Truly Worthy

I just had to write a high school recommendation for a child who has nothing to recommend him. I would write that he is respectful, but he isn't. I would write that he does all of his work, but I can count on my two hands the number of times this year that he has turned in completed homework. I would write that he takes notes, but he almost never has a pencil at his desk, let alone paper. I would write that he works well with his peers, but he almost never speaks. I would (and did) write that he is intelligent and has great potential, but I have no tangible proof to point to -- just faith and intuition.

I was discussing this dilemma with my roommate, and she disappeared into her room and returned with a book. (Ah, we are such teachers.) She read me the following passage from Theirs is the Kingdom by Robert Lupton (which I am now reading voraciously). Here is the excerpt:

"People with a heart to serve others want to know that their gifts are invested wisely. At least I do. I don't want my alms squandered by the irresponsible and the ungrateful. And since I'm often in a position to determine who will or will not receive assistance, I've attempted to establish criteria to judge the worthiness of potential recipients.

...A truly worthy poor young man: Is out of school, unemployed but not living off his mother. Diligently applies for job every day; accepts gratefully any kind of work for any kind of pay. Does not smoke, drink, or use drugs; attends church regularly. Will not manipulate for gain either for himself or his family; is dependable and morally pure. Does not act 'cool' or 'hip' like his peers on the street. Has pride in himself and is confident; may sleep in alleys but is always clean and shaved.

...I want to serve truly worthy poor people. The problem is they are hard to find. Someone on our staff thought he remembered seeing one back in '76 but can't remember for sure. Someone else reminded me that maybe to be truly poor means to be prideless, impatient, manipulative, desperate, grasping at every straw, and cluthing the immediate with little energy left for future plans. But truly worthy? Are any of us truly worthy?" (Lupton 60-61).

I heard these words and was convicted of my own pride and sense of what (or who) is valuable, what (or who) is worthy, and whether or not I had any justification to count myself among the worthy, if there is such a category. So I wrote the truth about this child and then wrote that I love having him as my student and he needs to be given a chance. He may or may not deserve it. But who among us does?

Is God Sarcastic?

Confession: I complain. A lot.

This is an ongoing problem but has become more noticeable this fall. Every "how are you doing?" gets answered with a sigh and my litany of pent up frustrations. Granted, I recognize that this is an objectively hard(er) time in my life. It is my first year teaching, and I am consistently overworked and underslept. My dad has cancer, and every day is a step further into an unknown future that does not appear particularly friendly. I've just moved to a new city and am still mourning the loss of old friends. So there are valid reasons to struggle with sadness, and I do not think God disapproves of that. It comforts me that Jesus did not charge forward to his crucifixion with a victorious smile, which is what I feel like many American Christian writers/speakers expect us to do when we suffer. But I know that I can grieve and ache because my Lord did. Jesus expressed agony, and prayed, and wept even as he continued to trust in God's will.

This, unfortunately, is where my comparison of my own attitude and the Lord's needs to stop. This is where I have been convicted. It is not that God is disappointed when I admit that things are hard; it is not that God does not allow me to grieve; but when I move from grief into complaining that I have been forgotten, when I believe that I have to strike out on my own and figure out this world for myself because God is obviously not doing his job, that is when I sin and need to repent.

My roommates and I have recently been discussing the virtue of sarcasm as a tool for reproof. I do pretty poorly at accepting someone's direct rebuke: I either sink into wallowing shame or I lash back out in self-defense. But I can handle being made fun of--in fact, it's often a relief to see immediately how ridiculous I am being, to laugh at my foolishness, and then to turn to my Father in thankfulness that He knows this and still loves me. Kate has perfected this art of rebuke-by-sarcasm to the point where she only needs to utter two words before I know I've been called out. Somehow this is easier to handle on a regular basis than a serious, sit-down conversation, and I feel loved and known at the same point of recognizing that I have gone off track.

Now, granted, I know that those serious, sit-down rebukes are necessary. Our sin is serious, and the Bible is full of God's direct rebukes. But God also speaks in many different ways, and the other night as I was lying in bed complaining to myself (again), suddenly this verse came to mind:

"Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak, O Israel, 'My way is hidden from the Lord, and my cause is disregarded by my God'? Have you not known? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength." (Isaiah 40: 27-29).

I've heard this verse a number of times but never with a sarcastic tone. But as I heard it in my head, it had that tone. The questions actually made me laugh out loud. "Have you not known? Have you not heard?" Of course, Israel knew. Of course, Jacob had heard. And--the moment of conviction, of course I had, too. God knew they knew, and God knew I knew. And yet he chose to repeat it again, mocking (but gently) because he immediately moves into talking about how he cares for his people ("power to the faint," "increases strength"). He reminds them of how foolish they are being--to act like they have never even heard that he is in control--but then, rather than punishing them (me) for their (my) foolishness, he reminds us all again: this is who I am, in case you have forgotten. This is what I am doing, in case you have never realized it.

I need to remember this frequently: that my little attempts at knowing the divine purpose of something are futile and that I already have all the knowledge I need to move forward. I already know that God is good, sovereign, and has a plan that he will accomplish; I don't need to know the details of that plan to move forward. Tim Keller (a pastor/writer in NYC) said, “Never, never, never think God is not at work because you can’t see it. And never ever, ever, ever think you can figure out what God is doing.” I think I need to post that on my wall, right under the verse from Isaiah 40. I need to remember what I don't know, which eliminates my right to complain. I need to hope in what I can't see, which allows me to move forward in faith even when this world hurts.

So this is what I am trying to do today. I'm writing high school recommendations for my students and feeling mildly inadequate. Who am I, at 23 years old, to be given the authority to speak about their academic progress? How can I hope to prepare them for high school in the way that I'm saying I will prepare them in these letters? What do I know compared to all of the people I'm writing to? Why was I ever given this job in the first place? I don't know, but God does. If I had planned things, they would have turned out differently, but I didn't. I have no idea what God is up to in my life right now, and I often only see the way I am inhibiting the progress of his kingdom. But he knows what he is doing, and he graciously allows me to take part in a work I can't see. So I will continue to write and hope, laugh at myself and repent.

And stop procrastinating and get these recommendations DONE!

I chopped my hair off!

I said "just above shoulder length," and this is what I got. Oh well. Someone recently asked me, "What's the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut?" The correct answer was, "2 weeks." I think a better answer might be, "Someone else vs. me styling it every morning," which is my major fear right now.

My roommate very graciously took photos for me so I won't forget what it looks like when the stylist fixes it "correctly." Problem is, I'm not great at getting my picture taken. This is what the photoshoot dissolved into.

A Snow Story, in photos

My car, just as the snow began to fall


My car, an hour after the snow was falling.


My car the next morning, post-snow and post-snow plow


My car, after the neighbors noticed me struggling and helped me dig it out (Note: I'm from Massachusetts and they're from Haiti. Which one of us SHOULD be better at digging a car out of snow? I was humbled.)


My car, the next morning. Ahh, life in New England.

Well, it WAS pretty epic...

On their most recent writing assignment, my students had to write about how The Odyssey followed the typical epic storyline. One student wrote about how Odysseus's "call to adventure" occurred when "an angel visited him to give him news after his son was born." Seeing as there is NO angel in the Odyssey, I'm pretty sure this child was mixing up the Odyssey and the Christmas story. Maybe I'll just teach that one next year instead--at least I know how THAT epic starts...

The Little Victories

I'm celebrating a small victory tonight because I have to remember to be thankful for the small things. I want those big, publicly-celebrated victories, but those are few, far-between, and don't last. And the truth is I do not know the impact of any one of my moments with my students in 5 years; I'm sure that, if anything is memorable to them, it will not be what I expect. So I am trying not to play God and determine what moments are or are not significant, and really be thankful for even the smallest measure of joy or success he gives me.

That moment came today when my most difficult student (see below) got an 87% on his grammar test. This is the first test he has passed since the beginning of the year--and he almost got an A! Better, though, was the look on his face when I told him. He smiled. Not a grin; not a chuckle; not an awkward or ashamed smile that he was trying to hide; but a full-on, look me in the eyes, sustained smile. It was the first I've had from him, and because I just felt a little crazy, I decided to push my luck. I had made goofy crowns earlier in the week for kids who got an "A" on their homework assignment. They said things like "Compound Sentence Conqueror" or "Sentence Structure Super Star." My favorite, though, says, "Knows Clauses Better Than Santa" (get it? get it?!) So I gave him that crown--no, I take it back. I stuck it on his head and said, "You have to wear this for the rest of the day." I figured he would find a way to stick it in the recycling bin the second I wasn't looking, but then we got the end of homeroom: the crown was still on. He walked down the hallway to tutoring: kept the crown. He walked down after tutoring to homework club: still wearing the crown. This child, who almost never shows any emotion or connection with anyone, wore that yellow paper crown for the rest of the day. (His tutoring teacher told me that it kept falling off and he would just silently slip it back on and continue working.)

It has been a rough week, particularly with this student (for many reasons that I cannot go into in a blog post), but the thought of him smiling and so proud of himself that he would wear a yellow paper crown all around school makes my heart sing. Cheesy? Absolutely. Significant? I hope so.

Childish vs. Child-Like Prayers

Monday was a bad day. I knew it was going to start out badly when I woke up and the sun was hidden behind a bunch of dark rain clouds. I spilled my coffee all over the counter, causing me to leave later than I intended and to forget my morning Pop-Tart in the toaster. As I rushed out the door, I could feel the anxiety that I always feel on Monday mornings ("Do I remember how to teach?") rising up inside me, only it was intensified because I had just come out of a long, restful Thanksgiving break and was facing the prospect of three of the most packed weeks of the school year.

I have gotten in the habit of praying on my drive into work in the morning, usually for my students or fellow teachers, and for my own heart to be in the right place as I do my work. But as I tried to concentrate on my prayer over the loud thwacking of my windshield wipers (if you've ever been within a mile of my car when it rains, you know exactly what I mean), I found myself praying a prayer of desperation that went something like, "God, please just give me some kind of tangible encouragement to make it through the day." Immediately, I regretted my words because they sounded so "childish"; it seemed foolish to expect God to show up just because I had asked him, and I worried that I was praying the type of prayer that I feel like I've heard called a "vending machine" prayer -- you push the button, and expect God to deliver. So I "repented" by continuing with something like, "God, you don't need to do anything for me today. Sorry I asked. Have a good day."

I pulled my car into the parking lot, managed to make it all the way to the door without spilling my coffee all over myself (a rare feat) and walked into the teacher's office. Hanging down right in front of me was a banner made up of papers with quotes from students about why they are thankful for their teachers. It turned out that the principal had gathered these before Thanksgiving break and posted them all over the office as a surprise to motivate us upon our return. There were banners all over the office, but at first I only saw that one, and front and center, just as I walked in the door, was a quote signed by the child who I probably have struggled the most with this year:

"I want to thank Ms. Stuntz for the comments she makes on my PREP report every week [their weekly behavior report]. She tells me that she knows I can do better. And guess what? I know I can. I want to do better, so thank you Ms. Stuntz for your advice."

I'm quite certain the only way God could have given me a more direct answer to my prayer is if this quote had been written on a baseball bat that hit me in the head--but I'm thankful it wasn't. This child has never once acknowledged that he even hears anything I am saying to him, much less that he is thankful for it. He is in the midst of an incredibly difficult time right now, and many days I have wondered whether it is a worthwhile investment of my time to give him any of it. In other words, there is no other person in my life right now from whom that message would have meant more. (Being my cynical self, I still asked the principal if she dictated the quotation; she claims it's his original work.)

I thought back to my prayer from the morning, and how I had repented of its "childishness." But I think my repentance was much more childish. I believe it is right to be aware that God does not always answer our prayers in the ways we'd hoped or the time we'd expected, which is a mercy--He knows better than me what I need. But it is much more "childish" to go too far to the other extreme and believe that I do not need to ask for God's assistance at all, that I will be more righteous if I am more independent. It is much more "childish" to assume that every day, every moment, I do not need to pray those cries of desperation: "If you do not show up, I will not make it through the day." It is much more child-like to pray the best I know how, and to believe that He will answer, sometimes dramatically and directly, sometimes much more subtly, sometimes in a manner that shows me that what I thought I "needed" was not really my need at all. But He will always meet my ultimate need, which is to show me that I am needy and to give me of Himself.