The Meaning of "Emmanuel"

Tonight at church we sang, as we do every Christmas Eve, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." But it was different this year, and I realized from now on it will be different every year than it was in years before.

The song has been forever changed for me by a boy I taught last year, whose name was a version (very differently spelled) of "Emmanuel." He was a child of few words (particularly few words spoken to me), but he did once tell me what I had already known, if not fully understood -- that his name means, "God with us." Now, if there was ever a child who made you doubt that God could be with us, it was this kid. The whole time I taught him, I kept thinking that we'd hit rock bottom; the whole time I taught him, it turned out we hadn't. Every day felt like it got worse and worse, until one day he was gone. He left school and moved away, fleeing a host of problems only to run into new ones. He's come back to the neighborhood since then; I've heard reports and I've even seen him walking down the street, but I've never gotten to speak to him. I don't know if I ever will.

This kid broke my heart; it killed me that I never felt like I could reach him, and it killed me to see his situation get worse and worse, largely from his own doing. And the whole year as I grieved over him, his words echoed in my head: "It means, 'God with us.'" How could a child with such a promising name be headed in a direction with so little promise?

Time and distance heal some wounds, or at the very least give perspective. I've gotten to the point where I can pray for this boy without despairing, and I do. But this year as I sang the words, I found myself thinking of him again, and rather than doubting and grieving, I was empathizing. I am starting (very slowly) to see that his situation is really my situation. I am just as hopeless as the boy with the hope-filled name. All throughout the fall and winter, I've struggled with -- ok, let's be honest, given in to -- a sense of despair over my own sin. I've realized the things I'm repenting of this year are, in a lot of ways, the things I was repenting of last year, and the year before, and the year before. Different circumstances, same sin. I am a control freak, and every day I have to face at least 49 things out of my control (they're called teenagers), and usually many more than that. Rather than trusting Jesus, I rebel against my own weakness and need for him. I try to fix everything on my own, and the less that works, the more embittered I become. The more embittered I become, the less I want to turn to God and trust him, and so the cycle continues. And once I finally realize I'm in that cycle, I feel like I can't come back. It's too late; God can't love me; I've done it again. Even worse, I realize that I will do it again. Why, given my complete lack of a promising track record, would God choose me?

By God's grace, I am learning -- maybe for the 1st time, maybe for the 100th -- that I have the same reason to hope that the child named Emmanuel has. Emmanuel: God with us. Not us with God, not God waiting for us, but God with us. If God did not come down to me of his own accord, I certainly would not have made it to him. And if God did not promise to be with me, right now, in my sin and despair and "you did that again?!"-ness, than I would have no hope. I've blown it just as many times as that kid, or probably more because I've had more years of life to mess up. God with us does not mean it will all be pretty; the manger was not. God with us does not mean it will all make sense; his disciples were totally perplexed when the man they thought would be king was marched off to his death. God with us means he is present in the realness of humanity -- and he knows just how real my sin is, more than I can. And still he came, and comes, and will come.

Tonight, there may be still be visions of sugarplums (ok, or of my perfect life plan that works out on my timetable) dancing through my head, but in the midst of that I am stopping to be awed and humbled and thankful for the first child named Emmanuel, and the child who has taught me more than he could ever know about his namesake.

"The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him, 'Immanuel,' which means 'God with us.'" --Matthew 1:23

"Can I See Another's Woe"

Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow, too?
Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear, and not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear an infant groan, an infant fear?

No, no! Never can it be! Never, never can it be!

And can he who smiles on all hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care, hear the woes that infants bear,
And not sit beside the nest, pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near, weeping tear on infant's tear;
And not sit both night and day wiping all our tears away?

O no! Never can it be! Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all; He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe; He doth feel the sorrow, too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, and thy Maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear, and thy Maker is not near,
O! He gives to us His joy that our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone, He doth sit by us and moan.

--William Blake

Why I Am Thankful for Thanksgiving Break: A Recap

This is the governor of Massachusetts, Deval Patrick.


This is me.



In case you cannot tell, I am sitting reading Tennyson outside of Notre Dame in Paris. You know, the usual. I am very sophisticated.

Which is why, when I met the governor last week, I was completely calm and mature and prepared and looked something like this:


Just kidding. That's my roommate, Kate, who said something like, "I don't have time to read anyone's blog." Bad move, Kate; bad move.

Just kidding again. I love Kate. Just not enough to take down that phenomenal picture. In all seriousness, when I met the governor, I looked something like this:

Yeah, that looks about right. Governor Patrick came to visit Excel Academy Charter School last week, and, after spending all morning peering around corners and walking to the copy machine fifteen times while his entourage was waiting near there (totally accidental -- kept forgetting to take more than one copy at a time), I finally "accidentally" bumped into him and got a formal introduction. I don't totally remember what my principal said, but I think it was something like, "This is Sarah Stuntz, our 8th grade English teacher. She normally doesn't grin like a total idiot and will eventually let go of your hand after I kick her to remind her."

Let's just say, I was a little star struck. There are only 50 governors in the United States, and one of them was completely captivated (or held captive?) by my handshake in that moment. It was pretty...special.

If you want the more "official" version of the story (although I believe eyewitness accounts are always best), go here. Governor Patrick came to our school to promote charter school legislation, and it was an incredible honor for the school and our students to be headlined as an example of education that is working. We prepped the students for the governor's visit in the morning, and I asked my homeroom what they thought people might expect of middle school students -- especially Latino students from East Boston. Their responses were quick and heartbreaking: "lazy," "not interested in school," "slackers," "criminals." I asked them what they wanted the governor -- not to mention the media accompanying him -- to see when they came by, and their responses came equally quickly: "that we work hard"; "that we are smart"; "that we take our education seriously"; "that we have fun"; "that we're respectful." And -- not to brag too much, but I think when it's my students and not me, it's ok to brag just a little -- they showed all those things, and more. It was an inspiring and exciting visit, and while I do not know exactly what I think of the governor's policies or record in office, I was impressed by the time he took to actually listen to staff and students. I am hopeful that his visit signals more attention to our public schools and to students like mine who have traditionally been written off as "high risk" and therefore not expected to perform at the same levels and not been given the same educational opportunities as students from wealthier areas.

I am also hopeful that he does not remember me stuttering miserably when he asked me a question (which I don't even remember). Lots to hope for.

Now, when the governor wants to come visit your school, he doesn't necessarily give you a lot of time to prepare. So, needless to say, his 12-hour-notice for his visit threw our staff into a cleaning/prepping/primping (hey, you never know WHO is going to end up on camera) frenzy, and it took the rest of the week to recover.

Then, there was the weekend. A time of rest. A time of relaxation. A time of almost-burning-down-our-whole-apartment-building-and-destroying-our-oven.

Yeah, we did that too. Our landlady was never really thrilled about us moving in (we're cramming five people into a four bedroom apartment), and I think I remember at one point reassuring her, "We will be the easiest tenants you've ever had." If, by easiest, I meant the only tenants who have required five fire trucks to fit onto our tiny one way street, I did not lie.

THEN, there was the week before Thanksgiving, and for any of you who can remember being a student the week before a vacation, there is no need for further explanation about why this week was crazy.

So, today, I am thankful for many things. I am thankful that there are people who are poised enough to deal with important officials like governors every day -- and that I do not have their job. I am thankful that we did not in fact burn down the whole building, and that even though we have no more stove and our apartment may smell like smoke until May, we are all safe. I am thankful for all the people who brought me microwave food this week and shared a few laughs. I am thankful for my mom, who gave up her dream that this would FINALLY be the year when I could cook Thanksgiving dinner at MY place (sorry, Mom).

Mostly, I am thankful for a chance to stop, to rest, and to reflect on why I am thankful. I need to do that more, and, I have to say, a belly full of sweet potatoes certainly helps to get my mind and heart in the right place.

Happy Thanksgiving to all! I am very thankful for all of you. :)

An Open Letter

To the gentleman who works behind the counter at our local FedEx/Kinko's:

While I do not normally send missives to strangers out into cyberspace, I feel like you may have unfairly judged me this evening, and I wanted to address what may have seemed to you like some strange behavior out of context. I believe it is not right to judge a person without complete information, and while I am not sure whether I learned this lesson from the Bible or Law & Order, I still think it holds. Plus, I just feel embarrassingly high-maintenance now and need to set the record straight.

Things you should take into account before you judge me:

1) Last week, one of my roommates got engaged. This week, one of my other roommates has been having an incredibly stressful week at school and needed help planning her lessons. In combination, this means that my evenings at home have been spent becoming the world's greatest expert on both the African National Congress and wedding reception locations in the greater D.C. Metropolitan area. In other words, I have had an enormous amount of details floating around in my head, and, in the midst of these, I may have forgotten details about basic etiquette.

2) This time last year, I was a week into my unit on The Odyssey when I realized that the text I was teaching and calling The Odyssey to my students was, in fact, The Iliad. This marked a low point in my career. There were, however, worksheets, plans, and notes that might have been salvageable, but it appears that I destroyed all record of them in a moment of deep shame. Either that or I didn't come to school at all for a week, and I have no recollection of it. I tell you this back story to explain that this week this year, I have been in the unfortunate position of believing I had materials to teach...and discovering that, in fact, I do not, and that I need to make them from scratch. At 7 p.m. the night before I need to teach them.

3) Yesterday, I assigned 5 detentions; forgot 3 promises I made to students; planned and scrapped 2 different lessons; ate 1 entire Domino's pizza by myself while working late; and sent a student to the principal's office from suspension (effectively suspending them from suspension -- which, now that I think of it, sounds like a good thing, but is not).

4) Last night, at approximately 7:30 pm, both of the copy machines at school broke down. This was after the previously-named events, but, unfortunately, before I went home. As of this year, we have established "copier norms," which include the fact that if you see it break, you are responsible to fix it. Since I had just chased down the only other remaining teacher in the building on his way out the door to learn how to turn on the alarm (which I have now set off a grand total of 4 times in my teaching career...which is approximately 4 times more than everyone else), I knew that I was probably not going to be able to pretend that I was not the last one to see the copier break. So I had to fix it. I am not sure what I did, but somehow, the copier was working by this morning -- after 30 minutes of what felt like open-heart surgery.

5) When the copy machine technician came in today to fix the copy machines, he broke them. While this was relatively disastrous for the teaching staff, it made me feel relatively proud of accomplishment #4, which is why...

6) ...when I was making my copies at your store (because of reason #5), I felt like I was qualified to take apart your copier and fix the jam. In retrospect, I recognize that I should have come to you first, and I recognize that reciting my resume of copy-fixing experience when you came over to help was probably not sufficient to convince you that I knew what I was doing. Particularly given that, after you fixed the jam, I broke the copy machine again. 10 seconds later.

7) What you really don't understand, however, is that double-sided, collated, 3-hole-punched, stapled-in-the-left-corner-but-not-the-right, please, copies really truly are the key to solving the achievement gap.

8) I had already consumed 4 Diet Cokes by the time you saw me...which, now that I think of it, is probably the best explanation for #s 6 and 7, as well as this blog post at 10:36 pm on a school night.

Please accept my apology, as well as the insane amount of money you charged me for a few measly copies (and, possibly, the pleasure of dealing with me. And the broken copy machine.)

Sincerely,
the girl who jammed the copier at FedEx/Kinko's 5 times tonight

P.S. I actually jammed it a 6th time, but just turned it off because I didn't want to bother you. Hopefully you'll discover that in the morning.

Best Excuse Ever

A student, in response to the question of what was holding him back from being successful in school:

"I just have trouble getting to school on time. Like, for instance, yesterday. I woke up, and by the time I finished fixing my hair, it was noon."

Remind me to use this one the next time I am late.

I am at least glad to hear that this young man has his priorities straight (or spiked, as the case may be).

And yes, I did write this entire post just to use that joke. Happy hump day!

Pictures of Redemption

When my dad found out that his cancer had returned this summer, he asked my brothers and me what any normal person would when they find out they have a terminal disease:

What can I do for you?

Ok, so, maybe that is not a normal (or completely sane) response at all. Not, "What can you do for me?" (which I think might be allowable when you are going through chemo and all its nasty side effects) but "What can I do for you?" My dad is a pretty incredible man.

My brothers have also learned my dad's spirit of generosity, and so naturally responded, "Absolutely nothing! What can we do for you?" My mom, who is one of the most giving people I know, repeated to my dad several times, "You don't need to do anything for us."

And I, being the selfless, caring, thoughtful young woman that I am, responded, "Thanks so much for asking, Dad. Let me think about it."

(I have never been known as the easy child in the family. Now you know why.)

In all seriousness, I'd like to hope I'd have the response of my dad if I am someday in his situation, but I am certainly not that redeemed yet. (Jesus did not save me because I was going to be an easy case. He's had to reassure me of that many times.) And I probably should have had the response of my mom and brothers. But I did really want to think of ways that I could spend time with my dad over the next however-long-we-have. I wanted (and want) this time we have to be special. I want it to matter. I want to look back and know that we loved each other well during this time, and I want to have ways to share him with others in the future.

So, as I brainstormed a list of potential requests, I thought of the idea of family photos. At the time, we did not have a single good family photo taken of us since before we kids hit puberty. Lest you think I'm exaggerating, please see Exhibit A below:


Andy swears he couldn't hold that sneeze in a second longer. I remain unconvinced.

So I proposed the idea of having a photographer over to take a nice, casual set of family photos. My incredibly photogenic family (again, see above) remained unconvinced, but as usual, were incredibly patient and willing to go along with my crazy idea. (Sometimes I think they do that just to get me to stop bothering them, but that's a discussion for another day.)

I contacted a photographer I knew in Charlottesville, who referred me to fellow UVA grad Grace Benson (http://gracebensonphotography.com/), who was wonderful and incredibly flexible with our family's special needs (both my dad's legitimate health concerns and the rest of our inexplicable inability to smile and look a the camera all at the same time). We also had the added blessing of having Liz join us as she is now engaged to Sam :), so we were able to get many beautiful pictures with our new, more complete (and, as a result of Liz, exponentially more attractive) family.

Grace commented that she enjoyed photographing us because we seemed so happy to be together. It was an incredibly flattering compliment (and I think at least one of us asked, "Are you sure she was talking about the right family?") but I was smiling as I reflected on the day. I am so, so thankful for my family. I am in awe of where God has brought us. We are far from perfect; we are not in ideal circumstances; but I can say with absolutely certainty that I can see Jesus at work in us, that we love one another better today than we did a year ago, or a year before that, and I can say with deep humility that it is only Jesus who has brought us here. (And as we all know from the beginning of this post, some of us have farther to go in the "consider others better than yourself" category than others.)

Cancer is a terrible, terrible thing; I will never let anyone tell me otherwise. It is a result of the brokenness that is in this world because of sin, and one day, when God wipes all tears from our eyes and there is no more suffering and death, its power will be destroyed. So I do not believe with any ounce of my being that my dad's suffering is good; I hate it. And I'm shaking a little as I write this--because it is so deeply personal. Because even as I read my own words I cringe at how they sound and all the ways my tone, my words, my emotions could be misunderstood. I have no deep wisdom. I do not claim to understand or to be coping with any or all of this well. But I have to write about it occasionally because I need to tell the story of who God is and what he is doing in us. I am so, so, so deeply certain, and so, so deeply thankful, that our God does not let his suffering, or our suffering, go unredeemed. I know that in the midst of sorrow, he has taught us to rejoice more. I can see that in the midst of this hateful disease, he has shown us his love and given us a greater ability to love one another. I look at these pictures and see a tiny glimpse of that grace and redemption, and while I am unsure of so much else, I am overwhelmingly grateful.








(Did I mention the redemption is not complete yet? God promises that it will be one day, but that day has not yet come. I think this picture proves it.)

I think someone is trying to tell me something

...because right after I posted that last diatribe, my "check engine" light came on.

My first thought was, "Uh oh, maybe my car is trying to tell me something?"

And then immediately my second thought was, "Actually, Sarah, that's exactly what it's trying to do. The manufacturer made it with these little warning lights that pop up when it wants to tell you something. And it's actually not too hard to figure out what it's trying to tell you, either. It's trying to tell you to check the engine!"

So I had a good laugh at my own expense (hey, if no one else is around, someone has to enjoy my ridiculousness, right?)

Shortly thereafter, however, I decided to take a decidedly middle-school boy approach to this dilemma. Just like when the 13-year-old boy asks the 13-year-old girl out, and she says, "EWWWWWW GROSS OMG NO WAY!" and runs off to roll her eyes and giggle with her girlfriends, and the guy turns to his buddies and goes, "Hmmm...so, do you think that means yes?" -- just like that, I'm going to label this situation ambiguous, and still ask for your feedback on the car thing.

Call me a dreamer, but just like that poor pimply boy, I think this one could still turn out alright for me.

Will you be my car talk?

Meet my car. I call it my baby. (And by my baby, I mean it makes lots of funny noises, completely shuts down when you least expect it, and regularly leaks fluids from really inappropriate places.)

(The guys scraping my car off for me are my brothers. They would call me the baby, but that's a different story.)

So, as you can probably tell or already know, my car and I have a long and tumultuous history together, but it has really only brought us closer. Unfortunately, however, it has driven me and my savings account farther apart. Every relationship, it seems, is a trade off.

Recently, I've been trying to decide whether or not to get rid of my car. I have finally found a wonderful mechanic who, in spite of the fact that he teases me mercilessly and sometimes speaks to me in Portugese, I love. He tells me he loves me too -- because I keep him in business. That right there is our one major problem (a bigger deal than the Portugese). When I ask him to be serious for a second and tell me whether or not to sell my car, however, he says he just can't say. It may have several years left on it. Or it may die tomorrow. Or it may cause my savings account and I to go into a full separation, and then die. All of these are realistic possibilities.

I have a (very) generous offer from my parents on their 2001 Mitsubishi Galant that I could purchase if I sell my car. Whenever I raise this issue with Mario-the-mechanic, he tells me it's not worth it -- the Galant isn't as nice a car, repairs will be more expensive, my car could still have several more years in it, blah blah blah. On the other hand, he says, "It's your life. Who am I to tell you what to do?" Uh, the expert on my car, that's who.

But since Mario won't give me a straight answer, I would love one from you, dear faithful readers (if you're out there). Do I say goodbye to my baby? Do I take the car I don't like as much, but is a very good offer, and save for another car later? Do I run my car into the ground, knowing that I could be losing any value I could get from it?

Will you be my car talk and advise me? I'm afraid to call in, although I love the show, because I know however much Mario teases me, they'll tease me more. Advice, please, and keep the snarky comments to a minimum.

And So It Begins...

...the Sunday (or, thankfully in this case, Monday) night madness: grading homework, sending off lesson plans, responding to all the emails I've neglected all weekend, rereading the story I will be teaching tomorrow so I don't look stupid when a student asks a question and I've forgotten what he's talking about, envisioning how tomorrow will go and praying there won't be a coup...

...and trying to breathe, and keep in mind the big picture. This is the new part this year -- didn't exactly put that on my "to do" list last year. (Although, as a friend recently pointed out to me, when you have to put "think big picture" on a to do list, you are missing the point. Oops.) I went home to see my parents this weekend and, in the midst of a grading frenzy, my dad interrupted me and said, simply, "Remember to be patient. You have a lot of life ahead of you. You're not going to figure it all out this moment." My dad is a teacher, too, and he remembers the early years of trying to pull everything together at the last minute. It's helpful to see him at the end of his career and remember that every task that seems so critically important right now is a much smaller part of a much bigger plan (which, thankfully, is not all under my control).

Happy short week, friends!

A Year in Review: Part 2

Well, this post is now approximately a month overdue, which may be a little indicative of how my life is going this year. I have already had my first week and a half of "school days" (minus students) of the upcoming school year, so before all of my limited brain space for remembering things fills up to the brim, I wanted to take a moment to reflect on the unexpected blessings of the past school year -- because, in the midst of the chaos, there were a lot of them.

1) Living in the city: This was not completely unexpected, but the influence of the city over my emotions definitely caught me a little off-guard. I think prior to this year, I would have said that I didn't care where I lived -- city, suburb, a more rural area -- as long as I was near close friends. The people were much more important than the location. And, while I still believe the previous statement, I think location did just get bumped up a couple of notches in my esteem. (As my brother would say, moving me slowly in the direction of misanthropy.) I love living in the city. I love being around people all the time. I love the easy access to all sorts of variety. I love the noise; it soothes me. I love the lights. I know this is nutty, but I caught myself, on a recent night-time drive out to the country to visit a friend, actually frightened because there weren't enough lights and people. I'm talking legitimately shaking, had to turn on my GPS so I felt like I had a friend in the car (hey, at least it talks to me!) kind of frightened. The thing that pulled me out of it was laughing at how, when most people talk about scary night-time driving, they're talking about driving into a crowded, urban area.

For the sake of full disclosure, I do need to admit that I still love my car and am scared of the bus system, which some of my friends maintain makes me still a suburbanite at heart. Fine, I'll admit I might be a late-comer to this love affair with the city, and I may not be fully a city-dweller yet, but I'm in the process of converting. Give me a few years. I'll catch up.

2) Middle schoolers: I wish I had a dollar for every time I've said, "I would love to teach elementary school or high school, but not middle school. I cannot love middle schoolers." Not only would I now be independently wealthy, but I'd also have visible proof (in the form of rooms full of dollar bills) of how unexpected my affection for my job has been. I hated middle school -- and I know you're saying, "Who didn't?," but I think I had more cause than most. In addition to my general awkwardness that remains my close companion to this day, middle-school-Sarah was also graced with glasses, braces, and thick bangs that I had no idea how to handle. Oh, and I wore pink stretch pants and teddy bear sweaters in a school where the uniform of choice was baggy pants and Fubu t-shirts. And don't even get me started on how I dealt with boys. I'm telling you, it was bad.

I wish, after that ridiculous tangent, that I could say I now get to relive middle school as a "cool kid." But, sadly, as my students remind me daily, I am still a huge dork. I am relatively convinced that, if I were one of their classmates, we would not be friends. But that's ok. My job is not to be their best friend. My job is to be a consistent adult in their life guiding them. And, while I did not fit with the baggy-jeans crowd, I fit into that role. I never imagined how much I would love talking to middle schoolers: they are at the point in their lives where they're starting to imagine who they will be as adults, and it's exciting to hear where they see themselves going. At the same point, they are just reaching that juncture; as we remind them on a regular basis, they are starting to make decisions (about education, money, relationships) that will inevitably and, in some cases, irrevocably change the course of their life, but they have not made all of those decisions yet. I get to talk to them about education, before they've made choices that limit their ability to go to college. I get to explain to them how credit card debt works before they're in it. I get to talk to them (gulp) about sex and relationships while they're still deciding what sex means and affirm to them that it's ok to wait. I also get to remind them, every day, that none of them are Romeo or Juliet (which they appreciate). :) One of my students said to me last year, "Ms. Stuntz, I gotta be honest, I don't know why you all [the teachers] do this job, because you don't get paid enough, and we have attitudes." Just in case some public policy official is reading this, she was right about the first part, and, for the record, the second part too, but I drove home that day incredibly thankful for the opportunity to hang out with her and be part of her life at this time.

There was a great quote from a middle school teacher in the New York Times a few years ago: "Middle school is like Scotch. At first you try to get it down. Then you get used to it. Then it’s all you order." I still don't like Scotch, but I get the sentiment, and I'm actually thankful that God plopped me back down in an environment that I vowed never to revisit again; funny how that works.

3) Struggling with my job: Lest I get too sentimental about last year, however, I need to acknowledge that I struggled more than I ever imagined I would with teaching. It was (and is) hard. Especially coming straight from college, I imagined that if I had been able to conquer graduate seminars and a senior thesis, I could surely conquer an 8th grade curriculum. Which left me in for a big surprise when, well, I couldn't. I struggled. I came into school early and left late; I graded and planned all day every Saturday; I am probably personally responsible for taking years off my mentor teacher's life with all my questions; and yet I could not get my class to be the engaging, inspiring, intellectually-stimulating place I wanted it to be. A lot of days, it felt more like a 50-minute holding cell where I tried to keep the kids from rebelling before the (much more engaging, inspiring, and intellectually-stimulating) math teacher came to take over for next period. I probably cried myself to sleep once a week for the first few months of school. I was convinced that I must just not have what it takes.

At first, I couldn't admit this to anyone (apart from my roommates, who, unfortuantely, witnessed the crying-fests). It was too humiliating: I had been saying for years that I felt "called" to be an inner-city school teacher. I had prayed for and received this amazing job offer at an incredible school. I had said that I wanted to be involved in inner-city education for the rest of my life. My identity was at stake.

And that, of course, was the problem. I finally broke down in October and admitted all this to my pastor and his wife, and asked, between snotty sobs (sorry, but you needed the full effect), if it was time for me to quit. All along, of course, I was secretly hoping that they'd either say, "Yes, because you are obviously so gifted in x other area that there's no reason to waste your talents suffering here," or, "No, we are sure that you're the most phenomenal teacher ever, and we secretly contacted your students and found out that your class is their favorite!" Shockingly, they said neither. Instead, they looked me in the eye, and said, "Maybe." In that moment, they forced me to deal with the fact that, well, I might not be good at my job. And that would be ok. After they said this to me -- and the world did not, spontaneously, implode -- I was forced to begin realizing how much of my identity was wrapped up in being successful, and especially being perceived as being successful. I was forced to start repenting of my desire to use service to others to glorify myself, as opposed to humbly acknowledging that I don't always serve others well and praying that God would work through my weakness. I was forced to begin realizing that Jesus' grace to me has nothing to do with my own innate wonderfulness; it is pure mercy.

I am still dealing with all of these things; in fact, I'd be lying to say they're still not significant struggles. But I'm thankful to have come out of this year having seen those things, having wrestled with them, and having stayed. I saw myself grow a lot as a teacher, and I'm excited to go back and be better. I know I will be better -- but I also will not be the best. And I think God has me there for a reason; as my pastor went on to say to me, "The fact that you're struggling is not in itself a reason to quit. It may be a reason to stay, because this is where God is showing you that you can't be self-reliant." It's a painful lesson, but it is absolutely true, and I'm thankful that God loves me enough to put me in a place where I'm learning it as opposed to allowing me to continue to be self-deceived about my own capabilities.

4) Singleness: Speaking of painful lessons...just kidding. :) I never imagined, growing up, that I would be single after college. Now, mind you, there was no phenomenal history of dating success in my life that would lead any outside observer to draw the same conclusion, but I was basing my plans on an older history. My parents had married very young, as had both of their parents, as had most of the adults I'd looked up to my whole life. I just figured I'd continue the trend.

And then, I haven't. I didn't get married straight out of college, nor was I in any position to. While I dated (at times pretty seriously) during college, I haven't dated much this year. I live with 2 (soon to be 4) other young single women in a city that is not exactly known as the mecca of single Christian men (the numbers in my church directory confirm that), and I work in a profession dominated by women. Not only am I off the beaten path; some days, I feel like I'm in a different universe.

There are many, many more complicated emotions that go along with this than I care to go into right now. But what's important, for the sake of this post, is that in the midst of grappling with the loss of my plan, I really have been thankful for the gifts God's given me by giving me this time. I love living with a bunch of girls. I never had a sister (and reminded my parents frequently of how detrimental this was to my development), and so I've loved both in college and now getting lots of time to spend with other women and seeing how much they have grown and shaped me. (Not just in teaching me to pluck my eyebrows, although that involved some significant shaping as well!) I've also been thankful for the time and flexibility that being single has allowed me; I got to travel a lot this year--to Honduras to visit my brother, to London and Paris with Shelley, to North Carolina and Virginia to see friends--and I would not necessarily have been able to take all of those trips if I were married now. I've also grown up a lot in the last few years, and while I know I could have learned some of these lessons alongside someone else, there are days when I'm grateful that whoever it is will not have to suffer quite as much of my insanity when he comes along as he would have had to if he'd appeared a few years earlier. There would be and are other blessings for my married friends, and I am excited for them, but I also have just been thankful for God's reminders of his provisions for me here and now, even if here and now is not where I wanted or expected to end up.

My high school math teacher told me once that I was destined to write a book; I think that might have been his gentle way of suggesting that my explanations for word problems were a tad too lengthy, but nevertheless I think I'm already half there with this blog post! :) Thanks if you made it all the way down here. Even if no one else reads this, it's helpful for me to take time to reflect like this.

Particularly when tomorrow is Monday...and we just discovered we're out of coffee. I am thankful. I'm just going to read everything I wrote above to remind myself of that.

Sometimes, you need to bake a cake

In our culture, we are all about therapy. There's physical therapy, occupational therapy, family therapy. Then, if you want to go a little more abstract, there's music therapy, art therapy, and retail therapy. Ben & Jerry's has a flavor called "Chocolate Therapy."

But I, my friends, remain indisputably impartial to baking therapy.

Some days, you just have to bake a cake. Or brownies. Or cookies. Or, maybe, all three.

Today is one of those days. It's been a good day; it's the end of a very, very good month. But there's an overwhelming amount of life on the horizon coming right for me in the weeks ahead. I'll post more specifics later, and I also owe a post on the unexpected blessings from the past school year (probably good timing to be reflecting on these). But for now, let me just say that sometimes, there are not words to describe how I'm feeling and I need a way to rest and remember that life, in the midst of its messiness, can be sweet.

And the sweetest way to remember that, dear friends, is cake. Bon appetit!

A Night at the Globe: London, Day 6

Tonight, I got to have my quintessential London tourist experience, complete some professional development, and fulfill a childhood dream all at once. I got to see Romeo & Juliet, the Shakespeare play I teach, at the Globe theater as a groundling (the cheap people who stand at the foot of the stage and throw popcorn at the players -- ok, not really the last part, but we technically could have if we wanted). While I was bouncing up and down all the way into the theater and sputtering my excitement to Shelley, I had to slow down long enough to explain that I have loved Shakespeare since 4th grade, when I was in my first "Shakespeare" play (a slightly watered-down version of The Tempest). I have since been in two more Shakespeare productions and seen dozens more, I've taken Shakespeare classes in college, and the favorite unit of both my students and me this year was definitely Romeo & Juliet. This was not just a cool experience for me; it was definitely the culmination of my trip to London.

There was only one small problem: as of this morning, we did not actually have tickets. I accidentally misread the guidebook and believed that you were supposed to purchase "groundling" tickets (the standing-room-only tickets right in front of the stage) the day of the performance, so I did not bother to reserve tickets ahead of time. When Shelley asked me to double-check this two days before our trip, I discovered that the guidebook actually said you could possibly get tickets day of, but only if someone returned them. I was devastated, but Shelley said we should still try to see if we could get the day-of tickets and reminded me several times that if I didn't, I would regret it. So, an hour and a half before the show, we "queued up" in the "return tickets" line (which sounded to me like we wanted to return them, but apparently this was right), and just when we were starting to give up hope, the not-so-friendly ticket lady emerged with two tickets, exactly where we wanted them, at exactly the right price. As the British would say, lovely. (Here's me with my ticket, program, and huge chocolate muffin: ready to go!)


In addition to the incredibly thrilling experience of seeing a Shakespeare play in the Globe, with authentic Shakespearean costumes (made all by hand) and instruments (only the ones that would have been used in his day), not to mention getting to stand on the ground right next to the stage and eat chocolate and drink Diet Coke (ok, not totally authentic but resemblant of the original "carnival" atmosphere), the performance itself was also the best performance of Romeo & Juliet that I have ever seen. The actors spoke incredibly quickly, and transition time was absolutely seemless, which cut down on the length of what can be a very drawn-out and melodramatic performance. The lead actors also did phenomenal interpretations of their characters: Juliet (who was played by a recent high-school graduate) did a very good job of seeming like a naive, hormonal, love-sick teenager; she's often played as this sultry or deeply passoinate woman, when in reality she's thirteen and clueless, so this actress played up her innocence and really got the awkward first-love moments so well that she had the audience laughing out loud at their first encounter and crying by the end. Romeo also managed the teenager role well; normally, by the end of the play, I am so sick of Romeo's whining that I am absolutely ready for him to die, but this particular actor portrayed Romeo's various dramatic mood shifts not as pathetic flights of fancy, but as passions that are unfortunately swayed fairly regularly by unpredictable (but also uncontrollable) hormones. I found myself actually enjoying when Romeo came on stage and sorry when he died -- both probably good signs.

(Shelley just before the show started -- notice HOW CLOSE we are to the stage! The people in front of us were leaning on it!)

When I got back to the apartment where we're staying, one of our hosts asked me if this was "it" for me, and I think the answer is clearly yes. I have loved my time in both London and Paris, but I feel like nothing can completely top this experience. Then again, there is tea tomorrow with scones and clotted cream; I'm a huge fan of cream, so I'll keep you posted.

"A thousand times goodnight...parting is such sweet sorrow."

Youthful Inhibition Unhinged: Back in London

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self-assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.
--John Lennon

I think it's very important to be young.
--Paris Hilton

I was reminded of the two quotes above based on two totally unconnected events over the last few days:

1) I went to the British Library, an amazing collection of literary and musical artifacts ranging from Beowulf to the Beatles. I listened to the Beatles sing "Help" on headphones while reading their original lyrics scrawled on a scrap piece of paper. I also got to see one of the first printed copies of Romeo & Juliet with a different ending...intriguing. Definitely one of the best places to visit in London and reminded me how very much I love the written word.

2) The Paris Hilton quote was given to me by my friend Kim years ago (amazing, by the way), but I thought about it a lot while we were in Paris where, believe it or not, I qualified for a "young person's discount." No, my height did not lead them to believe that I was a child; they actually have a separate price category at virtually every museum and historical site (even the Eiffel Tower!!) for "young persons: ages 18-25". And I thought to myself, this is brilliant! I am in the age group that wants to travel and do all these cool things, but has much less disposable income and is probably more easily swayed to do or not do something based on approximately a $2-$5 discount. What was even more exciting was that Shelley and I did not account for this discount when budgeting for our trip (wasn't mentioned in any of the guidebooks -- apparently Rick Steves is a little older than 25) and if we had gone a year later she wouldn't have qualified, but as it was it worked out perfectly. I think that, for the purposes of this trip, it was very important to be young.

All that to say, though, I feel a little more like John Lennon and a little less like Paris Hilton at this stage of our trip. We entered this trip agreeing that our goal was to get as much as we possibly could out of our short time in Europe, by which we meant seeing and experiencing as many different things as we could possibly fit into as many waking hours as we could possibly handle. And, up until yesterday, we've stayed pretty much true to our intended mission. We have been going 100 miles per hour the whole time, and have been able to see/accomplish an amazing amount in a short time, but I am finally reaching the point at which I have realized that, in spite of being young, I am not invincible. I am not immune to the laws of nature. I am not capable of giving 100%, 100% of the time. I need sleep. I need rest. I need pauses in my day. And for the first 24 hours or so of realizing this, I felt guilty. I shouldn't need to slow down, I figured; it would be a waste of money and time and was surely, at root, just laziness. But I have now slowly come around to the realization that, no matter how old are young, everyone needs down times. That's why there's a Sabbath. That's why even super high-powered executives sometimes take weekends. So I am considering these last few days the "weekend" of our trip. We are seeing, but less. We are walking, but at a slower pace. We are savoring these last few days, enjoying time with my friends Philip and Lisa (the most amazing hosts ever), and getting excited about coming home soon and showing everyone our pictures!

Speaking of which: who wants to come hang out and see all my pictures? I'll be rested enough by that point to give you all the descriptions--in real time. Don't all jump at once, please. There's plenty of time for all of you. :)

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words: 3 days in Paris

Apologies to my faithful blog readers (and I think I might actually have more than one now -- WOOHOO!): my computer battery died the first night in Paris. The only plug that "worked" in our hotel room was the one in the bathroom. Although I loved the idea of titling a post "blogging from the bathroom," this plug was unfortunately not prepared to handle an American computer. So, after navigating through Paris for 3 days with no internet, no phone, and pretty much no clue how to speak French, we are back in the land of the English speakers, and we survived! And let me add (with just a hint of shock and pride) that not only did we survive: we thrived on very little sleep, lots of pain au chocolat, liiiiiitle cups of coffee, and our ever-incessant drive to see everything in the guide book. (We may have gone a little nuts, but the results are pretty fabulous.)

I am exhausted and there is unfortunately too much to write for tonight. However, this phrase "a picture is worth a thousand words" keeps popping into my head, and although that raises the interesting question of how many pictures I would need to show in a day to substitute for the many, many words I speak, I will push that question aside for now and share with you (drumroll, please...)

"Shelley and Sarah in Paris: A Photo Essay"*

1) Standing inside Notre Dame

2) Beautiful stained glass at St. Chappelle


3) Lovely lady posing along the Seine


4) Napoleon's grave (which is actually a monument, largely to how much he thought of himself)


5) Outside the Centre Pompidou (modern art museum)


6) FIREWORKS at the Eiffel Tower for Bastille Day


7) Chariot of the Sun God rising out of the fountains at Versailles -- hameff? (If you're confused, don't worry. That's the right reaction.)


8) Hall of Mirrors (not to mention chandeliers!) at Versailles


9) Too engrossed in her nutella crepe to notice that I am taking her picture


10) Crepes on a cute Parisien steet = oh, happy day!

*Please note, these are only from my camera, and my camera battery died the day we went to the art museums. These are not indicative of all we did on our trip; just some fun highlights.

"Why does she have to be so high maintenance?!": London, Day 3

For those of you who are now worried: yes, the quotation above came from Shelly. No, thankfully, it did not refer to me. Instead, it referred to the Queen of England herself, who, we discovered today, does not open her house for tours except in the month of August. We did get to see the outside of Buckingham Palace which, as you might imagine, was rather impressive, and rather impressively packed with tourists.

Today was a packed day and, as I suspected, I am having less and less time for blogging (especially given that Shelley now wants us to get up at 7 am -- what???). Some of the highlights, though, included...

1) getting to visit Westminster Abbey again, which was just as impressive the second time as it was the first. I am happily Protestant and have no plans of switching teams any time soon, but I have to say, the Catholics (and, in this case, their close cousins the Anglicans) kick our butts when it comes to beautiful churches.

2) going to the Winston Churchill museum, where Shelley and I disturbed the very proper British museum-goers by laughing out loud at a wall of his most famous quotations. Our favorite: "In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock. "

3) walking around and seeing Big Ben (again, our favorite) and 10 Downing Street, which you cannot actually see. You see a guard and a big gate, but not the President's house. Once again, Britain seems to be a little more protective of their leaders than we Americans.

4) Last, but not least, riding the train to PARIS!!! The train ride is incredible, and I would say more about Paris so far, but I am being whisked out the door for an incredibly packed day of sightseeing. Will try to update more when I get back to our hotel.

For now, let me say that we are safe, tired, but excited. I cannot wait to write more. A tout a l'heure!

0% Chance of Rain: London, Day 2

Lessons I have learned so far on our trip (generally in the category of "things not to trust"):

1) Do not trust the weather report if it says 0% chance of rain. Think instead about what you have heard about London and rain, and assume that it has not suddenly changed its character, or you will be sadly and unnecessarily wet.

2) Do not trust Indian food from the grocery store that comes in a bag. When your travel partner suggests it might be sketchy, listen to her. When it just looks so cheap you don't know how you can pass it up, think about the fact that there are things money can't buy. Like peace of mind. Or stomach.

3) Do not trust people who give vague directions, and, when questioned for more specifics, say something like, "Well, it must be somewhere in there." Really? Must it?

While I leave you to infer all you want about how I learned these lessons, let me say that overall this day has been a success. I have less time to write, but I'm liking this list format, so highlights of the day include:

--seeing the Tower of London, which is actually 20 towers that make up the first castle inhabited by the English royalty. I heard way more detail about executions in a few hours than I hope to hear in the rest of my life (that monarchy was a bloody mess--literally), but the tour guide was very amusing and the place was beautiful, complete with lots of towers (duh) and its own town green. We also got to see the crown jewels, which are very sparkly. Sparkly things make me happy. :)

--attending a church service at St. Paul's Cathedral, which, as Shelley-the-reader-of-the-guide-book informed me, is the 4th largest cathedral in the world, and the place where Princess Diana and Prince Charles were married. It is also the first Anglican cathedral built post-Reformation. Apparently back then it was a lot plainer; now it is covered in beautiful Victorian ornate mosaics and marble sculptures of famous British figures. The service itself contained breathtakingly beautiful choral music, and a much less impressive sermon. (It was from the book of Ecclesiasticus, which is not in a Bible that I own; anyone know anything about it? The primary quotation that the minister focused on, however, was not even from this book but from Daniel Radcliffe, of Harry Potter fame.)

--walking over Tower Bridge, which is HUGE!

--being tightwads and figuring out all kinds of creative ways to save money on meals (although see lesson learned #2...) My favorite was a long baguette and some spreadable cheese, eaten while sitting watching the river Thames flow by. How very quaint.

That's all for now! Sorry for no pictures; I know those are more interesting than my words, and will try to put some up tomorrow! Off to catch a London-by-night bus tour, hopefully full of more sparkly lights and insights into the city.

3 hours of sleep and 1 Diet Coke: London, Day 1

(Proof that after Day 1, Shelley and I have not killed each other. See, we are smiling!)



For those of you who do not know, I love to blog about my trips. It gives me a record of what happened that I can look back on (and it also makes my mom a whole lot less nervous about me being out of contact for weeks at a time). If you hate when people publish the inane details of their lives to the internet, go ahead and skip these posts for the next several days.

Now that I have gotten my ever-necessary disclaimer out of my system, let me just say that WE ARE IN LONDON! We being Shelley and I. We arrived eeeeeeearly this morning after approximately 1 hour of sleep each on our "overnight" flight. (Shelley did not realize the flight was only 5 1/2 hours, so she decided she wanted to talk for the first 2 hours of the flight. I can't sleep on planes anyways, so I was fine with this, but she was not very happy with her decision when she realized mid-flight just how little sleep she was about to get.) We navigated our way through the train/Tube system and found the apartment that a friend of a friend is very graciously allowing us to crash at for the next two nights. (Woohoo for free housing!)

While we arrived in London with a pre-planned, 3 day itinerary complete with labeled guidebook pages (neither of us are very "compulsive" travelers), we quickly realized that we could barely stand upright, much less enjoy moving around the city. So, we took a 2 hour nap (bringing our grand sleep total to 3 hours) and woke up still grumpy, but determined to make the most out of what was by then less than half of a day. First order of business, however, was food -- at this point we had not eaten for 13 hours, and both of us were unable to form coherent sentences because we were still so tired and hungry (and, might I add, much more decaffeinated than I generally am on a day with normal sleep). Unfortunately for us, it was now 2:30, and most places in London are open for lunch from 12-2, and dinner from 6-8. We were solidly in the middle of dining purgatory. After warning Shelley that our friendship might be quickly over if I could not get a Diet Coke STAT, we gave up our search for GOOD food and settled on ANY food, finding a cheap pizza place that, thankfully, sold our favorite caffeinated beverages. We then wandered down to St. Paul's, where we missed the last tour of the day, but got to have a picnic "lunch" and guidebook review session in the gardens behind the cathedral, which were blooming with roses. Absolutely lovely. We're headed back there tomorrow for Evensong and hopefully an organ concert.

After a walk over Millenium Bridge (very cool, but has absolutely no traction in the rain, so it's a good thing there's a handrail or I would have been very closely acquainted with the Thames), we made our way to the Tate Modern art Museum. Neither of us are big art museum afficionados, especially without someone to explain things to us, and probably especially modern art. (At one point, I had to drag Shelley away from a particular piece of art that was a long rope laid out in a particular pattern on the floor. She wanted to know if it was still art if she yanked it. I wanted to not visit the London police quite this soon in our trip.) Nevertheless, it was a worthwhile visit: I got to see several Andy Warhol paintings, which was pretty exciting; I got to see a video of a woman pouring fake blood over herself and rolling around in feathers, which was not so exciting; and I got to see this exhibit, which gave me a new appreciation for art made from every day objects. (What do we call that? Obviously, I probably should have stayed a little longer.)

Finally, it was past 6, so we made our way back to a pub that we had tried to visit earlier and that was recommended in our guidebook. It took us awhile to figure out how it worked (you go up to the bar to order -- who knew?) but once we did, we loved the food and the atmosphere. It was a good find: definitely not a tourist trap, as we were the only people without British accents in the place. We did interrupt a really awkward date when we tried to make friends with some folks so we could share their table; folks, if you're out there, I apologize, but I promise it also makes things less awkward if you at least make eye contact during your meal. Here is an amazing plate full of "bangers and mash" (which tastes much better than it sounds):




And here is the resulting food coma:


Finally, we ended the day with a phenomenal walk all over the city. In under 2 hours, we managed to walk and see Covent Garden (which looks like Quincy Market -- wonder which came first?), Trafalgar Square (which is absolutely beautiful in the twilight with the lights and the fountains), Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the London Eye, and some pretty sweet Marriott Hotel that Shelley made us run in to see if they had a public restroom. (They did not.) The walk was great, in spite of the rain; however, I did discover when I got home that either my feet have grown or my sneakers have shrunk, because all of my toes were a lovely shade of "you-cut-off-my-circulation" white. Guess it's flip flops for the rest of the trip!

That's all for tonight. More adventures to come tomorrow. Cheerio!