Tag: learning

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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Finding a Footing

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

At the end of the last school year, as I waved goodbye to students and wished my colleagues a safe and restful summer, I was envisioning long days of reading broken up by an hour here or there with my hands in the dirt — weeding our garden, tending to our plants, and bringing in the fruits of our labor. I saw days on the beach of a great lake and others poolside with our granddaughters.

While I did manage to experience all of that, much of my summer was not what I was expecting. At all. Particularly not when, just a month ago, I was searching for an assisted living facility for my stepfather, helping my brothers move him in, being present for his rapid decline, then processing with my mom and siblings through his passing.

The flurry of activity was unanticipated and un-mooring. I’ve felt a little tossed about for several weeks, so the return to the rhythms of back-to-school prep of the past many days has been a welcome and anchoring exercise.

As I’ve been walking the hallways of our school buildings, I’ve been wondering if our students, too, have felt a little at sea. What has their summer been like — have they been working? helping out at home? have they had plenty to eat? time and space to rest? have they experienced loss? or trauma? joy? or celebration? Has their summer been what they were expecting? Are they, too, in need of the rhythms that will bring stability?

Because I’m not teaching this year, but rather supporting our teachers and students from a more global perspective, I’ve been managing tasks all summer like updating scope and sequence documents for various courses, familiarizing myself with the curricula taught in our building, creating Google classrooms for all of our teachers, updating our school’s testing plan, organizing and auditing the curriculum I created, and managing several other tasks. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve also been preparing presentations and materials for the teacher orientation that begins this week.

As I’ve been checking all these boxes, I’ve needed some support (and grace) from my supervisors to reconnect with the world of school, to remind me what each of the pieces are exactly, to steady me as I find my way back to the vernacular of academics — to norms and standards, to unit plans and instructional strategies, to engagement and discourse.

I’m guessing that our teachers and students are going to need support (and grace), too. Certainly their summers have been far from the academic realm — less structured or predictable. Sure, some of them have punched a clock or had regular eating and sleeping habits, but many will have had no routine at all. Surely few, if any of them, will have sat in a desk, attended to a slide deck, navigated to a Google classroom, or submitted a document for review.

Transitioning away from my erratic summer to more routine work has not been easy nor has my body been quick to adapt. While I’m being quite diligent in getting back to eating three meals a day at the designated times and observing my normal bedtime, my body is still on high alert after weeks of urgent phone calls, last minute trips, and unexpected decisions. My digestive tract is suffering from role confusion, and my sleep patterns remain inconsistent.

Perhaps the bodies of my students and teachers, too, will be a bit out-of-kilter. Perhaps they will find it difficult to endure a seven hour school day, to sit upright for long stretches, to use the restroom at designated passing times, to make it from breakfast to lunch without a snack, to remember to get a drink between classes, or to stay awake for the entire day.

I’m finding a few things helpful in my regulation. First is seeing my people. As I’ve gone into our buildings over the last few weeks, I’ve reconnected with my colleagues, many of whom have offered hugs both of “I’ve missed you” and “I’m sorry for your loss.” We’ve shared stories and laughter as we’ve navigated our tasks.

I’ve found stability in the familiar — the drive, the building, and the faces.

I’ve found comfort in the physical — walking into my office, arranging my supplies, moving books, and touring classrooms.

I’ve found security in doing what I know how to do — creating a document, sending an email, meeting a deadline, planning a presentation.

I’m thinking about how I can use my experience of re-entry, my realization of what I’ve needed to re-acclimate, to support my teachers and students as they move from what also may have been erratic to what is more routine.

We already engineer the first week to be less about curriculum and more about connection. We are a trauma-informed organization, after all, and we know that Maslow comes before Bloom. We have a system of delivering school-wide norms and expectations, and we support teachers in integrating warm-ups, games, and getting-to-know-you activities. The first week is all about learning names and building community. It’s an opportunity for our students to get a literal or metaphorical hug– to reconnect with their teachers and classmates.It’s a time to situate themselves inside of the familiar — not only the building and its classrooms but the bell schedule, the movement patterns, the physicality of being in the space, and the kind of routine assignments that warm up muscles and build confidence.

How can I normalize the weirdness of it all — how our bodies and minds take time to adapt, how we may feel irritated, foggy-headed, tired, and out-of-sorts? The best way I know is to name it — call it out — talk about it.

Our teachers and our students may need the leaders in the building to acknowledge the heavy lift of transition — of moving from the summer-realm to the world of school. These worlds are not the same, and the move can be jarring. For me, back to school has always been a comfort — school is a place where I know how to be, what to do, and how to succeed — but it’s not like that for everyone. For some, school is an increase in stress, a place of conflict, a world of insecurity.

So, in my new role, I think one thing I can be is present — observing what is happening for teachers and for students, being willing to acknowledge that what they are experiencing is real. Of course you’re tired! Coming back to school takes a lot of effort! Yes, this is a lot of information to take it all at once, and our summer brains are not used to it.

I can also offer compassion. I get it! My body is still adjusting to the school day, too! I can cover your class while you run to the restroom. How can I support you in getting your documents completed on time? Would you like to tell me about what you are experiencing?

That’s the benefit of my role — I’ve got a head start on my teachers and my students. I have had a preview of what they might experience in the coming weeks. Now that I am feeling a little more stable, I can lend some of that to them as they transition. I can be a reminder that they will soon be settled in as well.

That, and I can make sure that my snack drawer is full, because I can bet that soon I will be hearing both teachers and students say, “Mrs. Rathje, you got anything to eat?”

I’ll be ready for them; I’m getting closer each day.

put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Colossians 3:12

**If you’d like to support what we do at Detroit Leadership Academy, here is a current wish list

It all adds up

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

In my many years of teaching, I have been “in charge” of delivering all kinds of content, mostly English Language Arts — everything from vocabulary to grammar to composition to poetry, drama, short stories, and novels. I’ve led lessons on irony, literary analysis, metaphor, meter, MLA documentation, and countless other ELA topics.

In some of my positions, particularly during the early years, I also led lessons on science, social studies, religion, sex education, PE, and yes, even math. I wouldn’t say I was amazing in these other content areas (if you are reading this and I was your teacher, please be kind!) but I muddled through. I understand the principles of teaching — the concept that first “I do,” then “we do,” then “you do,” so if I can figure something out, chances are, I can show you how to do it.

And, once upon a time, I could figure out math, but can I still?

In my new role, the plan is that I’ll be coaching eight teachers — two ELA, two social studies, two science, and two math. With each of these teachers, we will begin by looking at the curriculum — what are the broad goals for this year, how are those goals broken into units, how will each unit be assessed, what skills will students need to be successful, and what misconceptions might we be on the lookout for?

As I’m preparing for these discussions with my team, I’m diving into the curricula — this past week I dove into math.

At first glance I was like, how hard can it be — I can probably still do most of Algebra I, I mean 2x +5 = 25? No problem. But then I opened the first geometry lesson and thought, Oh, my, this is a whole different language, isn’t it? The first unit was all about triangles and parallel lines — Cool, cool, I remember this — the three angles of a triangle add up to 180 degrees, and if parallel lines bisect a transverse line, corresponding angles are equivalent – – yup, yup. But then I got to the part where you have to write the “proof” and I was immediately transported back to 1982 and Mr. Cronkright’s room. I was pretty sure my deodorant failed and a zit popped out on my nose. I shook myself — how hard can this be? You’ve got the teacher’s edition and supplemental videos! Walk through it! Figure it out.

And you know what? I did! I remembered all the things — with a little help from Great Minds Digital Learning — and was able to complete the unit assessment with flying colors! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until the next day when I opened the first unit of Algebra II — Probability — this is an entirely different language, once again. I mean, suppose that a book store sells a book in both electronic and print format, and that customers can pay with either a gift card or a credit card. What is the likelihood that a random customer walks in the store and buys an electronic copy with a gift card.

I’m looking at the screen of my computer, scratching my head saying, Who in the world wants to know how to calculate this ? when the power in my house went out. What are the odds?

LOL. See what I did there? I’m telling math jokes.

The power literally did go out, but my computer had plenty of battery and I had plenty of daylight, so I pressed on. Certainly if I trudged through the lessons, even I could learn how to use a two-way frequency table. So trudge I did, and while the literal lights came back on while I was still hunched over my desk, the metaphorical light of understanading didn’t reach full strength. I’m not sure I comprehend enough about probability to pass the assessment — yet! — but I am confident that I can have a conversation about the unit with the instructor, and I am quite sure I will be able to identify some of the struggle areas that might take students [ahem, me] more time to digest.

Did I mention in last week’s post that I would be learning this year, too? I am certain of it.

That’s a large part of what teaching is, friends — it’s admitting that you might not know everything, but committing to getting on the bus anyway, deciding to show up, leaning over content that might be challenging, and using any means necessary to figure it out so that you can model it for your students, do it with your students, then release them to do it on their own.

This past year I had the privilege of watching someone do just that. Last August, when we realized that we would not be able to find an ELA teacher to fill the position I was vacating, I agreed to continue teaching two sections of seniors and to share the classroom with one of our paraprofessionals who would teach three sections of freshmen. Although this individual has been in our building for as long as I have, she is not a certified teacher and has no formal training in English Language Arts. Did that stop her? Not at all. She received coaching, read books, leaned into curricula, and announced to her students, “We’re going to figure this out together.” Day after day she showed up, implemented strategies, and learned lessons so that she could bring her students along with her. She knew she was responsible for what they were learning, and she took her role seriously.

And truly, that is what I plan to do with my team this year. I want to “figure it out together,” leaning over their content with them, modeling for them how to determine the best way to deliver a concept or a skill, partnering with them to try a new instructional strategy, then watching them take it from there.

The money in teaching is when the students [or this year, my teachers] take what we have learned together, personalize it, and go way beyond what the teacher could even conceive of. The student exceeds the teacher. That’s the goal.

What is the probability that it will happen this year? I’d say the odds are good.

“[He}is able to do more than we can ask or imagine.” Ephesians 3:20

P.S. We are still hiring for some of the positions on my team. If you or someone you know is interested, check out the postings here.

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

Educational Break

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

On Thursday afternoon, I tidied my classroom, finalized some grades, and walked away from school and toward my Spring Break. The mere thought of not having to set an alarm for 10 days would’ve put a pep in my step if I’d had any pep left at all, but I did not.

All teachers are exhausted by this time in the year. Even though we had Christmas break, even though we might’ve had a long weekend or even a full week off in February, we’ve been, since September, coordinating learning for our students, planning multiple presentations each day, keeping records, reporting to our supervisors, and (and this is the most draining part) making countless in-the-moment decisions:

What is the first thing I need to do when I walk in the door?

Do I have an extra stapler, know where more chart paper is, and can I laminate another hall pass for Room 117?

No, you can’t go to my classroom unattended; yes, I can get you a bandaid; no I don’t know where Mr. Smith is,

You can’t go to the bathroom right now, but ask me again in 10 minutes.

Yes, you can take that pencil, borrow that book, eat that snack.

You sit over here; you stay there.

Yes, your topic sentence is solid, but no, that is not an adequate example.

You’ve used AI here, and you must re-do the assignment.

You’ve used AI here, and you cannot re-do the assignment.

Yes, you can turn it in late. No, the deadline has passed.

Yes, you can work with a partner. No, you can’t get the answers from a peer.

This is non-stop all day long, but teachers, while keeping this decision-making machine running, must also, intervene in interpersonal conflicts, address misbehavior, meet demands for mandatory documentation, and, oh yeah, provide high quality instruction.

And most of us are happy to do all of this. We see each piece as necessary for supporting human development, for preparing the next generation of humans for meaningful life in our society. We’re teaching our students to co-exist with one another, to manage themselves, to hold themselves accountable, to read, to write, to identify a career, and to begin to take steps toward attaining that career. We’re in this work because we like kids but also because we believe in the power of education to create possibility for students of all backgrounds and abilities and to create a better future for all of us.

In the school where I work — a small charter school on the edge of Detroit, where 99% of my students are Black, where 100% of the students qualify for free breakfast and lunch, where almost all of the students are below the national average in reading and math scores by no fault of their own but because of centuries-long inequity in education–the teachers, like me, believe in the transformative power of education. We see it as an opportunity to not only change lives but to save lives.

In addition to the exhausting work that teaching is in any context, teachers in buildings like mine have the added weight of wondering if our kids have enough to eat, if they have a home to sleep in, if their home is safe, if they will have what they need for the next 10 days, or if they will be alone, hungry, cold, or in danger. Our students have the same needs as any students in the country, but they have additional needs as a result of poverty that stems from systemic inequities that go back through the history of our nation — school segregation, red-lining in real estate, unconscious bias in hiring practices, and other elements of historical and current systemic racism.

So, you might imagine how I am feeling, heading into a much-needed break while simultaneously worrying about my students’ welfare, to learn that the president of this country has ordered the Director of the Department of Education to dismantle it.

You may say, “Settle down, Kristin, most funding for education comes from the state.”

That is true, most money for education comes from the state — but do you know what does come from the federal government? Funds that make a difference for students like mine. For example, Title I, which provides $18 million to low-income districts. It’s not enough to make up for the economic disparity between neighboring districts, but it’s a start. The Department of Education also provides IDEA (Individuals with Disabilities Education Act) funds to the tune of $15 billion to help districts provide additional resources to students with learning disabilities, cognitive impairments, and other diagnoses such as autism. Source.

Furthermore, the US Department of Education manages Federal Student Aid for post-secondary education, providing over $120 billion annually in grants, loans, and work study that allows students like mine to dream of a career. And not just students like mine — I myself relied on federal money to get my degrees, didn’t you? Source

Can you imagine what might happen in communities across the country if high school seniors no longer have access to the FAFSA? if they can no longer apply for federal dollars to fund their education through grants and/or loans? Tuition alone for Michigan State University is over $16,000 a year. Add in room and board and your talking about $35,000+. Most students need at least four years to get a basic degree. Who among us can fund $140k without the aid of at least a student loan?

Now, the State of Michigan is prepared to fund up to two years of community college and up to $5,500 per year at state universities, but states rely on the federal mechanism of the FAFSA to distribute those funds. If the DOE is dismantled, how long will it take for states to pivot to their own systems to ensure that students who need these funds get them? And, where will students borrow the balance that is not covered by state funds if they don’t have access to federal student loans?

How many students will take post-secondary education right off the table — including trade school programs that prepare our electricians, plumbers, welders, builders, and the like?

As I consider the potential outcomes of such action, the faces of my seniors are appearing in my mind — J. who wants to be a programmer, who has already completed several summers developing coding skills, L. who plans to be a nurse, K. who wants to be a truck driver, and S. who plans to become a police officer. None of these students can take one more step without the FAFSA and right this minute the Secretary of Education (who has zero experience with issues that impact schools) is busy laying off DOE employees under a directive from the president.

I am exhausted, and it’s my Spring Break, but I can’t just sit by and watch this happen.

So, I’m doing two things: First, I’m writing this post, and second I’m committing to use the app “Five Calls” to involve myself in the American process.

Here is how it works. Download the app, select the issue you are concerned about, and enter your zipcode. You will see a timeline of updates on that issue and a list of representatives from your district. One click later, you will see a page like this:

You click on the number, wait for an answer, read the script, and and click a blue button to register whether you left a voicemail or made contact, and the app sends you to the next number.

In just a few moments this morning I made three calls.

This may seem like something small — just like my boycotting may seem small and ineffectual to some –but if we truly believe that our government is of, by, and for the people, then we, the people, need to get involved. We need to do something when we see that our government is not representing all of the people — particularly when they are taking steps to further disenfranchise the most marginalized among us.

Look, you’re probably exhausted and overworked, too. You might feel like this is not worth your time, but perhaps you can take a journey back to your high school self, remember what it feels like to have a dream in front of you — of a career, a family, a whole adult life. Remember what that feels like? Don’t we want to make sure that every kid in America has an opportunity to pursue their dreams?

If you believe in the transformative power of education like I do, I urge you to make 5 calls — today, tomorrow, and until our voices are heard.

It’s a small decision you and I can make that could make a monumental difference for our kids, our country, our future.

Speak up … defend the rights of the poor and the needy. Proverbs 31:9

Facing Change

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I don’t want to brag or make it seem like I’m an expert on change, but here are the facts:

Before I graduated high school, I had lived in six homes (ok, I only remember four of them). During and after college, I lived in nine locations (counting separate dorms). Since we’ve been married, we’ve had eleven homes. You might call me a moving expert, because I was Marie Kondo-ing way before Marie Kondo was a thing.

I’ve gone to two elementary schools, one middle school, one high school, two colleges for undergrad (transferring after freshman year), and have taken graduate courses at three universities.

Not counting babysitting, I’ve held at least 25, yes twenty-five, jobs in my life, and I’m sure I’m overlooking some gig-work like that one summer that my stepfather got me an “opportunity” handing out samples in the deli of the grocery store that he managed.

I’ve walked into plenty of new situations, and I’ve learned a few things along the way.

First, I always come with the gusto: This is gonna be great! Imagine all the possibilities! Won’t it be fun? I am at that point a glass-hall-full-and-expecting-more kind of girl. I come on full speed and give it my all. (Exhibit A: I’ve already organized and alphabetized my newly-forming classroom library, and I’m not even in my classroom yet.)

Because I come in with so much enthusiasm, I have been known to overlook critical details, such as, I don’t know, the fact that the people in my life are also feeling the shift of change and they might not be as enthusiastic as I am. My daughter recently reminded me that when we uprooted our family and moved to St. Louis, my husband and I full of gusto and optimism, our children were reeling with grief, anger, and fear. They were not thrilled to be clinging tightly to the flying capes of their superhero parents. They just wanted us to stop and hold them, which I will graciously remind myself that we did from time to time, but we were, I’m afraid, quick to resume our flight — to conquer our mission and save the day.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that I quickly adapt to culture and expectations. In a new setting, I will likely watch quietly for a few days or weeks, until I see how “we do things around here,” but once I have the lay of the land, I bring myself to that situation in the truest way that I can. I remember the faculty retreat where I met my coworkers at Lutheran North. We were at a camp about an hour away from the school, all in shorts and tennis shoes. We gathered for the morning in a conference room to “talk business,” but after lunch we made our way to a challenge course complete with a zip line. Since it was my first day or two with this community, I was in that ‘quietly watching’ phase of entry, so when my team (people I’d never met before!) needed to lift me over a chest-high obstacle, I let them, and when they asked me if I would like to climb a rock wall and do the zip line, activities which I would under normal circumstances politely (or not so politely) decline, I said ok, I would do it. I was trying to go with the flow and figure out the culture, so I went out of my comfort zone and wouldn’t you know, I climbed that wall and zipped that line, and I felt great! These early successes, and others like them, gave me confidence to take some other chances with that group that would soon become family. I thrived at Lutheran North, where I became a leader, and my team embraced me in my truest form which is always honest (sometimes to a fault), often loud, and frequently emotional.

I came into my experience at Lindamood-Bell much more quietly. Illness had sucked the confidence out of me, and the intentionally positive and congratulatory environment of the company culture seemed, although very welcoming, quite foreign. The first two weeks I sat in a room with a coworker (who was my first on-the-job bonus kid) learning the programs, quietly taking notes, and reluctantly participating in role plays. The job was very scripted to start, and I was thankful! Because I was still visibly struggling with autoimmune disease, my gusto was suppressed; I was happy to have clear expectations and structure. I wouldn’t have to lead in this position, well, not at first…not until I was much stronger.

Yes, I come in with gusto, I quietly learn the culture, and then I am who I am.

At Lutheran North, my students called me Momma Ratch. Two of my own children were students at the school, and though while they were in my class, they were students first and treated as such, they were also my children, who rode in my vehicle, dropped by my classroom for a snack, needed to be driven home when they were ill or forgot their running shoes, and invited their classmates to our home. My students who were not my children, saw me in my role as teacher and my role as mother. They came to understand that I was imperfect in both roles, but that I continued to show up and try. They could come to my room with difficulty or to share celebration. They could borrow a few dollars or raid my stash of feminine supplies without asking. I had a stockpile of notebooks, folders, pens, and books in my room that I collected each year when students cleaned out their lockers. Anyone in the school knew they could come get what they needed no questions asked. I had firm and high academic and behavioral expectations, but I also learned what I could let go, what I could negotiate, and what really didn’t matter much at all.

At Lindamood-Bell, my coworkers called me Momma K. This probably started because I am the age of the mothers of all of my coworkers. They are almost all in their twenties (the age of my children), and though I didn’t always feel like it, particularly in the beginning, I think they have valued my experience, my perspective, my age. Often, it was me who was asking them for support, for encouragement, for understanding, as I navigated some of the most difficult years of my life. They were mostly oblivious to the grief that I was carrying, but it seeped out in moments of unprofessionalism. I would snap in a moment of frustration or glare at a coworker who told me something I didn’t want to hear. Yet, they, too, accepted me for who I am, and even celebrated me. In fact, the culture of Lindamood-Bell, the clapping, the parties, the dancing and balloons, reminded me of the importance of celebration, of noticing small victories and big ones even (and especially) in the midst of grief and transition. My coworkers dress up in wigs and hot dog costumes on a Wednesday just to make learning more fun. They hide pictures of Guy Fieri inside a closet to surprise you and make you laugh. They help kids set a trap of plastic spiders to scare you when you walk into a room. They cry because you are leaving, but send you off with books for your new classroom, a gluten-free cookie for the road, and a bottle of Malbec for your next celebration.

As I’m gathering my gusto to walk into Detroit Leadership Academy I want to be mindful of those around me who in the midst of Covid-19 and all its uncertainties might not be feeling as enthusiastic as I am; I want to be sure I stop and attend to the needs of others instead of just powering through. I know I’ll take the confidence and flexibility I found at Lutheran North and the kindness and celebration I learned at Lindamood-Bell. I’ll walk in quietly, even though I’ve already stocked my closet with teacher wear and powerful shoes. This is a brand new culture, and I want to see how “we do things around here” before I find the expression of myself that will work best for these kids, these coworkers, this school, this season.

As in every other change I’ve navigated over my fifty-plus years, I know I am going to learn at DLA — I don’t know what yet, but if the lessons I learn are even half as impactful as the lessons I’ve learned at Lutheran North and Lindamood-Bell, I know I’ll be changed forever.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

Joshua 1:9

Note: If you are in or near Ann Arbor and have surplus school supplies: notebooks, pens, folders, index cards, feminine supplies, etc. I would be happy to take them off your hands and put them in my new classroom so that students can come and take what they need no questions asked.

From the Vault: We are all Learning, a re-visit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I wrote this in October of 2019, in the before time —before 2020 and its pandemic, its racial unrest, its political polarization. If this is not a wilderness, I’m not sure there is one. I wonder if you agree that this is one more opportunity for our us to grow, to be shaped by the One who loves us, and to turn from our wandering back to Him.

It was an extraordinary day that I’ve been thinking about for a week.

It started when my child called at 7 am to admit a failure at work. Some words had been spouted toward a coworker — the kind that aren’t easily called back. Supervisors had gotten involved and, rather than meting out punishment, had normalized the situation saying something like, “We are all learning. We want to support you as you grow through this.”

As I hung up that phone call, a nurse arrived at my door. I’ve agreed to be part of a study in which I set some goals to improve my health or quality of life, I track my progress, and this nurse follows my path, provides coaching and encouragement, and we see what happens.

Perfectionist that I tend to be — I immediately confessed a few habits that I am ashamed of and stated my intention of eliminating them. The nurse, fellow human that she is, reminded me that we are just setting goals — some days we will meet them, some days we won’t. That’s how life is.

We are all learning. Not one of us has it all together. .

When the nurse left, I started listening to a sermon I’d missed a few days prior. We’ve been in a series on Exodus for several weeks, hearing about the Israelites’ journey through slavery, the plagues God used against Pharoah, and — this week — the miraculous rescue of the Israelites.

They’d been suffering in slavery for four hundred years and just like that, h=He swoops in with shock and awe and delivers them out of slavery.

You have to ask yourself why? Why did He wait so long?

And then, once he had parted the Red Sea and delivered them from the Egyptians, why did He allow them to wander in the wilderness for an additional 40 years? Couldn’t He have spared them so much pain? Didn’t He see their difficulty? Couldn’t He tell they were lost?

And questions like that lead me to ask “why did you let me continue in my soldiering for so. damn. long. Why didn’t you send a messenger much earlier? Wouldn’t you have spared us all so much pain? Didn’t you see the difficulty? Didn’t you see the looming consequences? Couldn’t you tell we were lost?”

And I hear our pastor say, “In the difficulty of the wilderness, God shapes His people…God will place us in difficult circumstances, in challenging situations, in order to shape and form our character…and to strengthen our faith.”

We are all learning. None of us has it all figured out, and God wants to support us as we grow through our wildnerness.

I can see it. I can. I can see how through difficulty my character has been formed. The most desperate of situations have pressed me to make new choices, live differently, and see clearly. They have, indeed, strengthened my faith.

I was lying on the table of my physical therapist the other morning, chatting about some recent developments in the long journey we are on, when she said, “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”

I’m ready.

As the Israelites stood next to the not-yet-parted Red Sea, the Egyptian army bearing down upon them, Moses said, “Fear not. Stand firm. And see the salvation of the Lord which He will work for you today. The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be silent.”

I have only to be silent.

I was sitting in an instructional meeting at work — me, an educator for the last thirty years — and I found myself being challenged to consider how my tone, my energy, and my language can motivate or demotivate my students. How the nuance of my voice, its inflection, and my message can make or break a lesson. The presenter said that we should use language that is calm, neutral, and assertive to direct our students toward their tasks. We should use messages like, “Read this paragraph, starting here,” in a calm tone, as we point to the page and then wait expectantly. When we give a clear direction and the space to respond, we provide safety — a secure spot for our students to step into.

Safety is everything!

Knowing I am safe, emboldens me to take a chance — to try reading the words or to even make a mistake. If I feel safe, I can try, because I don’t fear judgment or punishment or embarrassment. When I’m given direction from a calm, neutral, assertive voice, I don’t feel bribed, used, or threatened. I feel free.

The nurse from the study did that. She spoke in a calm, neutral voice, offering reassurance as we wrote out my goals. She showed me how to record my progress and scheduled our visits over the next eight weeks during which she will check in and offer support.

I breathe easily; I know I’ll be ok whether I meet my goals or not — whether I walk more, watch less television, or sit on the couch all day.

Moses (perhaps in a calm, neutral voice) said, “Fear not. Stand firm. And see the salvation of the Lord which He will work for you today. The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be silent.” The Israelites bravely stood there; the Red Sea was parted, and they walked through on dry ground to safety. When their pursuers followed, the sea un-parted and swallowed them up.

Now, long story short, the Israelites didn’t immediately apply all the lessons they’d learned from their time in slavery or from this amazing rescue, so they ended up wandering around in the wilderness for an additional 40 years, so that God could continue to shape them and turn their hearts back to Him.

And, coincidentally, after my rescue from the soldiering years, I did not immediately apply all the lessons I learned. Instead I ended up walking through some additional challenges through which God has continued to shape me and turn my heart back to Him.

Just yesterday, our pastor delivered the truth that I’ve been clinging to — the words that let me know I’m safe and that I can step into this learning day after day: “God in His sovereignty is in control of whatever situation I am in.” He, the one who has been with me through the soldiering, through every difficulty, through every rescue, through every lesson, is in control.

He keeps showing up because He wants me to know that He is the Lord my God. He knows I’m just learning, and He wants to support me as I grow through this.

He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.

2 Sam 22:20

Language Learning

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

On Saturday, I worked with two students online. The first is a high school junior who I’ve worked with since she was in eighth grade. The second is an eighth grader who I met when he was in sixth grade. Both students are bi-lingual. Both students are high-achieving. Both students are expected by their parents to work hard.

“Gina” and I worked on SAT prep. She had taken a practice test and wanted to review the items she had missed. We analyzed her mistakes and discovered that almost all were related to vocabulary. Over the years, Gina and I have talked about the strength she has in knowing two languages. She can communicate with people in both Chinese and English. In fact, while she takes AP English Language and tutors Chinese students online to help them improve their English skills, she also studies AP Chinese! She has traveled to Taiwan many times with family and can spend weeks speaking nothing but Chinese. Then, she can come back to Michigan, slide back into her public school classroom, and navigate the language needed in all of her rigorous classes. This is a huge strength! However, since she holds in one hand all kinds of Chinese vocabulary and in the other hand all kinds of English vocabulary, neither hand has room for quite as many words as they could hold if they were cupped together holding words from just one language.

cupped hands

For example, although she holds the word ‘vague’, she may not also have obscure, dubious, ambiguous, and nebulous. Her hand simply doesn’t have the room. ‘Vague’ can usually do the job, except on the SAT, which may require Gina to know that obscure, vague, and ambiguous are all synonyms, and explicit is their antonym. The distinctions are challenging. So, we often spend our time working on vocabulary and helping Gina build images for new words so that she can put them on index cards and practice them when she’s not studying Chinese or psychology or one of the many other classes she is taking. She also has an English vocabulary app on her phone and plays freerice.com. She’s always trying to find ways to fit more words into her hands.

And then there’s “Kyle”. Kyle is fascinating to me. Although he is fluent in both Korean and English, although he speaks only Korean at home, although he is only in eighth grade, this kid has so. many. words. He did even when he was in sixth grade. I popped into our online room and asked him, “So what’s up? Your mom says you need some help with writing.”

“Well, my teacher says that I write too much. She says I need to be more concise.”

I’m chuckling to myself right now because in eighth grade, my teachers way back in the 70s didn’t expect me to write paragraphs and essays. I certainly hadn’t been given any feedback on my writing because I hadn’t produced any, but if I had, I am quite sure my teachers would have said I needed to be more concise.

“So what kind of writing are we talking about here — in class writing? or more formal writing?”

“Both.” Kyle is a striking young man — crisp haircut, sharp glasses, angular features. And he’s almost always deadpan. He cracks me up.

“Ok, so give me a typical in-class prompt.”

“Is The Giver a dystopian or a utopian novel?”

Again, I’m laughing inside. I don’t think I knew what ‘dystopian’ was until I taught Brave New World, but I digress.

So, together we built a very structured response to that prompt — topic sentence, three supporting points, and two pieces of evidence for each point. When we were finished, I looked at his face, read it, and said, “Pretty boring, huh?” He cracked a slight smile. “Well, tell me how you might’ve answered that question.” He admitted that he would’ve rambled and that his points would’ve been all over the place. “Ok! And that is what your teacher is asking you to work on! So, although it might be boring, I want you to practice this format for a while. Once you have the format, you can begin to experiment a little.”

He then shared a current assignment he is working on — a story told in two voices from two points of view. He chose to write about a hunter and a deer — one page for each character to tell the story of one day in the woods where they have an encounter. It’s vivid, and the language is clean.

“Kyle! This is beautiful. Your words are making me picture this snow-covered woods — I can even hear the hunter’s boots crunching in the snow! I can see him lift his bow, reach for an arrow, and take aim. This is fabulous!”

“She says we need to have sensory language, two adjective clauses, two adverb clauses, and ….” He’s reading from a list, discounting my praise.

We walked through his essay, which truly was well-written, particularly for a rough draft, and especially for an eighth grade bi-lingual student. We found his sensory language. I showed him how to combine his sentences by way of adjective and adverb clauses, and I pointed out how he had included the stylistic elements that his teacher was looking for. And then I said what I often tell writers who have too many words.

“I want to challenge you to make this even more concise. Right now this essay has 1000 words. I want you to cut that count by 10%. You have written a great essay, but play my game with me. See if you can cut 10% of the words, and then notice what impact that has on your story.

“Also, for your in-class writing, I want you to practice that format for a while. Learn the discipline, then you can experiment more.”

“So in other words, follow the rules and forget my voice,” he said pointedly.

“Well, no! Your voice is fantastic and natural. I don’t want you to lose your voice. And you won’t. As a matter of fact, when you practice this discipline, I think you will find more room for your voice.”

And he gave me that deadpan look again.

“Try it,” I smiled.

Gina is trying to expand her vocabulary, Kyle is trying to rein his in. Both are going to take work — practice, discipline, and courage. It takes real guts to admit that you don’t know everything — that you could learn something.

But when we do — when we admit that we have more to learn, when we listen to the voice of our mentors, and when we utilize that expert advice — we are transformed.

When I met Gina in the summer of 2015, she was timid. She gave me one word answers and was struggling to do schoolwork because each sentence was labored. Yesterday, when I asked what she’s been doing, she said, “During first semester we worked mostly on rhetorical analysis, but since Christmas we have started writing — what do you call them — oh, yeah, arguments.” She, an adolescent, has been leaning into her language process for three and a half years, and she is seeing the pay-off.

When I first met Kyle, he reminded me of my young self. He had a quick answer to almost everything. When he didn’t know the answer, he had several strategies for faking his way through. Now, at the ripe old age of 13, he is beginning to acknowledge that he has room to grow. He articulated the areas that had been identified by his teacher, and he at least considered the strategies that I offered him.

What a delight I have to witness their transformational journeys. And no, the metaphor isn’t lost on me. I, too, have admitted that I don’t know everything, that I have much, much more to learn. It’s taken practice, dedication, and courage, but I’m already beginning to see glimpses of transformation.

And yes, I did try to cut 10% of my words.

let the wise listen and add to their learning,
    and let the discerning get guidance—

Proverbs 1:5

Process-ing

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I had been trying to get back into the swing of writing consistently, plopping down 300 words a day in front of all of you, following Anne Lamott’s suggestion to just get them on the page. Every day I was stumbling along obediently, in true teacher fashion, modeling what I hoped my students would do — dump out the story; clean it up later.

I wasn’t liking any of what I was writing, but I believed that if I kept at it, I would eventually get some gold.

About that time, the group of ladies that I meet with for breakfast suggested that we begin reading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.  I wasn’t with them when they made the decision, but I got a text with the title that the others had chosen. We’ve read many books together already: Ann Voskamp’s The Broken Way, Barbara Brown Taylor’s Learning to Walk in the Dark, and Brene’ Brown’s Braving the Wilderness among them. We often make our selection based on a hunch one of us has that a book going to be good. Without fail, each of the books has served almost as a guide to the narratives of our individual lives — just the thing we needed to hear at a particular time.

For example, when we read The Broken Way, one of us was walking her mother through her last days, another was hearing for the first time the brutal details of a horrible event in a family member’s history, and another was learning that her husband’s cancer had returned.  We were collectively broken, and Ann Voskamp helped us not run from it, but sit in it.

We read Braving the Wilderness against the backdrop of a highly divided nation and discussed how we could be open to conversations with people who don’t agree with us and how we must be brave enough to do this crucial work.

We’ve come to expect that when one of us suggests a book, we should all just jump on board because each of the books we’ve read have guided our conversations and shaped our hearts. Over and over, in the space of a morning-dark living room, we have together been changed.

So why, when I got the text about The Artist’s Way did I turn up my nose?  Well, besides being stubborn by nature, I hadn’t heard the reason for this choice.  And, to be honest, the word ‘artist’ in the title came with a whole bunch of associations that I didn’t feel connected to. Finally, my work schedule had been such that I figured, “Yeah, maybe my season with this group is done. This one probably isn’t for me.”

And so I didn’t buy the book.  I just kept tossing out three hundred words a day like magical seeds that might one day sprout into something.

Then a few weeks later, one Sunday morning at church, one of my breakfast club friends said, “Aren’t you loving this book?  I can’t believe how much I love all the writing!”

Wait. What?

“The writing?” I said.  “I’ve gotta admit, I haven’t bought the book yet, what kind of writing are you talking about?”

“Oh, my gosh, you’ll love it! You have to commit to writing three pages every morning. I keep getting up in the middle of the night, and I can’t believe all the things I’m putting on the page.”

As she’s talking, I’m opening the Amazon app on my phone, searching for the title, and clicking “purchase”.

“Really? I didn’t know it involved writing. I guess I thought it was going to be about art.”

“No!  It’s about the artist inside of all of us. Oh, Kristin, you’ve got to read this book. I’m telling you, you’re going to love it.”

“Well, I just purchased it. So, I’ll start this week.”

And then the book arrived.  I opened to the introduction, because I’m one of those people who reads introductions, and I just didn’t like the tone of the author. She sounded very know-it-ally, and I just couldn’t. So I set the book on the table next to where I usually write and walked away.

For a week I didn’t write anything. Granted, we were busy at work and I didn’t have a lot of steam left when I got home, and getting up extra early in the morning seemed out of the question.

Until I found myself writing this around 2am:

Technically it’s morning. It’s the middle of the night. Up with pain and brain again. I grumbled about this book today — didn’t want to get it in the first place — dumb title.  Irrelevant. Then the self-important tone of the intro made me want my money back. But I’m not even through the first chapter and I know that Julie Cameron is right. If I write — actually write — three pages every morning, I will create an opening.  

And I started getting up every day at 5:45 — yes, 5:45 — to use a pen and a notebook to write at least three pages. And, like my friend, I’ve been amazed at what has shown up on the page. I’m not censoring, because I’m not writing for an audience. Instead, I am letting whatever is in me come out. Some days I’m writing about things long past. Other days I’m scratching out my current to-do list. I’m writing anger and anxiety and regret and sadness and hope and prayer.  I’m filling my second spiral notebook with no intention of accomplishing anything other than creating an opening.

I met with the breakfast club girls this week. Four of the five of us are writing these pages each morning (or sometimes in the middle of the night).  The one who isn’t said, “So, you’re writing?”  And the rest of us practically pushed each other out of the way to share how profound the experience has been. Then, I sheepishly admitted, “I’m only on chapter two of the actual reading.”  Surely by now, I thought, two months later, everyone else would be almost finished with the book.

“Me, too!” one said.

“I’m only on chapter four,” said another.

And it dawned on me — getting through the book is not the point. This book is not about finishing, it’s about being open to the process. And that is the message of relevance this time around. Just like every other book we’ve read, this one is speaking into our individual narratives. One of us is learning how to be a widow. Another is walking into retirement in a new home in a new community. One is about to become a grandmother for the first time. Another is navigating the comings and goings of young adult children. Me? I’m discovering after thinking that my professional career was over, that I might just have another round in me.

We’re all in phases that aren’t really about arriving or finishing; they are more about being, practicing, living, and breathing through the process.

So, it’s 6:32 am, and I’m spending this morning’s time to reflect, because, writing three pages every morning isn’t so magical that I can’t take a break to put my fingers on keys. I’ve created enough space to see that I can allow myself space.  And that is some kind of gold.

Psalm 5:3

In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.

Corn chips, anyone?

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Scrolling through Facebook this morning, I ran across a meme that said,

“Is anyone else just going through life like ‘I just gotta get past this last difficult week and then it’s smooth sailing from there!’ but like…every week?”

I chuckled.

I had just been reminiscing about how when we were first married every need we had seemed to cost $5.  We needed $5 for a last minute item from the grocery store to finish dinner for guests who would arrive in half an hour, $5 for the hardware to fix the door that wouldn’t latch quite right, $5 to contribute to the group gift at work.  Each item was just $5, but when we added them all up, the total pressed us.

Later, when our children were small, it shifted to $10.  A package of diapers was about $10, so was the team t-shirt, or enough burgers and fries at McDonald’s to feed three kids and justify their time in the Playland. It seemed we never had enough $10 bills to cover all the items on our list.

Before long, the price of ‘everything’ grew to $20.  Then it was $50, then $100. Each time we had an unexpected expense, we shifted, braced, ponied up, and prayed that if we just “got past this last difficult week” then it would be “smooth sailing.”

Back then ‘crises’ looked different than they look now, too. I remember the time, for instance, when my husband and I returned from a long day at our respective teaching positions, looking forward to the chicken dinner that had been roasting in the crockpot all day, only to find that I hadn’t turned the crockpot ‘on’ and that the chicken was still raw.  I thought the world had ended.  I had wasted “all that food”; certainly I was a failure as a wife.

Or the time when I had planned the menus for a three-day visit from out-of-town guests, budgeted carefully, brought all the groceries home, prepared the first meal, and discovered one of our guests snacking on the corn chips that had been purchased for the next day’s nachos. I dragged my husband into the bedroom and said, “What are we going to do? Now I don’t have everything I need for tomorrow’s meal!”  I was seriously distressed.

Over the years we have certainly weathered much worse that prematurely noshed nacho chips.  We have managed through many ruined meals, illnesses, broken hearts, car accidents, disappointments, and surprises.  And still, I keep hoping that this will be “the last difficult week” before we hit the period of “smooth sailing”.

We have had seasons of smooth sailing. Many. However, I haven’t seemed to grasp that “smooth sailing” isn’t what is promised.  In fact, it is far more likely that we will face “troubles of many kinds”.  The troubles are the given.  The reprieves are the unexpected blessings.  So why do I set myself up to believe the opposite?

I guess I want to believe the best. I am inherently a glass-half-full girl.  Yes, our finances are going to work out.  Of course, our children are going to be healthy.  Surely, we will be successful and well-liked.  Naturally, everyone will agree with us. I choose the path of hopefulness to a fault.

The problem with believing the best will happen in every situation is that I don’t always prepare for any alternative.  I don’t guard myself for the ‘given’ of disappointment.  I don’t store up for the days of famine. I believe that everything is going to run just how I planned. I don’t buy extra ingredients just in case; I buy exactly what I need. So, I’m often found standing, mouth agape, in shock that someone is standing there eating my corn chips.

But here’s the thing — people are going to eat the corn chips.

Now, I do realize that corn chips are not a big deal.  They are hardly even a $5 item. But the $5 items teach us what to do when we are one day faced with a $100 or a $1000 item (or even several of them all in the same week).  I can get pissed that someone ate my corn chips, I can ask them to run to the store and pick up another bag,  or I can simply say, “Oh, I’m glad you felt at home enough to help yourself!”

In trying out different responses to these $5 items, I am building resiliency–muscle–that will sustain me when I am hit with a more substantial crisis — someone I love is hospitalized, or we discover we owe Uncle Sam a lot. Again. Or we lose a loved one, or get a life-altering diagnosis.

We face troubles of many kinds. All of us do. All the time. My troubles seem huge to me right now. So do yours. Our hearts are broken in a million places and we are devastated. We’ve been lied to, cheated on, forgotten, abandoned, mistreated, and deceived.

The corn chips pale in comparison, don’t they?

But the $5 problem and the corn chip crisis have a lot to teach us.  I wish when I came home to the cold chicken in the crock pot my first response would have been, “Ok, God, what’s for dinner now? And what do you want me to learn from this?” Instead, if I remember correctly, I spouted lots of self-deprecating phrases, stormed around the house, probably cried, and ultimately got a pizza. It’s ok. I had a human response. However, I think that ultimately God wants more for me than self-blame, shame, and anger. I believe that in my $5 problems and my $100,000 problems, God longs for me to look to Him.

What if, in every decision, instead of mustering my resolve and believing that I myself will be able to manage every situation, I instead turned, raising my eyes and my hands to God, and admitted that all of it is too much for me?  What if I acknowledged that my pennies and my corn chips all come from God?  How would I experience life differently?  How would I weather crisis and even trauma?

I’m not too old to learn a different way.  Honestly, I’m given opportunities every day.

If you are in the habit, as I am, of kicking butts and taking names, of putting out fires on the fly, of keeping multiple plates spinning, of trying to handle everything on your own, this type of change will be a challenge.  The impulse in every difficult situation is to be a first-responder — to stop the gushing blood, provide oxygen, perform compressions, and avert any casualties.  Fighting that impulse is hard, especially if ultimately you are truly the only one who can help.  But here’s the thing: God has every situation in the palm of His hand. He’s got it. He can handle everything for the few moments it takes you to pause, look Him in the eyes, and ask, “Is there something you’d like me to do here?”

That’s all. Just pause and ask Him.  He may say, “Stand by. Help is on the way.”  He may say, “Yes, I really need you to stabilize this situation until help arrives.”  He may say, “Stand down.”

Mm.  This soldier certainly does not like to be told to “Stand down.”

But. If I trust that God has everything in the palm of His hand and that He alone knows the best course of action, don’t I want to check with Him before I act? Before I pay the $5? or before I lose my mind about a stinking bag of corn chips?

It sounds pretty simple when I put it like that, but I’m telling you, this is the lesson of my life. It’s about time I learned it.

John 16:33

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”