A Letter to Myself, Five Years Ago/from Now

Reason #679 to live on the East Coast: the Bolt Bus. Friends, seriously, this is amazing. I am currently typing this blog entry while on a bus from NYC that I could have boarded for only $1, had I been savvy enough, but even with my relative lack of skills I managed to get this ticket for less than $20. End of public service announcement.

I'm riding home from a delightful weekend with girlfriends from college and reflecting on this weird place in life I'm in right now where I feel like I don't know what I'm doing. (Older/wiser people may be laughing right now, because I have this sneaking suspicion that this is not a weird place but rather "the rest of my life," but I'm trying to ignore that for a second.) Don't get me wrong -- I love my job. I love being in Boston. I love my roommates; seriously, I never would have dreamed so many people who love dessert so much could fit into one tiny apartment with only one bathroom, but it works. I'm near my family and that's wonderful. I have a great church where I am learning and growing and a wonderful community within that church that encourages me. So many things are good in my life right now.

What scares me is, I don't know what's next. There are a lot of unknowns. While I love things the way they are, they can't stay this way forever, or probably even for the next 5 years, and I've already seen glimpses of that in these last few months. I know that, in many ways (though not all), my inability to keep all of these things in place is for the good; it's just also hard. And in the midst of it I'm tempted to plan and panic and believe that, in spite of all the good that's in my life right now, God has forgotten to plan for my future and it is up to me to figure it all out.

Being with all of these college girls reminded me of another time I felt this way, and that was freshman year. I was in a similar situation: I had great roommates; I enjoyed my classes; I was in a city I really liked; and I was starting a new adventure. But I was scared -- what if these friendships don't last? What if I don't like my major? Who's going to employ an English major anyways? (Side note: someone this weekend told me about a t-shirt they'd seen that said, "I was an English major. You do the math." I want it.) I think others were remembering the same things, because as we ate dinner last night and went around the table, there was a constant refrain of, "Who would've thought we'd be here 5 years ago?"

The answer is, none of us, and certainly not me. If I could go back in time and reassure myself 5 years ago, this is what I would say:

Calm down. You have no idea what is ahead, and it is no use trying, because you wouldn't guess it in a million years. Some of it is very, very good; some of it is deeply, deeply painful. If you were to know it all now, you would not know how you would survive, because God only promises to give you what you need as you need it, and you don't have all the resources you need in this moment. But you will; he will provide them in the right time, and if you are looking, you will begin to see this pattern in your life of perfect provision -- never early and never late, although also never on your timetable. There are people around you who are becoming your very dearest friends, though you may not recognize them yet. Stop trying to find them; just love the people God puts around you. He knows who and what you need and when. And stop trying to earn the love of those people; you never can, even with your best efforts, and both they and you will be much happier if you'll just admit that. They are able to love you not because you are so inherently kind or pretty or clever, but because Jesus has enabled them to love you, even in the midst of the messiness of your life. He will also enable you to love them in their messiness. Be thankful for that, and tell them -- and him -- that.

I am so thankful God has given me friends who remind me of this reality, because the truth is, I need to read this letter now too. Myself in five years can fill in the details, but I have hope the reality of God's providence is just as true today as it was when I was a little frightened freshman. God give me grace to believe that, and keep believing that.

Best Internet Finds of the Day

1) The Snuggie for Two: Now I'll be the first to say I LOVE my ridiculous blanket-with-sleeves (or, as my roommate likes to call it, "blanket with holes"), this is getting out of hand. Particularly when they suggest it as appropriate marriage-proposal-garb. Potential suitors, please DO NOT take note. Everyone else, please enjoy.

Snuggie for Two on Youtube

2) The Small Story: This is a blog about everyday life in Massachusetts, and the past two entries have featured a family with three students at our school. The writer, Cara Solomon, came and visited our school and met with both teachers and students, particularly focusing on this one family. It's been so fun to follow this story and read an "outsider's" perspective on our kids and our school. What I particularly love is how Solomon manages to interweave one student's personal story with a broader story about a failing education system that affects many more students and families. Furthermore, she manages to tell the story in a way that realistically acknowledges the challenges but still demonstrates enormous respect for the hard work of the students and the families is hopeful that kids like the one featured don't have to fall through the cracks. Next week the blog will be featuring one of my awesome colleagues. Check it out!

The Small Story

Motivation

You know how great poets frequently turn intimate details of their lives into titles for their poems, giving you just enough detail to realize that this was inspired by a true event but not enough detail to satisfy your curiosity, so that you are left salivating for the actual details behind the rhymes? ("To His Mistress Going to Bed" by Donne comes to mind.)

Well, I am not a great poet; I write a blog. And no one really salivates for details of my life, particularly since they don't have to even know me for 5 minutes before I'm already oversharing. Nevertheless, if I were to title this blog post like a Renaissance poem, it would be called, "To Myself, When I Need Motivation to Keep Working at 9:36 PM on Monday Night, February 1, 2010."

Like I said -- oversharing is the downfall of my poetic genius. Certainly not the fact that my life is totally unsexy. I prefer to think it's oversharing.

Long tangent aside, I love this quote. I found it hanging in a laundry room at a camp where I worked (and if any task would seem to require extra divine motivation, it would be washing pee sheets!) and it's stuck with me ever since. Enjoy.

Troubled soul, thou art not bound to feel, but thou art bound to arise. God loves thee whether thou feelest or not. Thou canst not love when thou wilt, but thou art bound to fight the hatred in thee to the last. Try not to feel good when thou art not good, but cry to Him who is good. He changes not because thou changest. Nay, he has an especial tenderness of love towards thee for that thou art in the dark and hast no light, and his heart is glad when thou dost arise and say, “I will go to my Father.” For he sees thee through all the gloom through which thou canst not see him. Will thou his will. Say to him: “My God, I am very dull and low and hard; but thou art wise and high and tender, and thou art my God. I am thy child. Forsake me not.” Then fold the arms of thy faith, and wait in quietness until light goes up in thy darkness. Fold the arms of thy Faith I say, but not of thy Action: bethink thee of something that thou oughtest to do, and go and do it, if it be but the sweeping of a room, or the preparing of a meal, or a visit to a friend. Heed not thy feelings: Do thy work.

--George MacDonald

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. :)