What They Hear

I talk a lot. Anyone who knows me will find the fact that I had to state that funny -- that's how much I talk. It's a given. I also talk fast, which means that in a given day I say a LOT of words to a lot of people, but particularly my students.

You remember on Charlie Brown, how none of the adults had faces -- they all just sounded like this constant, sharp drone? Sometimes I wonder if that's how I sound to my students, especially after interactions like I had today. Consider the following scenario:

Student (I'll call him "C") walks up to me at the basketball game after school to ask for help on his social studies homework. Since I am not, in fact, his social studies teacher, I'm trying to figure it out myself as we go along. He opens up to a map that he has to label and asks...
C: Do I have to check this?
Ms. Stuntz: Well, what do the directions say?
C (reading): "I am not going to REQUIRE you to check your map. However, I can PROMISE THAT IT WILL HELP YOU A LOT if you do."
Ms. Stuntz (smiling): So what does that mean, C?
C (smiling broadly): I DON'T have to check my work! Great! Thanks Ms. Stuntz!
Ms. Stuntz: Wait, wait, C, hang on a second -- is that really what it said?
C: Yep, see right here? "...Not going to REQUIRE you to check your map." That means you don't have to do it [said in a condescending tone as if I don't quite understand English] Thanks for all the help!

If the child isn't hearing the CAPS LOCK MESSAGE, I wonder what else I say every day that my children don't hear (and what I don't realize I'm saying that they do pick up on loud and clear -- not sure which is scarier!) Lord help us all!

On a separate note, I've been bad about posting lately. Mostly, that's because I'm a workaholic and it's been a nutty month, but I'm also trying to learn how to rest away from my computer. New experiment. We'll see how it goes...

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.)