Downsizing

After years of allowing our home to be hotel, hostel, and habitat, my husband and I are ready to simplify things a little bit by selling it.  We have often left an open invitation in our annual Christmas letters to come and see us, and “We’ll leave a light on for ya.”  That’s still true, but you’ll need to come see us in pairs instead of packs.  This Innkeeper is pooped.  While I have enjoyed the years of game nights (with the majority of my daughter’s class in our home!), the exchange students, hockey players, and Thanksgiving get-togethers, I’m finding it more and more difficult to tend to the housekeeping and get all my other work done too.  Less house should mean less work for me, right? That’s my hope anyway. 

But it’s the first time, in twenty-two years of marriage, that we’re building a house.  I have always balked at the idea of doing so, because I dread having to decide what knobs to put on the kitchen cupboards, what shape I want the towel rods in the bathroom to be, and if the corners of walls should be rounded or square.  I like the challenge of showing up, seeing a space for the first time, and slowly making it a home.  To help make the process easier I went to the library to get books on the best bedroom layouts, fantastic bathroom designs, and the most effective use of kitchen space.  I also searched Pinterest and googled images for ideas, and I have actually started to enjoy the process.

I noticed something; however, when I started leafing through all the books and such, that each beautifully decorated room was accessorized to the hilt.  I tend to have a cluttered mind, with a million thoughts traveling from synapse to synapse at warp speed, so I like my surroundings to have clean, un-cluttered horizontal surfaces.  Page after page of artful displays showed each table, dresser, night table, and armoire was real estate for staging vignettes.  Not one inch was left to set a glass down.  Not one table was cleared for puzzle assembly. 

Ever notice that this is how we tend to do life?

Every spare minute is filled with activity, either by active transport of our bodies or our attention.  I have witnessed my own family members playing games on cell phones during commercial breaks on TV.  This is time that I use to run and put a load of laundry in, hang clothes, fill the dishwasher, or run something upstairs.  I’ve always prided myself in being able to multi-task, or at the very least, use every minute wisely.  But does that mean I’ve really done a good thing?  Have I used every minute like the book designers have filled up every last inch?

If we get so used to the noise, when will we crave time seeking our Savior’s face?

And if we use up all the space of our lives on the inconsequential, when will we notice the needs of others?

Maybe we need to consider downsizing…in every area of our lives. 

Just make sure to leave room for people, and time for reflection.

Funny Sub

The day has been long and exhausting. My head is pounding because it seems like you never get used to the volume of middle school. They were wild today! They said I look like Katy Perry. Even kids I’d never met before stopped at the door to wave and say hello to “Katy Perry.”   I’m forty-three so I’m not sure whether to be happy or horrified.  Comes with the territory.  After five years as a substitute in four school districts I’ve seen a lot.  Can’t ever say you’ve seen it all, because someone will do something that will make you have to eat those words.  Especially when you’re dealing with kids.

My only regret is not taking the time to write all the notable moments down.  Like, the time I had five-year-olds doing “Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes” with me, in German, and without warning the one right next to me puked all over.  Ever try to evacuate twenty-three, five and six-year-olds on the double?  It’s kinda like herding cats!

Then there was the day (one and only day) I was begged to sub for a Kindergarten teacher, even though I vehemently denied I was qualified to do it.  She pleaded with me to go, so I agreed.  It wasn’t long before I had a Principal so mad she had tears streaming down her face as she tried to bring the mayhem to order, five kids in the office writing apology letters, and one girl so upset that she too, was in the office… poised over a wastepaper basket sobbing, “My Mom’s gonna kill me!”   My crime?  Not being able to keep one boy from turning the lights on and off on other kindergarteners using the class bathroom, while three waiting in line start doing the pee-pee dance, or catching the the one in the craft area chasing other kids with scissors, or catch the girls I gave permission to use the bathroom across the hall, who then snuck to the other side of the school (to use the potty there) while I was wrestling Larry, Moe, and Curly playing monkey-in-the-middle on the shortest kid in class!  Needless to say, I am not asked to sub Kindergarten classes anymore…

However, my favorite group is high school, with middle school coming in a very close second.   Like me, most teachers don’t even know they like middle school until they’ve taught a few classes of them.  Then we’re hooked.

When I was still in college, I remember attending the various classes required to obtain a teaching license.  These are the classes that help us understand the physiological and psychological make-up of each age group, behavioral modification techniques, how to incorporate reading in each subject area, and ways to integrate technology into our lessons.  We usually introduced ourselves to each other at the beginning of each new course by announcing our intentions as  professionals in the world of Education.  There were aspiring art teachers, lots of Elementary Ed wannabe’s, and a few guys who wanted to teach high school history.   What I never heard anyone say is that they couldn’t wait to teach middle school.  No one said,”Aren’t they just an adorable age group?”  or “I just love the emotional roller coaster rides of 7^th and 8^th-graders!”   The only thing I could assure them was that I wanted to teach German, and had no desire to teach students who aren’t old enough to when they have to throw up! 

During one of the other classes required for certification, I watched a presentation given by a fellow student, outlining the overall hiring trends for the Department of Education in our State.  Almost dead last (just above Latin) was the need for German teachers.  If you wanted to be a Math or Science teacher, the chances were pretty high you would be scooped up and offered a contract before even having a chance to complete student teaching!  Sigh…

What that meant for me is that I would be subbing for longer than I had hoped.  I didn’t mind the idea of it, because I was really nervous about having a classroom to run of my own, but I was looking forward to having my own kids nonetheless.  Substitute teaching would mean I’d have a bird’s-eye view of how lesson plans looked, could practice some classroom management techniques, and maybe develop a following of students who would one day want to take German because of all the cool things I’d be able to show them.  I know, just like a newlywed, I was a tad bit idealistic.  But I had to give myself a pep-talk about subbing because I am the daughter of a teacher who subbed for eons!  I’m not an idiot.  I remember the early mornings, last-minute calls to God-knows-where, and the stories Mom would come home and tell us about the day. 

I just knew I had to make the best of it, and hoped that the wait wouldn’t be as long as the trends were forecasting.  It’s been five years now, and while I prepare to make a break from teaching in the classroom, I still want to make sure I make the most out of every day I have with kids.   I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience and am supremely thankful for the knowledge I’ve obtained over the last few years, but I am ready to take the opportunity to reach more kids through speaking.   Like I said above, my only regret is not keeping better records of noteworthy events during my time as a sub, something I’d like to rectify by telling you more about the day I started this piece with.

The kids were wild that day.  My very first class of the day initiated the momentum for the rest of the day.  A girl with sharp hearing caught me slurring one of my vowels, and asked where I was from.  Then, a couple of other volleys came in from the outfield, and I answered them all.  But before I could start in on the lesson at hand, one of the answers I had given struck a funny-bone with this crowd, and they let out a roar of laughter that made me fear the teachers in the adjoining  classrooms were going to hate me.  Like trying to coax Jeannie back into her bottle, I tried to quiet the laughter and regain some control over the class.  To no avail.  No matter what I said, they thought it was hilarious.  I was stupefied.  I had no idea what I said that was so funny,  and I had no idea how to make it stop…so I punted.   I bargained with them to allow me to give them the lesson for the day, assign the homework, and then I promised I would answer any more questions they had.  Once they agreed I ran with it, and managed to make it through the class period without anymore outbursts.  Whew!

Unfortunately, word gets around.  Every class after that expected the same as the first class had gotten.  By the end of the day I was sure that the other teachers around me were going to make sure I was never allowed in the building again, and if I was lucky enough to escape their wrath, if feared my reputation would precede me, preventing me from ever living it down. 

Just before the last bell of the day was due to ring, I had a moment to reflect on the day’s events.  Just as I was berating myself for not starting off on a better foot, a sweet girl from the first class of the day came in and delivered the card below. 

 Oh no! Right there in living color!  Evidence that I had indeed lost all control of the classroom!  “The only way they would say I was cool, is because they had fun, and they had fun because I didn’t do my job,”  I worried.

Since then I’ve read the card over and over.  Actually, it’s up on my fridge.  Every time I look at it I re-evaluate how I will use each day.  They have allowed me back in the building, and the kids still talk about me as the “funny sub.”   Now the question remains… did the kids give me my award because I’m a poor substitute for the teacher I covered, or do I revel  in knowing that kids think I’m cool, and hope they learned more than Math that day?

 

From Fiddles to Football

 So, I’m a transplant.  Actually, I’m a transplant times eight. I’ve lived in six different states, and have taken short jaunts to Germany over the last twenty-three years.   I’m a former ballet dancer, actor and model, cellist, singer, and admirer of all things culturally refined. I was fifteen when my Dad came home to tell us he had good news and bad news.  The bad news was we had to move, but the good news was that we were going to Green Bay, Wisconsin!   Seriously?  This was good news?  I think I remember asking if there’s an NFL football team there (Is that where I know the name from?...), but my mind’s TV was playing “Little House on the Prairie” in my head.  I was waiting for a camera crew to suddenly appear…even though “Punk’d” hadn’t even been dreamed up yet.

After the shock wore off, the moving trucks pulled away, and the three of us (my twin brother, my sister, and I) prepared ourselves for the up-coming school year, we found that meeting new people would be easy.  All we had to do was open our mouths, and there would be a gathering. We were stars … from outer space it seemed.

I grew up in southern Ohio, which some of you may be aware, is close to the border of northern Kentucky, so citizens of this area have a distinctly southern drawl adopted from its neighbor state.  If you live in other parts of the state you will have other accents, like the Clevelanders who sound like they’re from Philly, and the residents of Toledo can sound nasally New-York-ish.  I happened to have arrived to “Titletown, USA,” which was devoid of any diversity at the time, with a drawl that caused a stir everywhere I went.  I could not go to the mall, introduce myself in class, or talk to anyone on the telephone without having to answer the constant question of, “Where are you from?”  I wasn’t quite as confident then, as I am today.  Otherwise I would have answered, “The moon.”  To a community used to its Norwegian, Swedish, Dutch, French, and German foundations, a newcomer with a hillbilly sound was way too entertaining to ignore. 

Before we moved here we made a trip to the “Frozen Tundra” to go house-hunting together.  When I noticed there not being any people of color, my father off-handedly remarked that that was because any people of color in Green Bay…were on the football team.  I was dumbfounded.  My best friends back home had been the sons and daughters of doctors, military members, and scientists of one of the largest Air Force Bases in the world. It was a testing facility that handled top secret projects that were worked on by the best minds from around the globe. Therefore, my classmates were of every color and spoke with all kinds of accents.  It never occurred to any of us to point out the obvious...or maybe we just didn’t notice.

Anyway, my sibling s and I were asked constantly about the way we talked, and were even called “hillbillies” by the ignorant.  People told us constantly that we “talked funny” like one would comment on the weather.  Add to that the incredibly horrible winters, the length of time it took to get to spring, and that the nearest ballet company being almost three hours away, and had I reached my limit for tolerating this new environment;  thus, expediting my resolve to leave this place as soon as I could. 

Making it through those last three years of school, in the land who’s people bleed green and gold, prepared me for so many changes that would come in the future….like seventeen moves, twenty-five jobs, three career changes, marriage, motherhood, and one wheelchair.  I learned the value of knowing how to navigate new places, how to build fresh relationships under varying circumstances, and how to lean on your family.  The three of us became an oasis of non-judgmental sanctuary for each other.  That trying time help lay the foundation for the intimacy we still have today.

It also allowed me the opportunity to make some crucial choices for myself.  I had to decide how I was going to take the move, in the first place.  I had to figure out a new culture; one I could either boycott or embrace.  I can’t begin to tell you how hard it is for an orchestra kid, used to spending all of my extracurricular time in ballet class or the theater, to move to a football town!  I could choose to be angry about being made fun of all the time, or do something about it.  My twin brother happened to be well over six feet tall, and my sister fell close behind at just over six feet, when we came to town, so they really didn’t have to worry about the bullying, but I was the shortest of us (and most tender-hearted) so I succumbed to the pressure and morphed to fit in.  They would not drop their drawls for anyone, and I stayed up late to study news anchors so I could speak more “correctly.”  I learned to dress for the formidable weather, enjoy the sound of the games on TV every Sunday, and reveled disappearing in the sea of tall people in the church lobby every week.  As I said, this part of the country was settled by the Dutch, Dane, and Scandinavians, and such, so being tall here wasn’t out of place.

I can’t say I changed my mind about wanting to leave ASAP, but all that I learned during those years made coming “home” again (cause you know “home” is where your family is) easier.  I’m still here, even though I’m married to a pilot, and we could live anywhere.  The city of Green Bay has become a thriving metropolis, with more diversity than I could have ever imagined it having back when I was a teenager.  I have met people from every state, gotten lost in conversations with other Buckeyes, and smile when I see kids of all colors walking home from school together.  I’m glad I came back and gave Green Bay another chance. I would not have all that I have today if I hadn’t lost everything I’d ever known back then.

What about you?  Have you undergone some life-altering changes, or about to experience it?  How are you going to go about it?  Are you gonna have the courage to be different or use every opportunity you can to make the best of the situation?  And for those of you meeting someone new; ask yourself how you treat people that are different than you.  Be the one who treats them like they belong, even if they talk funny.

Do you have a story to share?  A change that you had to overcome?  Please share below!

It Becomes an Act of Faith

If you're not already familiar with my story, the long and short of it is a story of working toward goals that always end up just out of reach.  I know it's been used a lot, but the illustration of the mouse in a maze works perfectly here.  I trained to be a dancer, with all the blood, sweat, and tears that come with that aspiration.  I dreamed of being a drug- and tobacco-free dancer in the midst of an artists' world that can be very, very dark and full of abnormal ways to find comfort. I vowed that I would be the dancer that would bring the light of Christ into this darkness, and be a role model for the younger dancers at the same time.  But that was not what I was called to do.  A back injury incurred while waiting tables eventually landed me in a wheelchair, with no hope of my mangled spinal column being able to support my body's weight again.
So, my young husband joined the Marine Corps in an effort to take care of my medical needs, only to be sectioned-out on account of asthma.
I figured I’d go to school and become a therapist, to help other injured athletes.
"What do you mean we're moving to Montana?!  I thought we were going to Minneapolis!"
“I’m sorry, but unless you commit to a year's worth of hormone therapy, there's no chance you'll have any more children." 
Ok. So I’ll become a teacher and love everybody else's children…
It's been like this for nearly all of our 22 years of marriage. Every good intention, best-laid plan, and desperate execution of plan "B" has run into walls, and each time we have merely picked ourselves up and gone a different direction.  It took me a long time to learn that if I simply spend my time looking for another way to make my plan work, I miss the journey.  I don't mean just stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of missing the journey.  I mean missing the lessons that unfold along the way; about who God really is, and what it means to look for His way.  It becomes an act of faith to rest in the belief that God knows where you’re going.  When you realize that all those moments, even the moments on the way to where you’re going, can be full of growth, and that just because we aren’t where we want to be doesn’t mean we can’t be content.  That’s the place I’d rather be, because every other path leads to frustration.