pants break. You can't make me. I won't. No pants, no finagling, no hectic. My minutes will be spent doing all the things I love most. 

Ok, maybe I promised myself I would clean something, but don't expect miracles. I'll spray the counter and walk away for a good five minutes just to avoid using elbow grease. Come at me, syrup stains. I'll soak a pan like I'm waiting for it to get pruney. Get behind me, caked on scum. And yes, I'll probably run that load of laundry through twice, but the second round will have a drop of lemon oil and therefore zero mildew smell. Yah. I got this winter break in the bag, and we are only two days in. 

You know what else has already  happened? After about a month of asking my husband to handle a few Unwelcomed visitors we named Rebecca, I caught the mice myself. Yes. We named all the mice Rebecca. Yes. I purchased four different mouse trap types and placed them silly nikky through my home. And, yes. Auto correct just changed "willy nilly" to "silly nikky" and I'm leaving it because maybe it fits better. The point is, I did it. I caught two mice in this strange glue contraption. One died straight away, and I'm sorry to say that another held on for a few ten minute sections of time (I didn't want to say an hour. It sounded meaner). 

What's a girl to do? How do you humanely rid your home of field mice that are eating through every food package in your pantry and leaving little black licorice bits like its the best surprise they can offer? 

No thanks, Rebecca! I don't want none. 

But I did it. I think my kids looked at me like I was just a smidgeon taller in their eyes when it was all done. Except Layla Grace. I don't know how she looked at me really. I avoided her eye contact on account of this conversation: 

Me: gross. Get away from the mice. 

LG: aw. It's so sad. Can't I just put him out of his misery?!

Me: what are you going to do??

LG (calmly) (too calmly): stab it. 

Me (commence avoiding eye contact)

Isn't this what winter break is all about? I'm just sorry I don't have a happier story.

Like the time Sam found the mouse trap my husband set. The peanut butter and cheese had been removed so precisely, yet the trap had not been set off. Almost as if Rebecca has thumbs (please don't have thumbs, Rebecca). And there was this conversation: 

Sam: mamma, since your trap has been licked clean, can I set it off with this stick?

Elijah: OH MY GOSH

Me (calmly): Sam. Never say that again. And no. 

Mike (chokes)

 If you love us you must love all of us. 

What's My Role? What's My Job?

I'm at odds on the inside. This time it isn't due to the rude amount of dairy I ate. This time it's my brain and my thoughts and how they intertwine with my heart. What I know verses what I feel. What I see verses my true reality. 

During the week, I spend a solid 35 hours looking into the faces of these tiny little clowns- 28 fifth grade clowns. They are a group of incredible humans, but most of the time I seem to know it more than they. 

I say, "that was awesome. Thank you for walking us through how you did that math problem!" 

They respond, "Uh. Mrs. B. I got it wrong"

I attempt to high-five them and they accuse me of being too enthusiastic. So I offer them a low five and attempt a serious face. I ask, "what do you mean you got it wrong?? Did you learn something just now by working through this problem?"

"Well. Yah. I know how to solve it now," they add with confused faces. 

"Perfect. Well the right answer wasn't '11'; the right answer was figuring how how not to solve this problem so you could get to 11!"

They walk away slowly assessing me while I chuckle and the rest of the class laughs, mostly happy none of them was on the spot just now. 

We laugh so much in my classroom. Sometimes, when I feel the day is taking too long or what we are learning is threatening our understanding, I stop the lesson for a story. I overdo it. I use big hands. I engage them in silly stories and banter to further their sarcasm and wit, but more importantly, I show them what it looks like to interact socially with an adult. 

There are too many "right answers" in these kids' lives. Too much of "do it this way or get out". Sometimes there's a punishment for simply having a different opinion. By the time this crowd is ten, they've learned to lay low and please their people. There's no disagreeing. 

So I am at odds. I walk a fine line as an educator. I'm not the mom, I'm the teacher. But what happens when a student doesn't need a teacher, she needs a mom because her true mother called her a slut earlier that morning. She's ten and an exceptional student, and even if her mother didn't mean it, she said it, and sent her daughter to school to process that with her little ten year old brain. 

I'm at odds because a boy who is handsome and tall and funny with a mound of potential gets kicked out of his house each morning. His step dad wakes him up at 7:30 and tells him to go. School starts at 9:30, and the walk is roughly five minutes. He doesn't open up much about this but it hurts him. He's told me it makes him sad. 

So, my question, dear readers, is where do I stand? If I was their mother, I could hold them and pray with them and say I am sorry. If I was a social worker it would be easy to say these kids are at risk. I would have a plan and a program and support. But I'm not. I'm a teacher. I have to stay neutral. I would never speak against a parent to a child. So what do I say? What do I do? 

For the time, I find myself being the recipient of hugs from students I don't yet even know. Kids in other classes. Kids I've never taught. It seems they aren't looking for a teacher or a new way to solve math; those are irrelevant in their hierarchy of needs. They need love. Of which I will never have enough to give. 

So for now I hug. I hug and I practice handing this weight up to Jesus because I can't win at this. I can't love enough or say the perfect words to change these kids' home life. I'm just one girl. #kathleenkelley

I'll continue living my real authentic life in this place where I've been so clearly sent. I'll attempt to be a peacemaker and a silent set of arms that hug back. Maybe that will be enough. Let that be enough, Jesus, or show me what to do because I know I'm not in this alone

 

5.5 almost

We've been over this. I don't sleep. Last night I got a new oil that is said to have powers to keep you asleep once you fall there. It smells like grass. Some foreign grass one might find in Asia. I'm torn between two worlds: the man do I love sleep world and man do I dislike the smell of grass in Asia as I imagine it. But at the end of it all, I put a couple drops on my pillow and got a solid 5.5 hours of sleep. Not even a lot of tossing a turning. 

This could be a fluke. I always sleep better on Fridays. And why wouldn't I? My brain is fried between holding down my position as a teacher and leading the troop I call the Brew Crew. 

On the other hand, Saturday is a big night. Tossing and turning would make sense. I get to emcee Awaken's 4th annual fundraising banquet. It's sold out. My belly is at peace, but my mind is a jumble. I was focused and full of peace. And then terrorists came to Paris. 

Now my heart is unsettled which always gets me thinking which always wakes me up. What a web. 

It's so easy for me to stay unattached to traumatic situations. It's safe to say I fall somewhere in the spectrum of having an attachment disorder. There's been no clinical diagnosis, but I've been through enough training to help kids through it, and I know the hand I was dealt. Knowing this about myself, it's easy to understand when I don't engage the same way others do. But it's not acceptable. I don't accept it. 

If we strive to be the remnant of hope here on earth by pointing to Christ then we are to strive to hurt over the things that hurt Him. This is so counterintuitive. Place ourselves in harm's way? Lay our heart out where the pain is? Open our fists and sit by with palms wide open?this goes against my grain. I've mastered a life of keeping people just where I want them. 

I can love Jesus and care for people and keep all my emotions in order without ever being vulnerable. Until I come to realize that's not truth. That's a coping mechanism. It's a fleece thrown over my eyes that has slowly been thinning. The opaque takes on the sheer. 

Every morning I pray that my eyes would be open to see the people around me. And suddenly I'm understanding that this isn't his way. Instead, he's attempting to do that thing- that bit where he prunes and shakes and lovingly squeezes- where he pours a concentrated dose of love right down into my grinch of a heart and makes it swell to three times its usual size. That way he has about making me soften at the edges and dare to trust his kindness. That way he has of convincing us that we can wrap our hearts around the hurt in Paris and know we will walk out the other side still in tact. Maybe even a little bit stronger. 

I don't know how he does it. But I know it's his grace. The minutes I move from "everything is a trigger threatening my calm" to "I am willing to care about what you care about". I want to trust in his kindness enough to jump on the back of compassion and ride it like the pony I should have owned. 

I have practical steps to get better at this. Awaken is a an anti trafficking organization for local guys and girls here in Reno. I am mostly the writer and social media girl for the organization, but I've also connected with some of the girls we work with. Rather than keep them at arm's length and attempt to force sympathy, I think of their stories. I picture what their heart felt like at each section. How their moms and dads felt during that time. How others looked at them and knew they were hurting but maybe didn't know why or how or what they were really doing. 

So often at my work as a teacher, I come across a kid who seems loud and rebellious and in your face. Yesterday one such girl was giving her teacher an especially hard time. This girl is a button pusher. She has more than mastered the talent of I hurt you before you hurt me. She yells and teases and swears like a pro. She instigates and stirs up girl drama. So I put myself in her shoes. 

For a few minutes I stopped and asked, "what's really going on here?" And then I really watched her. She has no friends. When I ask her about family and what she did last night or how she gets along with her mom, she changes the subject smoothly but immediately. She's never answered. So I put myself in her shoes. 

And my heart aches. It squeezes and hurts and aches and wakes me up in the middle of the night to pray for these girls: the ones already working the streets and the ones at risk. 

And then, at 3:30 in the morning, this is when I start to realize that God doesn't want me to open my eyes. I see plenty. He wants me to open my heart. And he knows I'm not at all up for this challenge. Not at all. I will never have compassion enough for others. Part because I've been damaged and don't trust yet and part because love is a fruit only the Holy Spirit can perfect in me. My only job is to let him. 

The All Time Angst

You know those nights when your dinner was good but not enough substance to carry to morning? When you eat too early or too light or dang it you're just hungry. 

I'm having one of these minutes. I ate. I even ate at a normal dinner hour: 6:30. But when you eat at a football banquet they give you an unabashed stink eye if you even look like you're going to ask about wheat free, allergy friendly menu items. There isn't an allergy friendly section. There isn't even a menu. Take your styrofoam plate with those little hilly dividers, grab your dinner roll, handle your plastic ware, and just pick those croutons out of your heavily dressed Caesar salad yourself. 

Fine. But may I please sneak a bite of that cheesecake? Oh. You saw that, did you? You noticed me sneak a cheesecake bite when I was standing in line for dinner? Huh. Interesting. What's that you say? The dessert line wasn't quite open yet? Hmm. Well. In that case, I took two pieces of cheesecake when your back was turned. 

I'm still hungry. I think I'll try some ice cream. 

Just The Two of Us (and no more)

The Man and I snuck out for five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact paired with an hour of talking freely. We didn't speak code even once for fear little ears might hear and hold us to whatever they picked up in their eavesdropping. Heaven bless them, but if one of my kids doesn't grow up to be a spy for the government, I may not have helped them discover their true calling. I've never met a crew that can gather Intel and decode our stuttered sentences and anagrams in the way my children can. 

Hubby: hey babe, want to go to the thing and get a D just ::opens eyes wide and winks twice:: 

Some child of mine: You guys are leaving!! To get drinks?! Just the two of you!!

Me: hey babe, there's a special thing and I was thinking of getting a ::points to ceiling:: for 5. 

Some child of mine: you're getting Sam a new hat for Christmas. 

Me: son of crap!! How do they do it!?

They are spies or wizards- I haven't decided. But the point is, we had time alone speaking freely like humans and not robots. It was glorious. 

Our conversation weaved from updates to goings on. We talked of funny stories and remembered our babies who are now college bound. We relayed the mocking we've done lately and got misty over the feelings on the horizon when our oldest leaves for college. 

We partook in the trivia cards strewn about the bar table and got caught up in each other's eyes a time or two. We sat close, so we touched the whole time. We remembered who we are- I am his and he is mine and no one else gets to fit in between us. We've left a pocket for Jesus, but nobody and nothing else is welcomed here. Not in this space. 

In this space, I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine. The end. There's no grey space here. There's no compromise. We were attached 22 years ago this January. Then we married almost 20 years ago. I've been his longer than I haven't in this life. What an overwhelming blessing. What an unexpected gift. 

Thank you, Mike Brewer, for always being my man. You are loved, sir. 

HOPE

There's a word that gets thrown around pretty regularly, right? 

I hope so. I hope I have time to watch tv tonight. Hopefully, I'm not late for work. I hope he doesn't eat any of you! (Land Before Time reference for everyone born in the 80s). 

HOPE. We throw it in like a pseudo-synonym for crossing our fingers. But lately the weight of the word has been sinking deep in me. 

I work at a day job where I stare into faces devoid of hope. And it isn't just my students in their too small jeans and unkempt hair- traces of an old bruise that I can never be sure came from typical kid blunders or a parent's heavily thrown backhand. 

It isn't only the dads with altered smiles due to the meth that took their teeth. Or the mothers who roll in wearing overly low tank tops, fuzzy jammie pants, house shoes, and what appears to be a countenance of confidence but really comes across as fear in the way they won't hold eye contact. And it isn't even the other teachers who confess their frustrations in a way that makes you know the only hoping they do is hope the school day ends without any major screw ups or another blow of devastating news. Really, it's all of it. It's everyone. It's no one. Hope is hard to find. 

Sometimes I feel like the life I lead is small. I'm Kathleen Kelly- I feel like a lone reed leading a valuable but small life. I'm caught up in paperwork and planning, reading data and high stakes testing. It's easy for me to forget that's not why I'm there. CRTs are never someone's ministry. My ministry is HOPE. I have it. I point to it. I wallow in it, so Jesus can leave traces of it everywhere I go. 

When I took this job as a teacher, I thought I knew what I was getting into. We never know. Why do we always think we know? Sometimes I even catch myself saying, "I finally understand what God is doing!" Even in my mind I'm cracking up at that ridiculousness. 

I thought I would teach kids things like math and reading strategies. How to master an outline like a boss. Maybe even how to navigate a relationship with a peer. Instead, God knew what he was doing. Because HE knows the plans he has for me. HE knows. So instead of teaching writing and reading and science, this month alone (9 days into October) I have done what feels like everything except teach letters and numbers. 

This month I prayed for a woman who was trying to decide whether or not she should abort her baby. She's well into her second trimester, but the doctors think the baby will be deformed. No arms. "There's no HOPE."

I also held an 11 year old boy while he sobbed on the playground because his mom is going to jail. He's the oldest of many children. He's without HOPE. 

I spent time at the broken home of a student and watched as mom, dad, and stepmom tried hard to be civil and push their hurts and insecurities down deep. Their HOPE is small. 

I prayed for a co-worker who is at the end of her choices before chemo and radiation are her only HOPE. 

I watched a little girl attempt to navigate the trauma of learning people in her extended family were murdered. She missed school for the funeral. She said she's fine. She doesn't need to talk to anyone. And it's true that her face is straight and she seems unscathed by it all, but when we ask mom about it, she begins to list the trauma this little girl has already walked through. It's heavy enough to make my eyes get misty and forget for a second where my HOPE comes from. 

And then I realize want to lead a small life! If I don't, then I leave no room for HOPE. there's no space for God to say, "I got this".

 I don't know how any of these stories end. I don't know if that woman chose to terminate her pregnancy- a little girl who I call Hope when I pray for her. A little girl I would scoop up myself and let her use my arms to hug us both until our hearts burst if God would just say the word. 

 I don't know if my co-worker will live. I will never see that little girls family reconciled with a life cut short. I don't know how to help any of them. Not on my own. 

But I can share my HOPE. I can give it away. I can recognize that I was created for such a time as this. I can be a lone reed standing tall and burning brightly, pointing the way toward HOPE. 

I hope so. 

Buck the System of Complacency

Scandal of Grace. Have you heard that song? Have you felt that you are wrapped up in a scandal where you are more often than not on the receiving end of God's grace? Not earned. Not deserving. Not worthy. 

I'm there. Every second, I am there. And I meet people out on that edge, so I feel better about my junk because it's sometimes a little shinier than the guy next to me. But really, it's still junk. 

Even now as I type these words, do I believe it? Do I think I am undeserving? When I'm handed trust and opportunity, is there a place at the back of my brain that whispers, "you did this. You earned this. Well done"? 

No. 

Not enough. 

And yes. 

But I'm a work in progress. I've stood up in the boat, and I am hunched forward, hands gripping the walls- the wood refusing to yield under pressure. My eyes a deadlock on Jesus, and though he is a ways off, I know he is walking on the water, and I know what I'm to do. My eyes a deadlock on Jesus. He's not letting go. I'm not letting go. 

My leg is over the side…

"Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

It Riles People

Ever been accused of riling things up?

I have.

Try choosing a ministry other people aren't on board with. Try pointing out heavy truths of slavery and oppression taking place on the streets of your town. Try moving to a state or a city or a neighborhood that people don't quite understand. Try selling all of your stuff and giving it away. Try walking to a church in your neighborhood and calling those in the pews your "people" whether or not that church has the coolest VBS and worship program. Try leaving your church to spend your Sundays in a different way. It riles people.

Everyone wants an explanation. Suddenly people are huddling in close to you wanting the inside skinny on why you're really leaving. Simply stating that God is doing something with you isn't enough. Don't even try it. Well, try it. And good luck with it. It riles people.

Suddenly, everyone feels they are closer to you than he or she ever truly was. You can't quite remember becoming close enough with them for this conversation. They don't say it, but they mean, "I know you aren't around gossiping, but obviously you will tell ME."They are riled.

You find yourself at a birthday party and people want to hash it out. They are riled. People pull you out of service and need to know if something happened. And to that we should always be able to say, "Yes."

Yes. God is at work here. Prepare to be riled if you aren't in cahoots with his plan.
And be ready to be a lone reed if you are.

Every day and every minute you are trying to stand before God and hone in on his still small voice. You want nothing more than to lock eyes with The One Who Calls You. You find your grasp is a white knuckled fist upon his robes. And you are low and humble and crying more days than not.

In the end, do you know what you will discover? You need to know that when people get riled up it is much more their issue and much less your problem. You aren't riling anyone, actually. What is happening is the Holy Spirit is about you, and rather than meet that with support, their fear jumps up. And then rather than meet their fear with grace, we sometimes find that we are afraid of that very thing they are talking about. And if we aren't careful we begin to reverse the work God is doing in us. We are no longer out on the waves, eye to eye with Jesus and his deep grace. We are swimming back to shore, walking up to our chair, and pulling a towel over our face to block out what we left and what we are now missing. It's a sham.

That fear? It's a sham. God says, "Grace abounds in deepest waters. Join me. Look in my eyes and feel my heartbeat in time with yours. This is when your doubt subsides and you are strong in me. This is how you know me. Most importantly, this is how other will know me- when they watch you." It riles me.

Sometimes

Sometimes you'll find you are standing, and you look around, and it appears to be just you and your shadow. You'll reach right. Left. Back. Waving your hands a bit wildly in the vacant space and land on nothing. Sometimes you will be praying and asking and trying and crying and gasping for just a small life line. For a breath. Pleading for God to give you a tiny break. Your friends are far. Your support has backed off. And you are standing. A lone reed. 

And in this instant you realize how drastically you're situation has changed.  Maybe all you want most in the world is to conform and blend and be lost in the crowd of ordinary. 

But you know that isn't where you belong. And because there is this silence, a space has formed to make room for a way to hear. Hear you do. And your perspective changes. 

You look down and notice your legs are strong. You look over and see you're surrounded by a quiet that is less silent and more peaceful. A quiet that has enough space between the pages to actually feel like God's whisper is jumping off the page and landing in the depths of your soul. 

It's in this moment that you catch a glimpse of that shadow once more. It is here you realize your shadow looks nothing like this one. And you start to question out loud, "is that my shadow after all?" 

And you don't even have to wait for a response. You know. You recognize. You feel. That's Jesus' shadow. He's here. He's been here. You are not alone. You are never alone. You are standing side by side and he knows you. 

Nuggets

Sometimes you can be going about in your usual way. You can be reading. Dozing on the couch. Driving down the road. You can be walking through Trader Joes wishing their samples weren't always so bizarre. And God will drop a nugget the size of a water droplet in your heart. In your brain. 

I was doing something mundane a while back. So mundane I can't even recall what it was. And I began to think about my role as a teacher and the almost absurd amount of favor God has granted me in my very first year of working for the public school system. My thoughts were a jumble of clips: isn't it cool that I get to teach these kids? Man. I see the fruit. God you are so faithful to show up. How cool to watch these lives transform before my eyes. Wouldn't it be cool if I could reach them spiritually? But aren't I? I mean do I have to say "this love is from Jesus" for them to understand that it is? Isn't that what the Holy Spirit is all about!?

And then came the nugget. In one breathe I thought how cool that God called me to this job. What a crazy turn of events. How unreal that he worked all that out so I could go get that job. 

And in the next breathe. In the flash of a synapse. You haven't been called. I've sent you. I've sent you out. 

Is it me or did this situation just get weightier?? I've always given God credit for this job, but I have viewed myself trudging down a path before me. I see the path. I choose the path. I walk along the path, and presto. I find a job God has for me. But there's more to it. 

What I'm trying to say is that I've not just taken a job. I've been sent out. I keep company with the disciples of the new testimant. We are like a club. I've been prayed for. Called. Trained. And now I've been sent. 

Every step. Ordained. No part cavalier. No part without purpose. 

Where will you send me, lord? Make me brazen like David. Make me audacious like Esther. Call me out where only your grace can direct my steps. Send me, Lord. I am ready. 

Rainbow Gang

I've got all these children who regularly want. Food, clothes, shelter, rides, jokes, snuggles, quality time, acts of service, read alouds, basketball partners, coffee: their needs are endless. Sometimes I wake up to the barrage of their wants and want to simply pull the covers up over my head and pretend I'm someplace happy. Easier. Some place with a maid. 

But honestly, I wouldn't change a minute of my time giving to and loving on my kids. Because wrapped up inside all those minutes of games and practices and supply runs and friend shuffling and band aids and errands exists inside jokes and giggles that turn to all out guffaws and lines that we will mockingly quote for the rest of their lives. 

One of my favorite things about our family is the amount of inside jokes my kids have. They are like a movie quoting, mock making gang. They even call themselves The Rainbow Gang. They made shirts. No kidding. 

We are all jumped into the gang. If you are here for as much as one evening of dinner, you get jumped in. Your fighting is futile. You'd have to come back a couple times to get a shirt, but really it doesn't take much. Especially if you don't make us have to clarify when we are kidding. Let's just assume it's always and we will let you know if seriousness is coming. 

Sincerely, 

The Rainbow Gang

Why I Like Mike #32: Hey Sailor

Ever have those days when the people around you all seem to be speaking one language, crazy town, and you are left speechless? I mean they say something, and though you rarely are left speechless, this minute, it isn't that you can' t think of what to say, it's that you are just confused that you are needing to say anything at all? I've had a day rather like that. One one hand you have those speaking crazy town. On the other you have wise "real grown up" counsel reminding you that sometimes standing strong in your convictions will isolate you. Not by your choice. But they will isolate you. Make you a lone reed. Sometimes you are left hurting for a few minutes.

You know what's great after those minutes? Husbands.

Well mine was anyway. I grew up in the straight food stampin, free school supply giving, you better not wear red or blue anywhere on your person (stick with canary yellow. Canary yellow wasn't gang related) ghetto. We look out for our people. Even if those people weren't really your friends, if someone showed up with their crazy hanging out, you looked out for your people.

I didn't have a neighborhood. I had a hood. We watched Stand and Deliver and didn't understand why everyone thought the kids had it so bad in school. It looked normal to us. Going to high school? Well then you walk through metal detectors. They check your back packs. No, your locker isn't private property and probably, if the Dean finds your weed, he's going to smoke it.

I once woke up near midnight to go pick up heavily inebriated school mates from a party. Apparently when word gets around that you are a designated driver your friends have no qualms with waking you  in the middle of the night. So, at 2 am, we were turning our next to last corner and one of the girls in my back seat decided she didn't like the attitude of the pedestrians crossing the road- an 11 year old girl and her 15 year old sister. My soon to be ex-friend passenger and the older sister went fist-to-cuffs. Me? I stood calmly on the sidewalk with Little Sister assuring her they were just being idiots and she was safe with me. I looked out for her. She was from my hood. While these other two girls broke noses and later brandished weapons, this kid clung to my waistline and said, "thanks."

This is what I expect from people. Keep me company and tell me everything is going to be OK when the crazy talk starts. That's what The Man did for me today. He had my back. He was loyal and loving and reminded me over and over that he was there for me- just a phone call away. Nothing says romance like a man willing to stand up for his woman. It's probably a good thing he was at work when all this happened. It was DEFINITELY a good thing he was not wearing this sailor's uniform in front of my face. Five is enough kids. I need to go fan myself.

Summah Summah SummahTime

That Will Smith knew what he was rappin' about. It's all I can do to put on pants these days. I have summers off, on account of my day job. I am a teacher. Ahoy. I teach. So for the entire two weeks of June that didn't include work days, I have done a whole lot of nothing.

Do I have regrets? No. Not even one little letter.

In fact, I have accomplished much with my nothingness. Think The Nothing from The Never Ending Story. That thing made all sorts of impact leaving greatness in his wake. (Terrible. But Great).

I have:

Read no less than 4 books

Exercised regularly, still keeping my 6 aye em routine

Visited lakes

Visited an ocean

Drank coffee

Snuggled besties

Moved over 4,000 pounds of bread (ok, I had a little help from some awesome youth kids for this one)

Listened to some new music- indulgent, but new- Megan Trainer & Sam Hunt

Caught up on So You Think You Can Dance

Watched Lorelei and Luke be on again, off again, and then on again to infinity

Snuggled my kids around a few good movies

Dated The Man

Went to a different state- twice

Began editing a new book. Yep! A new one!

Spoke before about 40 Rotarians to procure some funds and community involvement in my classroom this coming year

Led 8-10 kiddos in an alternative VBS- this year, we are going into the city to do random acts of kindness. No crafts or snacktime for us. Except Slurpees. There are always Slurpees.

Started a new Instagram feed. Follow me here. 

So basically, I'm living each minute however I feel like it. I'm Julia Roberts- a fly by the seat of my pants, moment to moment. That's me. 

Beautifully, I'm in Over My Head

Busy is the new fine. Have you noticed that? 

five years ago:

"How are you?"

"Fine"

Modern day:

"How are you?"

"Busy"

Why is this something? I'm ok, really, if the busy is something worthwhile. For instance, are you busy loving the city in which you live? Is it so busy because you are sewing clothes for the needy and don't have a second to watch tv? Did you jam pack your calendar with out reach to your neighborhood school so you haven't the time for sunning by the pool? 

Or is it more, "I'm so busy. I haven't _____" fill in the blank with something vital like showering, spending time with Jesus, or dating your spouse. 

Sometimes busy and busy are as different as busy and fine. When you're busy for Jesus, you get it when you read that Abraham got up early to obey. That Jesus got up early to pray. Joshua stood and faught all night- under the still sun. You get caught up in Jesus and his word and his plan and his work. You get this supernatural stamina and peace about you even when the busy collides with life. 

As I type, I'm in the questionable smelling cafeteria at the hospital. My mother is upstairs grumbling and irritated as Ms. Havisham at doctors and nurses wanting her blood and her consent to do surgery. She's listing the ways she is too busy for surgery. 

Want to know the weird part? I started writing this blog yesterday. Before this was happening. But it doesn't matter. Every day for each of us is seeming to look the same. It's, "hurry hurry! Eat this delicious meal I prepared for you so we can get on to the movie!! We have to make the previews." Then we sit for the previews and find that we keep checking our watch. "We need to get home and get to sleep; early soccer game!!" Gah. 

I'm not pointing out my mother because she's behaving a certain way. I'm bringing her up because this is usual for each of us. All of us. 

And why shouldn't we be? Busy loving. Busy caring. Busy paying 100% of our attention to whoever God puts before us and beside us and around us. As long as THAT is our long list of busy. We have a kropog of time here on this earth. I don't want to waste a minute of it wrapped up in simply being busy. 

Ever have those minutes where your sleep is restless and you sigh more in the day than usual? And then, you take stock because the worries aren't worth the stress of it all. You don't need to live like that! Figure out what's causing this uneasiness and dump it like a cheating boyfriend. Right??! 

Except, when you finished cataloging the parts of your day, you realize your life seems to be doing ok. There's really not much to cut out. You add another sigh and dig a little deeper. "What is it? What's creating this funk?" You ask yourself where'd you come across these droopy shoulders, only to realize the weight spread oppressingly across them comes from those around you whose hurts are so big and too much for you to carry. Your sighs are seeping with empathy, and the cracks in your heart are from their pains.  They are hurting and you are wanting so badly to hold them and hug them and love them and tell them "even this is going to be ok. This? It's not small. I won't say it's small. But it isn't so unbearable that it will pull you down. This? God has even THIS." 

And then you sigh heavily and curl up on the couch. Your sleep is broken. Your mind is always just off task. And you would give anything to rip that aching from your friend's hand and heave it into the abyss where it probably came from in the first place. "Here satan. Have it back. Go sell crazy someplace else; we're all stocked up here." 

You know what I am finding? I'm finding God doesn't want me to shoulder the burdens of others anymore than he asks me to carry my own. That's mercy. His mercy says "Here I am. Take this." And he hands us his yoke. A burden of peace. A smothering of grace. A whole gravy boat of beautiful. A tidal wave of "lean not on your own understanding." 

That's what I want. To trade my ashes in for his beauty, even if the ashes were never mine. Because really, no ashes are ever mine. Jesus took those singed pieces of our souls and died on the cross and payed no mind to our uncomfortableness over the whole thing. 

We want to take from him with our left hand and give him something with our right. But who would want what we have to offer? I want Jesus and that is all. I want him and his peace and his joy. Take your ashes. Take your anvils. Take your crutches. I'll take Jesus.