Through the looking glass

Curled up on the couch reading Frankenstein… thinking about how many books I want to read and anticipating Christmas break.

Standing beneath a tree full of bees, one can hardly distinguish between the sound of the bees and the rustling wind. It is not until you stare up into the leaves for a bit that the hum is united with its tiny little makers.

I wonder how much we miss simply because we are so consumed in our rushings to and fro. 

What the teacher learned

This time last year I was preparing my first lesson plans, choosing music for a choir I’d never worked with and rarely heard, and putting together my first-day-of-school wardrobe. I was anxious, excited, apprehensive. I could not understand why I’d been given such tasks as to run a classroom and groom a choir, all while maintaining excellence in my own studies. I remember the first day; I introduced myself, maintained composure, reviewed the syllabus. I stared at 23 pairs of eyes and wondered what was going on behind each of them. Did they think I could do it? Did they even want me there? Would they like me? The last question seemed as if it shouldn’t matter. I was, after all, there to do a job, not to be liked. But it did. It mattered most of all. Because once I came home, kicked off my shoes and started on my own homework, I was no longer the teacher. I was just. Well, me. 

The year was difficult. I cried often, slept little and studied much. In December I was told that I’d be taking another choir on top of what I’d already been given. I had 3 weeks to plan a 3 day retreat, learn the music I was supposed to be teaching and prepare myself to walk into a classroom of 60 high schoolers. I don’t think any amount of mental preparation could have readied me for that semester. When I began, I knew that I would learn a great deal, and I did. I’ve been meaning to write something like this for a while now, not to win affection or pity, but to share the lessons in grace, joy and perseverence that the Lord taught me in my year of teaching. David often reminded me that I was doing my best before the Lord. It sounds somewhat trite. I’d often say “But my best isn’t enough”. I was wrong. My best is what I have. And when it seemed insufficient I leaned harder on the Lord. There were a few days (often following those nights which boasted of 2 hours of sleep and preceding a large exam) when I would stop speaking, blink my searing eyes and quietly pray. There were days when I smile or a hello felt more like small treasures than a mere greeting. I learned that the few students I affected (and let me repeat, the few) were well worth the tears the many others caused. I learned that I am not always right, and that I am far from perfect. I learned that the Lord is teaching me, working in me, and that I am far from what I once was. I learned to forgive. I learned to cherish people because they are souls for whom my Savior died.

The year was difficult. I cried often, slept little and studied much. But I grew up. Not all the way, but some. And I wouldn’t exchange the year for any other.