Category: Employment

Life These Days

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

The question of the moment around folks my age — and for the record, I’m just shy of 60– is “how much longer do you think you’re gonna work?”

My most frequent response is often something like, “I’m not in a hurry to be done. I love what I do. I hope I can stay at it a while!”

This is, of course, not how everyone feels. Many my age have put in a long, hard 40 or more years of work in jobs and careers that have taken a toll — physically, mentally, relationally, or in other ways that might make a person want to walk away.

Let’s be honest, if you’ve spent 30-40 years on an assembly line — you might be ready for a change of scenery. If you’ve led a corporation and had the weight of the bottom line, personnel challenges, and inventory management on your back, you might be ready to sit by a pool, sipping a cool drink. If you’ve been in a classroom for 40 years — attending to the needs of children, designing instruction, managing behavior, and adapting to continuously changing policies, cultural norms, and learning challenges, you might be ready to just have a day that doesn’t involve managing anything but yourself.

And while I have certainly had my challenges and seasons of disillusionment and burnout, none of those scenarios truly describe me. After working in many different settings over the years, I find myself in a role that feels like a culmination — the place I was intended to arrive at, so I don’t find myself asking how much longer I want to work, but rather: When I look back at all I have learned, what do I have to offer these days?

In the early years — the first 3-5 of my career — bravado carried me past insecurity so that I could survive in situations that were way outside my experience. A middle school special ed classroom in Detroit? No problem for this secondary English major from small town Michigan! A self-contained classroom inside a residential facility teaching not only ELA but also social studies, math, science — I got this! I faked my way through and while I can’t say that my students (or I) won any awards, everyone learned something — including me. I learned about being overwhelmed and about working with limited resources. I learned to lean into the uncomfortable and to try just about anything. Did I occasionally lose my shit and come undone in front of a classroom full of typically behaving students? Sure. Did I also take a van load of Detroit teenagers on a day-long adventure to Ann Arbor? Yes, I did! Did we overfill our day with activities? Absolutely! Did we arrive back to school late after dismissal? We sure did! Did those kids and I have a ball touring a college campus, going to a hands-on museum, and eating at Pizza Hut? Yes! Rookie me swung for the fences, folks.

The bravado only carried me so far into my years at home with my own children. In fact, I think it was day one home from the hospital when I called a friend emergency-style to come save me because nursing wasn’t working out according to plan. I wish I would’ve admitted right there and then that I was clueless about mothering, but faking it until I made it was my theme song, and I just kept singing. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the living room floor with three children of my own, reading stories, learning letters, and playing games. Those days were exhausting and precious to me! We had a lot of fun, but I was making it up as I went along, so I certainly made plenty of mistakes. I pushed myself and the kids way too hard, and I expected way too much, but in continuing to give it everything I had, I learned how to schedule out a day that included learning, adventure, rest, and play; how to turn a few hot dogs and some popcorn into a baseball watching party; and how to get through a puke-filled night with little to no sleep. I learned that I could manage much more than I imagined, that I had a lot of people who were willing to help, and that it wasn’t a weakness to ask them.

When I returned to the classroom the first time, it was to a position that was far bigger than my experience — the English Department Chair and Dual-Enrollment ELA teacher at a small private high school. Not only would I, once again, be faking it ‘til I made it, I would be doing so all day long in a new environment while I was also still —at home — learning how to parent my own children who were in the process of transitioning from childhood to adolescence in a new home in a new city in a new state.The lift in both arenas was immense, but I was gonna make it happen. I learned a curriculum, read dozens of books, short stories, poems, and essays and adapted to a modified block schedule and the world of Apple computers while I also navigated the needs and ever-changing emotions of a family that was struggling to find its footing. For nine years, it seems, I was in constant motion — either preparing to teach, teaching, or grading in one space or cooking, cleaning, driving, scheduling, or otherwise parenting in another. Those years seem like a blur as I look back, probably because I never stopped running.

And then, all the motion came to a halt. Readers of this blog know that those years ended in an autoimmune diagnosis and an exit from the classroom followed by convalescence and a [next chapter] of re-learning how to live which landed me where I am now.

I came into this season humbled by the knowledge that I did I have a limit, and that I did not indeed know everything. When I was offered the position to teach ELA at a small charter high school in Detroit, I was grateful to be in any classroom at all. The fact that it was familiar territory — teaching seniors about college and the skills they would need to be successful — meant that I would NOT have to fake it til I made it. I could just be the authentic me, sharing what I know and loving the students who were in front of me. Granted, I still had much to learn — our school has an instructional model that was new to me, and I would, for the the first time in my career, have a coach, but none of that was overwhelming. In fact, it was comforting to know that I had support and that I wouldn’t have to find all the answers on my own.

That was over five years ago, and now I’m no longer teaching but coaching other teachers who may be in their very first year or nearing their 10th or 20th year. Some of them are faking it until they make it, some are disillusioned, and some are managing a lot in other areas of their lives.

I have a front row seat to their experience and that’s why I’m asking myself this question: What have I learned and what do I have to offer these folks?

I’ve learned that showing up and doing your best goes a long way — even if your best isn’t amazing, it’s likely good enough.

I’ve learned that being brave can lead to remarkable opportunities that change you forever.

I’ve learned that others are willing to support you if you are willing to ask.

I’ve learned that family is much more important than work and that your health needs to take priority over any perceived deadline.

I’ve learned that who I authentically am is much more valuable to my students and the people I love than getting every decision right or accomplishing every task.

I learned these things the hard way over the last many years, and maybe these folks — the people I rub elbows with every day and those that I coach — will have to learn them the hard way, too.

I think what I have to offer right now is the empathy and compassion gained from my own journey. I have a rare opportunity to offer support and encouragement, and the wisdom that comes with each of these gray hairs.

I’ve got perspective — each day is important but no day is definitive.

I’ve got plenty of gas left in the tank to come alongside the members of my team, to see their passion, their frustration, their hope, and their fatigue. If they are willing to keep showing up, I will, too.

Maybe I’ll get a chance to share what I’ve learned. More likely, I, too, will learn something new.

Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

Back to School: Before and After

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I write a post like this almost every year — scroll back, you’ll see! Each fall, I can’t stop myself! I’m still filled with the child-like wonder and excitement of going back to school. I mean, yeah, I had outfits picked out, bought a new pair of school shoes (okay, two pair!) and kept them fresh for day one (and two!). I had my classic teacher terror nightmare — only this year it wasn’t me showing up naked, late, and unprepared, it was my teaching cohort! And I’m here to tell you that the stress was not less!

I get so excited about the return to school because it holds so much possibility — imagine the potential for transformation!! And in any story of transformation you need the “before” pic. Let me see if I can paint it for you.

The students first showed up on the Thursday before Labor Day. I can spot the freshman from a mile away. They shyly and awkwardly accompany their parents and older or younger siblings. They stand quietly as their people sign them in, looking around to see who else is there, who is looking at them, who is judging them, who can see their insecurity.

Sophomores roll up with slightly more confidence, sometimes with a parent tagging along ten paces behind. These students steal glances, seeing what looks familiar — teachers, friends, anything.

Juniors have just a hint of swagger — they know the drill — they know who’s who, what’s what, and where’s where. They quickly run through the requisite stops — schedule pick-up, bus sign up, sports physical — then find their friends to take laps inside the building, check out new students, get into a little harmless mischief, or do a little peacocking.

Seniors? You can’t tell them nothin’. They have their hair done, are wearing a dope ‘fit, and have texted their friends to arrive at the same time. They run this place — they are beaming and bouncing. This is their year and they know it.

And that’s all on the Thursday before school even starts — before the three-day weekend, before reality hits, before they have to arrive on time, sit in an assigned seat, do the coursework, take notes, stand in lines, or listen intently.

But all that has begun now, too. We have finished a week of students being in the building, running to get to class before the bell, asking permission to use the bathroom, looking for a snack, trying to hide their phones, getting caught with their phones, turning over their phones, and waiting to get their phones back at the end of the day.

They came in on Tuesday, and we were ready for them.

Our teachers had on shirts emblazoned with our Activate Excellence motto, arriving early to put finishing touches on their rooms and man their stations in the gym for arrival. We had some teachers collecting phones, some handing out schedules, and some stationed as greeters. There were hugs and fist bumps and hand shakes with our returning students, so it wasn’t difficult to pick out those who are new to our building — freshmen, of course, but also quite a few transfers.

In Detroit, a district with over 50,000 students, most high schools have enrollments of over 700, and some have over 1000. Our charter high school is small — under 300 students — so we often get students who found those larger contexts to be untenable. Maybe they were overwhelmed. Maybe they didn’t find a connection or friend group. Maybe they got into a fight and are now dealing with the aftermath. Whatever the reason, we often end up with a unique collection of students who for whatever reason couldn’t or didn’t want to make it happen somewhere else.

We’re a charter school — so students choose to come to us. Granted, sometimes that choice is because they have run out of other options, but I like to think they choose us because we are a small community. Everyone knows everyone else — no one goes unseen. If you came to school without a jacket, someone saw that. If you look particularly down or quiet on a given day, a person noticed. You’re hungry? You know who to ask for a snack. You don’t have a ride home? Chances are you have a connection with a staff member who will help you figure it out.

Changed your hair? We saw it.

Grew up over the summer? We know.

Your ability to manage conflict is improving? We give you kudos.

Let me give you a glimpse at an “after” pic.

For the past four years, we have had a student in the building who was classified as “homeless” and qualified for resources under the federal McKinney-Vento Act. Last June, this student graduated despite having transportation challenges, learning difficulties, and very little family support. Staff at the school made it possible for him to attend prom and participate in all senior activities, and the young man was repeatedly overwhelmed with gratitude. When he walked into our decision day celebration in early May, he hugged several of us and wiped away tears. When he arrived at prom, he approached staff members, tearfully repeating, “I can’t believe this is actually happening!” and when he showed up for graduation, he could barely find words. He savored every moment, and his classmates and teachers saw it for what it was — the realization of a dream.

On that day, he didn’t know what his summer or future would look like. Because of his situation, he was having difficulty getting access to the documents that would make him work eligible, but late in summer we received word that he had what he needed and had found employment in a hospital. This past week, he reached out to one of our staff members and said he was working a lot of overtime and was looking for an affordable apartment.

The staff member reported this in our group chat, and I must say that in the middle of a school day at the end of the first week of school, when everyone is getting tired and ready to go home for the weekend, that little notification reminded us all what a special place we work in.

Just four years ago, this young man was one of our awkward freshmen — he missed a lot of school days, and we noticed. He often came unprepared to learn, and we said something. He had the support of a friend who got him to the building every day, but he came late and left early. It was frustrating, to be sure, but we found ways to work with him. He had the support of the social worker, the principal, the resource room teacher, and literally every single adult in the building. It was not uncommon to see him checking in with one of our custodians who might as well be everyone’s momma.

And now he’s a high school graduate, he’s got a job, and he’s looking for an apartment. If that’s not a transformation, I don’t know what one is.

I guess that’s why I get excited every September — that’s why I can’t stop writing about it. Every day is a miracle waiting to happen. I can’t believe I get to do this. Just like my student, “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

[We] will see the goodness of God in the land of the living. Psalm 27:13

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Rested and Ready for a new Rhythm

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I wrapped up school year 2024-2025 –watched another group of seniors cross the stage into adulthood, entered final grades, and cleaned up my classroom.

Next, I joined my husband in clearing the clutter in our home.

Then we left town for two short treks — one to play with our granddaughters in Ohio and another to lie on the beach of Lake Huron. We crossed the miles listening to podcasts and chatting about everything from family to politics to music to our future. With our grand girls we lazed in the pool, played Uno and Skip-Bo, and were entertained by intricately choreographed dances. Near the beach, we ate well, slept long, took leisurely walks, and lost track of time.

They were luxurious and welcome — these two little trips back to back — and now we are re-entering real life. Since we’ve returned home we’ve been in the business of unpacking, doing laundry, tending to yard work, and taking stock of the new rhythms we are noticing since a) my husband transitioned from an almost four-decade-long career in church work to a private counseling practice and as b) I am making the shift from classroom teacher to full-time instructional coordinator. Some of the work each of us does in our new roles is similar to what we have done in the past, however, the routines and workloads are quite different. While he has been adapting to his new rhythm for over eighteen months, my real shift begins this week as I embrace the responsibilities of my new role.

How will it be the same? How will it be different?

What won’t change is my morning commute — I will still drive 30 minutes east from Ypsilanti to the edge of Detroit. I will park my car in the same spot, work with many of the same colleagues and students, and follow the same daily bell schedule and school year calendar. I will also continue to serve on our school’s leadership team, meeting at least weekly to plan initiatives and events, troubleshoot current issues, and collaborate toward best practices for our building.

However, many things will change — I will no longer have my own classroom. I will no longer have my own students or a grade book or lesson plans or the responsibility for all that happens inside a teacher’s classroom through the course of the day — behavior management, attendance, organizing materials, and managing the constant flow of information.

I will have plenty of new responsibilities on my plate. In addition to coaching the instructional moves of a handful of teachers like I did last year, I will also be partnering with those teachers to unpack curriculum, analyze assessments, and plan instruction. Further, I will be our building’s testing coordinator, responsible for all things PSAT/SAT, ACT Workkeys, and MSTEP.

All of this, of course, is in the interest of our students. I came to this position because I recognize the systemic inequities in American education that have benefitted some students (mostly white and affluent) and have disadvantaged others (mostly low-income and/or students of color). I wanted to lend my years of experience and expertise in service of closing the gap that continues to widen; I wanted to provide a high level of instruction and rigor for students who have, through no fault of their own, fallen multiple grade levels behind their peers who live sometimes just a few miles away.Over the past five years, I feel I have had limited success. I have, within my classroom, provided glimpses of rigor, moments of engagement, and small gains for individual students.

However, individual teachers in isolation cannot overcome centuries — literal centuries! — of harm. They do make a difference, of course, but for the sweeping change that is needed, we need a broader — a more systemic — solution.

I joined the team at my school in August of 2020. Covid had sent all of our students home the previous March, and because of the disproportionate impact on low income communities of color, particularly Detroit, our district provided instruction virtually for the entire 2020-2021 school year. The administrative team was making it up as they went along, and I — a teacher returning to the high school classroom after a six year hiatus — was enthusiastic about giving it my best. I popped into Zoom rooms, chatting with any students who would talk to me, leading lessons, and providing office hours every afternoon. We didn’t close any systemic gaps that year; we merely did what we could to slow the ever-widening distance between our students’ academic progress and that of those in neighboring districts.

The following year (2021-2022) , fully masked, we returned to in-person learning, bouncing back to virtual instruction several times throughout the year. It actually took us that year and the next (2022-2023) to re-establish routines within the building. We were on pretty solid footing as we started school year 2023-2024, but some mid-year leadership changes kept us from moving too far forward.

The standardized test scores told the story — about a tenth of our students were proficient in English Language Arts and none — 0% — were proficient in math. Our staff took in those realities as our newly appointed principal delivered them before the return of students in the fall of 2024. She gave us the hard truth and then cast a vision for us — we, the staff and our students, would activate excellence. We could no longer allow this to be the reality for the students in our building — things were going to change.

And, over the year I did see evidence of shift — in attitude, in practice, in thinking. However in order to overcome systemic inequities of the proportions that I have witnessed, we need a reimagining of what school likes like in our context. The principal sets the tone, and she has. The leadership team has come alongside our principal, supporting her vision, agreeing with the need, and implementing strategies. Staff members have also caught the vision, to a degree, but the kind of transformation that is needed is going to take the whole team — every teacher, every paraprofessional, every custodian, every social worker — to activate excellence, consistently and continuously, day in and day out.

Certainly in my own classroom, I have strived to provide excellent instruction, to have high expectations, and to inspire my students toward greatness, but I will admit that my efforts have sometimes been inconsistent. I have grown tired, and I have from time to time been merely mediocre. However, as I step into this role, I have been given an opportunity to activate excellence beyond my classroom — taking care to do my very best with the responsibilities I have been given, and to bring other staff members along with me.

I will push my team of teachers — some of whom are experienced, some who are brand new — toward excellence. Together, we will grow this year, beginning by building relationships, but then quickly moving into strategies, into accountability, into doing whatever it takes to activate excellence for our students — to give them the tools they need to move forward into their futures.

It’s a big job, but I’m rested, I have the vision, and I’ve been equipped. May God grant me the strength to persevere, the compassion to both see and inspire my team, and the heart to sustain my insufferable belief in restoration.

He is faithful, and He will do it. I Thessalonians 5:24

“Money” Moments

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Eight days. That’s it. Eight more days with this group of seniors, and then, I might possibly be done with my years as a classroom teacher.

I’ve known this was coming. Last summer I took the role of Instructional Coach at the same school where I’ve been teaching since 2020. I interviewed, accepted the position, and came to terms with the fact that I would not be in the ELA classroom even for school year 2024-2025. But, things being as they are in the world of education where teachers are hard to come by, my replacement was not found. So, a long-term substitute took three sections from my previous load, and we crammed all the seniors into the two classes that I would cover.

It was my idea. I’ve been teaching senior English on and off since the fall of 2005, and angsty as they are, these are my people. They are wrestling to find their path from childhood to the world of adults, and that path (let me assure you) is quite circuitous. One day they are presenting their goals for their future via slideshow from the front of the room, the next day I stop them from throwing paper wads at each other. One day they applaud a peer who got accepted into college, the next day I’m having a conversation with them about how we don’t always have to announce when we smell someone’s body odor or flatulence. One might stop by to explain that they’ve been absent because they’ve been “going through it” and another might blurt out “you got any snacks?” in the middle of a lesson.

Yes, they get under my skin. Yes, they do indeed at times offend my sense of smell. Yes, they do give me a challenge every day of my working life, but these students, year after year after year, these seniors, have helped me to learn, to grow, to evolve.

One of this year’s seniors interviewed me this week for an article he’s writing for another class. His questions showed me that he sees me: “Mrs. Rathje, why do you take so many steps each day?” They showed me that he wants to make a connection: “What made you want to be a teacher?” And they showed me that he wants to gauge my commitment to him and our community: “Do you like teaching here?” That conversation gave us an opportunity — to sit one-on-one, knee-to-knee — to see each other not as teacher and student, but as two humans who are sharing the same space for a small season of time.

That is the money of teaching, friends — those intermittent interchanges that happen when you least expect them. These moments are what I treasure most from all my years in the classroom.

All year, I have navigated two roles — instructional coach in the AM, ELA teacher in the PM — and since I’ve known it was a transition year, I have tried to see ways that I can experience these same kinds of moments with the teachers that I coach. Most of the time our relationship looks like me observing a class then meeting with the teacher afterward to provide feedback — data and my observation of moves that were impactful and less impactful. Many of the teachers in our building lack experience, training, or certification, and my role is to facilitate their transition to being more experienced, more skilled, more effective. This path, too, can be circuitous. Teaching is hard work — all day long our teachers lead classrooms full of students at various levels of skill and engagement with the task of capturing the attention of 100% and providing them with high-level instruction, all while following our school’s instructional model and managing multiple interruptions.

One day I observe a teacher greeting his students at the door, providing them directions as they enter, and ensuring that all students are engaged in the day’s learning. Three days later, I notice that same teacher hasn’t replied to my email, is late to a meeting, or didn’t notice the student sitting in his room who was supposed to be in a different class.

Just like with my seniors, I am not looking for perfection; I am looking for growth.

I must confess this is hard for me. Any student I’ve ever had will tell you that my expectations are high, and if they are high for students, they are exponentially more so for the teachers of those students. I didn’t come out of a medically imposed leave from teaching to do a substandard job for students. No. I returned to the classroom in the middle of Covid because of the vast inequities in America’s school system. I came back to push the bar higher for students who have been historically underserved, under-challenged, and undereducated. I am not trying to enable low expectations for either my students or their teachers.

Yet…

Yet, I have learned from a couple decades worth of students (not to mention my own children), that folks don’t want to meet your expectations unless they know that you love and accept them for who they are. If I don’t love and accept you when you are late to class, smell of weed, and don’t know what unit we are on, what are the chances that you’ll be able to hear my expectations let alone take a swing at them. If I don’t hug you in the hallway, why should you listen to me when I approach you at your desk. If I can’t hear your request to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, how will you hear me give you feedback on a paper.

Over the years, it’s gotten easier for me to love a kid, even when they are disruptive, even when they are failing, even when they skip my class. I used to be very judgmental, but I’ve learned that judgment pushes kids away; love draws them closer.

I was tempted to judge one of my teachers recently. I was walking to my classroom one morning when I noticed a group of students standing outside a classroom instead of going in. “What’s going on here?” I asked, “why aren’t you all going in?” The students replied that the principal was inside speaking with the teacher. They intimated that the teacher was “getting in trouble” for something. I was curious, but instead of getting more information, I moved the students to my classroom to give the teacher and the principal room to speak. For all I knew, the conversation was of a personal and unrelated nature, and it was none of my or the students’ business.

However, later, when the teacher wanted to speak with me, I found out that they had been reprimanded. They had made a poor choice in the heat of the moment and things had escalated into the realm of unprofessionalism. We were sitting one-on-one, knee to knee, and this teacher was expressing regret and shame and the desire to undo what had been done. And in that moment I knew what to do. Years of parenting and teaching missteps had taught me that what this teacher needed was not judgment, but love. So I gave it. I heard the confession and acknowledged the regret, “Oh, wow. Yeah. That’s unfortunate.” I affirmed the teacher’s record, “This is not your typical m.o. I’ve seen you many times manage similar situations with finesse.” I heard their concern about the impact of this action on their relationship with the principal, “I see what you mean, yet I believe our principal to be fair, and I know she values opportunities to restore.” I encouraged the teacher to give the situation some space and then to circle back to the principal for a follow-up conversation. I finished with, “This moment does not define you; it’s unfortunate, but it’s over. You’ll get past it.”

In that moment, I saw it. I was going to miss my classroom for sure, but I wasn’t going to miss the money moments. They might be fewer and further in between, but I would still get opportunities to experience rich human to human interactions with the teachers I would be coaching. Even better, I might be showing them the impact of such conversations in a way that could inspire them to seek opportunities to engage similarly with their own students.

I am certainly going to miss my classroom, but here’s to loving my new students.

For of his fullness, we have all received grace upon grace. John 1: 16

Instructional Support

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

When I got my first teaching position back in 1989, the principal showed me my classroom, pointed to some textbooks, provided a spiral bound lesson plan book, and said, “Good luck.”

Ok, it probably wasn’t that bad. However, the expectation was that as a college graduate and a certified teacher, I should know what to do. Never mind that my degree was in Secondary English and that this job was a self-contained classroom for students with learning disabilities. Sure, I had had a few special education classes in my undergraduate studies, but was I prepared to teach all subjects every day to a group of seventh graders with specific needs?

Not at all, but I’m sure my naive self thought, “how hard can it be?” and got busy.

Other than the morning devotions we were encouraged to attend and chatting over the lunch table with the other middle school teachers, I don’t remember much interaction with anyone who had more experience than I did. I think the principal dropped into my class once. I had to report a few incidents to the vice principal, of course. And there was that one time when a couple of my colleagues pulled a prank on me, placing my teacher’s desk in the boys’ bathroom.

I felt like I was part of the team, but I definitely had no indication that anyone was supporting me in my instructional strategies other than the time I asked for help ordering a film and someone said to make sure it was relevant to what I was teaching.

The following year, I was moved to a high school resource room, which was a totally different experience! In fact, I was at one high school in the morning and a second high school in the afternoon. I supported my students the best I knew how, but other than a few instructions on a tour of both schools, I wasn’t given much support, and certainly no coaching. In fact, I only found out I was doing a less than stellar job in the spring when my supervisor dropped by and observed one student who was refusing services. She seemed rather upset that I wasn’t forcing him to learn.

What can I say? I was young, inexperienced, and not yet aware of when and how to ask for support.

This pattern continued as I moved next to a residential treatment facility where I taught English Language Arts, social studies and even a little math to a self-contained group of students with severe emotional disturbances. There, I at least had a full-time aide in the room with me– another adult to bear witness to what I was doing. I also had a principal who would meet with me to share new curriculum or updated expectations. I remember one day I was sitting in her office and she was sharing the latest change when I just started crying. She asked me what was wrong, and I had no idea! Looking back, I’m sure I felt overwhelmed and unsupported. I needed someone who would thought-partner with me, who wasn’t so busy that I felt like I was bothering them every time I showed up, who had as part of their job description the mentoring and coaching of teachers.

But that was in the early nineties when we had a surplus of teachers, If I didn’t cut it, they would find someone who could. The pressure was on! I’d better figure it out, or I wouldn’t have a position!

It wasn’t until after a break to stay home with my young children, after I’d earned my Master’s degree, after I’d taught in a couple of community colleges and one public high school, that I landed at Lutheran North in St. Louis. In many ways, LHSN was a pioneer — it was operating with a block schedule, was stocked with Apple products, and even had a projector and SMART board in every classroom. Not only that, they had a dedicated position, the curriculum coordinator, who not only oversaw curriculum adoption and implementation but also had as part of his job description observing teachers and providing objective data on engagement, teaching strategies, and the behavior management of the classroom. In my first year at LHSN, he visited my room several times and provided me with the kind of feedback I’d been looking for: this strategy seemed to work, did you notice that you speak mostly to the right side of the room and the left side disengages, how are you measuring mastery of this skill?

His questions and comments caused me to examine my practice, and when I reflected, I saw small changes I could make that would impact my effectiveness. Inside this model, I grew! Eventually, I became the curriculum coordinator and did my best to provide for other teachers what I had received. The only problem was that in this new position I was on my own again. On his way out the door, the previous curriculum coordinator gave me some pro tips, and I could reach out to him with questions, but I was not observed in my role and did not receive feedback, so I truly don’t know how effective I was or what moves I could’ve made to improve.

After my break from teaching, I re-entered the educational space at Lindamood-Bell, where coaching was the norm. We implemented two very prescribed programs that dramatically improved the reading and comprehension of our students. Parents were paying high dollar for these programs, and if instructors didn’t implement them with fidelity, the results would be less significant. I was regularly mentored in the moment — a mentor would observe my practice and sometimes jump in to model something that needed a tweak. I learned so much in this role! In time, I became a mentor and then a coach for others on my team. One added layer was that I continued to receive support from my supervisor who had held the role before me. She checked my data, followed up on my coaching, and nudged me when I needed to move in a slightly different direction.

You’d be amazed the confidence you gain when you know you are being supported so specifically toward a common goal.

In my interview for the ELA teaching position at Detroit Leadership Academy, when I was 54 years old, the principal looked me right in the eyes and said, “All of our staff members have coaches. How do you feel about having someone in your classroom on a regular schedule providing you with in the moment feedback?”

I think she thought I was going to push back. I mean, I’d been an educator for decades! I can see why she’d think I would resist coaching, but my response was the opposite, “I love it! I’m coming from a culture of coaching, and I am always looking to improve!” I don’t know if she believed me, but over the last four years, she has seen me receive feedback, reflect on my process, and make changes to improve the effectiveness of my teaching over and over again. I have had three coaches in the last four years, each of whom has had a coach to support them as they execute their role. Their coach has had her own coach. This organization believes in investing in the continuous improvement of all of its staff members.

Obviously, I love it.

So, when my coach moved in to the principal’s position over the summer, I applied for her position. I interviewed, shared my experience, answered the questions, and got the job.

So, this fall, I will continue to have a coach, but I will also be supporting eight other teachers in my building. The past two weeks I’ve been learning the tools and bonding with the team who will support me in this new role. I’m a little sad to let go of my seniors, but I will be coaching their new teacher, so I will still have my hand in their learning. And, I’ll have my hand in the learning of students in other classrooms.

Everything about my work at DLA seems to be a culmination of my journey in education. All the threads seem to come together in this space. I look forward to telling you more about it as I move into this next chapter.

He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. Colossians 1: 17

**While my needs are slightly different this year, I do still have a wish list. You can find it here

10 Years Later #7: Play Ball!

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 2 Comments

I wrote this post in May of 2015 when I was newly employed at Lindamood-Bell, six months after leaving the classroom. My confidence had taken some blows, and I needed to talk myself back into the game. I’m sharing it again here, as part of my 10th anniversary series because, as any teacher will tell you, May is when our spirits are flagging and we [and possibly you] need some encouragement to just keep swinging.

I am not too proud of myself at the moment. I’ve had a series of less-than-stellar performances, and I’m starting to feel like I’m going to get put on the bench.

Last week I had a dud of a session with one of my students. We were working on ACT prep and making very little progress. We kept getting stymied and bogged down in words. I was frustrated and so was he.

I left him to go to another student. She and I worked for an hour and a half on an outline for a research paper she is writing. We referred to the teacher’s model, we attended to his rubric, and we created a finished product. Her mom messaged me the next day — the outline earned a 60%.

This morning I worked with a student on reading comprehension. We were pouring over college-level text that involved math. I am not inept when it comes to math, but I am rusty. Very rusty. We each read the text silently creating notes at the same time. We compared our notes, then I asked her some higher order thinking questions about the content. Without getting into the gory details, let me just say that my student became acutely aware that I was out of my comfort zone. I could have left it there. I didn’t. I asked a colleague, in the student’s presence, to help me understand what I did wrong. And I didn’t just ask once, I blathered on and on, joking about my inability to set up a proportion correctly. That doesn’t sound like a horrible sin, but I had been told before working with this student that I should not reveal that I was a newbie — the student is very intelligent and needs to know that I am qualified to do this job. I  blew it.

The colleague pulled me aside and reminded me that this student’s success is contingent on the fact that she trusts our credibility. That’s when I remembered the explicit instructions.

It was time for me to go home, so I clocked out and walked to the car feeling a physical sensation I haven’t felt in years. A dull ache was settling in my throat and through my chest. I couldn’t take back what I had done. What if this student didn’t want to work with me any more? What hardship would that cause for the agency?  What would it take to rebuild her confidence in me.

Really, I was a mess.

I texted the colleague expressing my grief. When I got home and realized she hadn’t texted me back, I started to draft an email about how devastated I was at my failure, etc. That’s when I heard the ‘ping’.  My colleague texted me back: “Don’t worry about it! It’s all part of this crazy steep learning curve!”

We texted back and forth for a few minutes and I began to breathe more regularly, to release the tension in my muscles, and to prepare for the student that I had later this afternoon — the same ACT student that I tanked with last week.

I have had a lot of successes as a teacher.  I know I am capable, but lately I feel like I’ve been falling a little (or a lot) short. I don’t cut myself much slack. I expect to hit a home run every time I get up to bat, but even the best batter in the MLB isn’t getting a hit even half of the time. I don’t expect my students to get a hit every time they are at bat either, yet they, too, get discouraged when they strike out.

They often want to throw the bat, stomp to the dugout and sulk. That is how I felt today.  I was sure I would collapse on my bed when I got home and cry for a while — I know better! How could I make such a novice mistake!!

And I just made another one, didn’t I? My last post, Trajectory, was about how success is often related to how well we are able to adapt, bounce back, take another swing.

And so I’ve got to take a step back for a minute.

So I’ve had a few rough spots in the last week. Who hasn’t? I’ve said from the beginning that working with students is as much about lessons for me as it is about lessons for them. Why would I be surprised when my learning gets a little uglier than I am comfortable with. It happens for my students all the time. And yet they keep swinging.

I can learn a lot from these kids.

So, let me pick up this bat and head back to the plate. Before long, I’m bound to knock one out of the park.

…we count as blessed those who have persevered. (James 5:11)

The Art of the No

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You know that time during the pandemic, when I was working full-time from home and I was outraged by the killing of George Floyd, and I felt called to go back to the classroom to return to fighting for educational equity? Do you remember how I’d been recovering from a major health crisis for almost six years and I felt I had finally arrived at a place of health that would support my return to this work?

Do you remember the first year — the fully virtual year where I sat in an empty classroom zooming with students I had never met in the flesh, students who may or may not have turned on their cameras to let me see their faces? Do you remember how giddy I was, how energized, how I found the work almost easy because I could get it all done within my scheduled work day and still have some space for self-care — for yoga, and walking, and therapy, and all the stuff I need to do to stay well?

And do you remember how even last year when we “returned” to in-person learning and I got to see my students face to face, I was thrilled? how I had enough steam to still maintain my physical and emotional health, probably because we regularly shifted to virtual learning and I could catch my breath and reset my rhythms from time to time? how it wasn’t until the very end of the year that the fatigue caught up with me and I lost my shit over a small unintentional slight on my students’ graduation day?

And do you remember how I committed last summer to being not only a master teacher, but also a reading interventionist, a cooperating teacher for a colleague who needed to student teach, and a fellow in the Michigan Teacher Leader Collaborative (MTLC)? How I wondered if saying yes to all of these responsibilities was was taking on too much or if I would finally find a limit to what I could do?

Yeah, guys, it appears that I have found that limit. I’m starting to see some warning flags.

However, I can’t always tell that I’m at my limit. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I am on my game. I am an experienced teacher, so I see results. My students are learning and the data reflects that fact. I’m open to coaching because I see its impact on my instructional practices. I’m building relationships both in and out of school — relationships that are mutually impactful.

And the need is there! Each year I get asked to do more, to take on more responsibility, as all effective teachers do. And because we see the need — the students who might benefit from our instruction and the gaps that we might fill — we agree to do it. We fit in one more class, sit on one more committee, and assist with one more project. In a school building, everyone is busy, and there is always more to be done, so we take turns adding more to our to-do list.

And in some ways, it’s affirming. We feel needed and valued and appreciated when our leadership approaches us and says, “You are doing such a great job with all the things you are doing, and we want you to do even more!”

We get celebrated for our accomplishments. We get a pay bump. All is good!

But, guys, humans have limitations, and eventually all that piling on of responsibility, all that added weight, begins to drag a person down and their effectiveness begins to flag. They begin to feel fatigue. They make a sharp comment to a student or a colleague. They begin to wonder if they can sustain the rhythms. They begin to look at other opportunities where they might not have to work quite so hard.

Yet the offers to work even harder keep showing up. Right now I have an opportunity to apply to be a senior fellow for the MTLC. I will likely be asked to add another section of students for the reading intervention I do. I’ve already been slated to work on a committee to discuss our school’s improvement plan. And to be honest, I’d love to do it all. I really would. I am sitting in the heart of the work that I have been called to my entire career. This is what I was created for — to see systemic inequities in education, to bring excellent instructional practices to students who have historically not been well-served but who are highly capable nonetheless, to speak into the policies that perpetuate educational inequities, and to work at the school level to make change a reality. This is it, guys. This is my lane.

And if I want to stay here, in this lane, and continue to impact individual students, I have to have a boundary that allows me to remain healthy. I have to practice the art of the no,

No, I won’t be applying to be a senior fellow in the MTLC.

No, I won’t be adding another section of the reading intervention.

No, I won’t be writing an article for your publication, volunteering at your fundraiser, or teaching during your summer program.

I have to say no sometimes so that I will be able to continue my yes.

Yes, I will still teach seniors at Detroit Leadership Academy.

Yes, I will stay on the Cougars to College/Post-Secondary Plans team.

Yes, I will continue to do one section each semester of the Adolescent Accelerated Reading Intervention.

Yes, I will continue to sit on the leadership team, support the overall success of this school, and participate in visioning and implementing practices that work to eliminate systemic inequities that disadvantage students of color.

The yesses are so important that I have to practice the art of the no. I have to guard my time, my space, my influence so that it has the most sustainable impact in the lane that is most important to me.

I have to practice the art of the no, so that I can say yes to myself, even though that is contrary to much of what I was taught. I need to oxygenate myself first — through yoga, and writing, and reading, and rest, and play — so that I have the health and the energy to say yes to the people that I love — my husband, my children, my grandchildren, my parents, and my friends — and to those that I serve — my students and my colleagues.

This is a learned practice, my friends. I have learned (and am still learning) how to say no because I once too often said yes, sure, of course, I can do that. And I piled on responsibility after responsibility while fully denying the needs of myself, my family, and my friends. I paid a high price with my health and my relationships. And I’m not willing to do that again.

We are not called to be all things to all people. We are called to use our gifts as part of the body, part of the system, part of a mechanism that utilizes the strengths of each individual to benefit the whole. We are called to support one another, and to encourage one another to take rest and to stay well, and to celebrate each of those individual strengths.

My strength, my husband playfully said last week, is “an insufferable belief in restoration”.

I believe in restoration because I am very noticeably being restored — physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally. I don’t take that for granted, and I won’t throw it away. I will practice the art of the no, so that I can carry my “insufferable belief in restoration” into a few little spaces who need someone like me.

What more can a girl hope for?

‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”

2Cor 12:9

Coronavirus Diary #35: Two and a half years later

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I was all set to get rolling again last Monday. My lunch was packed, my clothes for the day had been selected, and my lesson plans were ready to go. I got up at 5am, as usual, and since I had been having some mild cold symptoms over the weekend, I decided to take a Covid test — for the third day in a row — just to be safe.

I swabbed, I swirled, I tapped, I put three drops in the chamber, and then I set the timer for 15 minutes.

While I was waiting, I took some cold medicine and moved through my routine as though I would be out the door in just a little while. However, when the timer dinged, I saw the faintest line ever. I checked the packaging and consulted my husband before I was convinced that yes, a very faint line is indeed a positive test.

Then I started the texting — the assistant principal in charge of substitutes, the principal, the director of HR, my student teacher.

They were all compassionate, of course, saying “Take care of yourself!” and “Get plenty of rest,” but all I was thinking was, The last thing I want during the fourth week of school is to miss a whole week!

But these things are sometimes outside of our control.

So, for the past week, I have not been firing on all cylinders. No, I have been in bed. I have slept 10-12 hours a day, mustered the strength to make a pot of soup, then rolled back into bed to read a novel, falling asleep at intervals. I’ve watched mindless television, scrolled social media, worked on crossword puzzles, and done the bare minimum to keep my classes in motion in my absence.

I’ve written lesson plans and sent them to my student teacher and my substitute. I’ve graded the work that has been turned in. I’ve responded to student emails, and I’ve replied to texts.

But mostly, I’ve rested and slept, and it’s paying off.

Over the past several days, I have gradually regained strength, and I plan — again — to get rolling on Monday.

After such a long absence — have I ever missed a whole week of school? — I will have to do some work to reconnect, to reset the climate, to re-establish my expectations. Although my student teacher has been at the helm for a week, I know there has been some confusion and some frustration.

Job one will be to hear from everyone — what did I miss? what do you want me to know?

Job two will be to provide clarity and reassurance — Yes, this is what we are working on, let me show you what it should look like, we’re all going to get through this together.

I’ll be doing all this in a mask, of course, because if you’ve been home with a positive case, and are symptom free after five days, you can return to real life, as long as you mask for 5 more days. Some of my colleagues have been masking all along — a few students, too. It’s not a bad idea, to continue using that precaution. I have opted to go mask free, even in my classroom because a) the mask is hot, b) I believe students hear and understand better when they can see my face, and c) two and a half years later, I just want Covid to be over.

This past week has been a reminder that it is indeed not over.

We’d been vaxed and double-boosted, of course, but I’d been pushing off the latest booster for a weekend when “I don’t have anything going on.” Sigh.

We’d had a bit going on, of course. The week before we tested positive, my husband and I had been at a conference with a couple hundred people. Later that week we had attended a celebration dinner with a couple hundred more. In neither setting did we mask. In fact, both events were rich with people we hadn’t seen in a long time, so we hugged, we chatted, we laughed.

Did we catch Covid at one of those events or just in our normal everyday interactions with students and coworkers? It’s hard to tell, but catch it we did.

As someone who experienced Covid early on — in the fall of 2020 — I will say the second time wasn’t easier. In fact, I think I was hit harder — more symptoms, more severe fatigue. Perhaps because we are vaxed, we were able to recover at home and didn’t have the severe symptoms that sometimes send folks to the hospital. For that, we are thankful.

But we still missed out — on a week of work, on several appointments we’d had scheduled, on a visit from our granddaughters. That last one hurt the most.

Nevertheless, we are on the road to recovery and hopefully ready to merge back into reality.

And, for the foreseeable future, reality includes Covid.

I’m obviously still trying to figure out what that means for me. For the coming week, at least, I’ll be masked in the classroom and I will stay away from any type of gathering, but after that, will I resume living as though we are post-Covid when the last week as taught me that we certainly are not?

I want to say that I have been transformed, that I will consistently mask and avoid large gatherings, and maybe I will, at least for a season, but my guess is that as the memory of this past week fades, I will likely gradually ease back “normal”. I’m not sure it’s the wisest course of action, though, so I wouldn’t mind if you joined me in praying about it.

If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given to him.

James 1:5

Getting Ready

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This morning at church, a friend, smiling, asked if I was ready to go back to school yet.

I’m getting closer.

Since last week’s post, I have taken one trip to my school to drop off more supplies including 100 composition books and a variety of incentive prizes I gathered over the summer. While I was there, I picked up a new laptop and logged in for the first time, made sure all my stuff loaded, and turned on my projector to see if it’s going to cooperate this year.

I took two short trips for fun — one to see my mom and help her sort through some closets and memories and another to share a meal with long time friends.

I’ve been working on three deadlines– three deliverables that are all due by or before today — one for my policy fellowship, one for my role as master teacher, and one for my role as reading interventionist.

I’ve attended four zoom meetings — one with a large group of district leaders to discuss changes for the coming year, one with our building’s leadership team to sort out deadlines and responsibilities for the next two weeks of professional development and back to school activities, one with a colleague to get into the specifics of those responsibilities, and one with two administrators to sort out the details for the student teaching supervision that I have agreed to.

I’ve ordered five items online — contact paper for attaching labels to student desks, stickers for students to decorate their composition books, two pairs of shoes, and three tubes of lipstick.

I’ve crocheted six headbands to put in my prize boxes.

I’ve received generous donations from seven friends — snacks, prizes, feminine supplies, gift cards, and the like.

Each day holds a detail or responsibility that reminds me I’m getting closer, but I am still not picturing student faces. I got close last week when I was pushing desks around in my classroom. I could almost see them as I slid tables and chairs, reconfiguring the space to meet this year’s needs.

The bells were already ringing on schedule, and more staff bodies were moving through the building, but no teens yet.

I read the freshman roster this morning and attempted to select those who would participate in my reading class — glancing at names, but relying on data points to make my selections. I thought soon these names will represent bodies, faces, lives that might be impacted by this intervention, but not yet.

In a few hours, I’ll compose a letter to their parents, informing them that their child has been selected for a special program, that their attendance is crucial, that the potential impact is great.

Then, I will construct a Google slide show explaining the grading system and the policies regarding plagiarism and technology use at my school. In a couple of weeks, the teachers in my building will use this slide deck with all of our students to help get everyone acclimated back to academic life and the expectations that come with it.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the building, pushing around more tables, trying to envision bodies in seats. I won’t be alone. I suspect other teachers will be preparing their rooms, too.

On Wednesday, we will meet en masse to discuss culturally responsive teaching, to meet with our instructional coaches, and to look at the scope and sequence for the year. We’ll continue for six more days, preparing lessons, practicing for emergencies, meeting with coaches, putting last touches on our rooms.

Finally, we’ll have a three-day weekend.

And then — then — I’ll be standing at my threshold, grinning and welcoming. By then I should be ready.

And, if I’m not, no worries — the minute I lock eyes with the first student, my teacher heart will engage and I will be all-in for nine months. Just like I was transformed during my pregnancies, limiting caffeine, getting extra sleep, transforming my wardrobe, taking prenatal vitamins, and seeing the doctor monthly to ensure the healthy development of the children we had hoped for, I will be transformed. I will arise at 5am each day, caffeinate myself, and arrive at school wearing sensible shoes and comfortable clothing, toting a compact lunch of almonds, fruit, and some kind of bar. I will move throughout my day with my students on my mind, continuously adapting to their needs. I will shorten (or lengthen) a lessen, add (or remove) a funny anecdote, phone parents to brag (or show concern), and walk through the lunch room to track down some kid to give him the item he forgot, a good talking to, or a fist-bump depending on what he needs the most.

I will have my lunch interrupted by students who need something to eat and my prep time disturbed to respond to “Mrs. Rathje, you got a charger?” And by some miracle, I won’t be irritated. I’m not in this next chapter. I’ll look up and ask “What’s your name? Where are you supposed to be? Everything going ok for you today?” I might get an “I’m good” or a “Thank you” or an “I’ll bring it back,” but over time, I’ll likely get someone at my door who asks “Can I talk to you?” and I will push aside my laptop, roll my chair from behind my desk, and take whatever time we need because I’ll be ready.

By then, my students won’t be just on my mind all day, they will have inched their way into my heart. It happens year after year. I sometimes wonder if I’ll be able to fit any more kids in there, but I always can. My own children take up the largest rooms, of course, but my students live right among them.

Yesterday, we walked into a restaurant with some members of our family. We were waiting to be seated when I noticed standing at the host’s stand, a former student who was working there. “Jamie, is that you?” He looked up at me, questioningly.

“It’s me, Kristin.”

Instantly, we were hugging. He grabbed on tight — the way family does. While we were in the restaurant, he and I checked in with each other a couple of times — sharing updates, smiling, laughing. We’ve got a life-long bond with one another. That’s what happens when you spend time learning together.

And that’s why I know I’ll be ready — I’m getting closer and closer each day.

Act justly…love mercy…walk humbly

Micah 6:8

Not Quite Ready

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I walked into my school this past week. I had some supplies to drop off, and I was in the area, so I popped in.

The place was almost empty, but our custodial crew was there, greeting me with smiles and hugs, the work they’d done all summer evident all around us. The floors gleamed; the walls were freshly painted; and every desk was neatly in place.

As I rolled a supply-laden cart into my classroom, I remained somewhat detached. Although this is where I’ll spend over 40 hours a week starting just a couple weeks from now, the reality of the work — the students and their futures — is still just a little out of view. My heart is not quite ready for the responsibility. It’s not quite ready to hold kids accountable, to inspire, to motivate, to redirect, to teach.

Not yet.

I mean, I’ve written my syllabus. My big-picture plans for the first few weeks are charted out. I have slide decks. I’ve purchased motivators, and I’ve loaded up my Google calendar with deadlines and commitments. I like to be organized well ahead of time, but I’m just not quite ready to stand and deliver content, motherly advice, snacks, admonitions, answers to distracting questions, and continuous positive narration to inspire appropriate student behavior.

I’m just not ready.

Fact is, this big-talking, butt-kicking, name-taking master teacher has just a little more than a teensy bit of anxiety. It’s not suffocating, but it’s humming a little chorus in my mind, especially in the quiet of the night, what if, how about, can you really, have you considered, and the like. I swat it away. I read a book about organized crime in Harlem in the 1940s, 50s, and 60s. I play a little Words with Friends, and I try to pretend that I don’t hear. But the chorus is catchy, and I find myself humming along mindlessly throughout the day.

I am not special. I think most teachers have a little anxiety before going back to school. I’m usually able to mask it with bravado — it’s a long-honed skill. Some of us also manage it through busy-ness, like organizing a classroom or preparing detailed plans, but probably, the best thing to do is to name it, as I did — again — yesterday with my therapist. Saying it out loud normalizes it, I guess. My therapist says, “You’re in a very demanding giving profession, and in the past, the demands have caused damage. It makes sense that you would be anxious.”

Oh. Yeah. That’s true, isn’t it? I have incurred some personal damages from this profession, haven’t it? Bravado and busy-ness were band-aids for my anxiety, not balms. They concealed it; they didn’t heal it.

What has been my balm? Quiet, rest, writing, and talking through my emotions. So, I return. I lean in. I announce that I am not quite ready.

I need a few more days of mindlessly weeding a garden while listening to a podcast. I need a few more mornings lazily journaling while sitting in the sun. I need a few more uninterrupted strong cups of tea, maybe one more jigsaw puzzle, a trip or two to see my mom, and just one more mani/pedi without looking at my watch.

And then, maybe then, I’ll be ready for the 5 am alarm, the 30 minute drive in rush hour traffic, the mass of students moving down the hallway, and the continuous grumble of adolescent complaint. I’ll be ready to stand over-enthusiastically (but genuinely) at my doorway, greeting my new seniors (and a few unsuspecting freshmen — God love them.)

They (and I ) have no idea what this school year holds — whether we’ll be able to be in person the whole year, whether Covid or a building issue will send us home, whether we’ll like each other, whether we’ll learn anything at all. And they (like me) might be experiencing a little anxiety. They might not have the 56 years of experience that I have that have taught me how to name it, how to care for myself, and how to create space, so they may need some extra compassion, understanding, and patience from me if they act out, check out, or lash out.

And I’ll have it. I almost always do, now that I have learned to have compassion, understanding, and patience for myself. I will be able to assure them that they belong, that they are safe, that they are loved, and that we have much that we can learn together.

Because here’s the thing — I have yet to meet a group of students I didn’t eventually fall in love with. I have yet to see a school year (and I think this might be the 23rd? — correction 20th in the classroom) where I didn’t learn right along with my students — about the curriculum, sure, but also about myself, about education, about the human experience.

And, part of what I’ve learned about the human experience is that I am not alone — none of us are! While I have been less than ready to look toward the school year, several of you have reached out in the last few weeks with offers of school supplies, snacks, prizes, and cash to support my classroom. I can’t tell you what an encouragement it has been to have you answering before I’ve even gotten around to asking. It has reminded me and my anxiety that we’ll be ok. When I am finally ready to head back to my classroom this year, I will carry your encouragement with me.

It won’t be long.

In just a few days, my adrenaline will kick in — I’ll be zooming around my classroom, arranging desks, making signs, double-checking supplies, and detailing lessons — but not yet. Right now I’m going to lean into another cup of tea, pop one more bowl of popcorn, and binge one more show on Netflix. The school year will be here soon enough.

…in quietness and trust is your strength…”

Isaiah 30:15

If you are able, reach out to a teacher (or school administrator) you know and ask how you can be an encouragement. You’ll be amazed at the impact such an offer might have.