I’ve been listening to my children perform in concerts for 20 years, since that very first chorus in Vicky’s preschool, through band concerts and symphonic bands; choral festivals with Christy and then Jonathan; and even musical theater with all three. Every performance was delightful, but in the last years, when they were young adults, the quality and the commitment of the students changed. Their concerts were more than annual recitals — the were beautiful performances with talented artists. I didn’t realize how much I had missed that since Jonathan’s graduation last year.
The Georgia Tech Glee Club is a talented group of young men who perform some amazing arrangements of popular songs. And of course, they are hulluva engineers. To my surprise, this “incorrigible” group of guys invited the Sotto Voce group from Agnes Scott College to sing with them. It was lovely. Absolutely lovely.
And something that spoke to me in the midst of this season of Lent:
here’s a somewhat loose translation:
Jesus, by Thy Cross and passion, by the bitter pain Thou bore; Save me when temptation threatens death in hell to suffer sore. Mightily away Thou bore me with a haven safe before me; Through Thy Word, contentment sweet; Thou art still my sure retreat.
We hasten with eager, yet faltering footsteps, O Jesu, O Master, unto Thee. Thou faithfully seekest the ill and the erring. Ah! Hear us, we pray! Our voices exalt Thee! O help us, we pray Thee. Now grant us Thy grace and Thy merciful favor, we pray, O God.
Ah! I am a child of sin. I wander far and near. This sinful burden, on my spirit weighing, will never leave me while this life shall last. My sinful inclinations rule me. My soul cries out, “Ah! Who is there to save me?” But to conquer flesh and blood and to attain a life of virtue is far beyond my feeble strength. Though I admit my every failing, I cannot count the sum of my offenses.
And so I take my deep distress and pain; I take my many burdens, the burdens that torment my soul, and bring them to you, Jesus…sighing. By your grace, forgive my sins, and shield me from God’s wrath to suffer.
We were actually encouraged to make this for our on-line classes. This is what I’d like to look like if I wasn’t gray and middle-aged. And fat. I’m sure my students will recognize me immediately if they saw me in the hall, doncha think?
And the voice sounds just like me, right? Next time I’m going to hire somebody to do some voiceover work for me, and a make-up guy, and a hair stylist. In the meantime, weird-animated me is making her world debut reciting one of her favorite poems.
I left my class tonight feeling better than I have in a long time…all it takes is one student to get it. To get me. To dare, for a moment, to reveal a little bit about herself and start a dialog with me…herself…the world.
It makes everything worth it. Until the next time. Because, there’s always a next time. There’s always a new student. There’s always a need.
You see, I don’t teach traditional students, and certainly not in a traditional setting, so it takes everything in me to figure out what I need to do to break down their walls…break past their barriers…help them see that they have a voice. They have important things to say.
Part of it is helping them see that they are beautiful. That where words have been used to hurt, they can now be used to inspire, or heal, or change, or anything they want them to be.
As I was leaving, a student came back to tell me that she was going to enjoy this class because, as she said, “Words are my thing.”
I understand that. They are my thing, too.
But there are many different ways to communicate. With music. Painting. Dance. And this amazing music video in ASL. There’s a fantastic message for all of us in this beautiful interpretation of Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.”
yes, there are thirty-three three-toed tree toads in that watercolor
I’ve been so serious around here lately that I’ve depressed the hell out of myself. Thanks for sticking around. I still find joy in the absurdities around me. So here’s a list of 33 totally random things. Why 33? It was my jersey number when I played basketball.
Yeah, I played basketball. Here’s some proof.
And that counts as #1. The remaining 32, in no particular order:
I almost caused an international incident by accidentally driving into East Germany.
I used to be a bartender.
I snore.
I used to write poetry on demand while sitting in a pub and drinking beer (in college — isn’t everything forgivable if you did it in college…mostly?)
I slept on the floor of the Marseilles train station.
I used to draw and paint when I was younger. I can still draw some if I’m in the mood.
I thought about being a nun. I decided against it because I didn’t want to be a teacher. Ha.
I wear a hat to write.
My favorite color is blue.
My favorite color is green.
My favorite color is yellow.
I change my mind a lot.
I don’t like confrontation.
I people watch and create elaborate and scandalous back stories. And then I am ashamed.
My favorite ice cream is Rocky Road. Or pistachio. Or strawberry. Or Baskin Robbins Baseball Nut.
Definitely, my favorite ice cream is Baseball Nut.
Or chocolate.
I am indecisive.
I can’t parallel park.
I used to ride a unicycle.
I can juggle.
I don’t like scary movies.
I can read a bunch of books at the same time (well, not at the same time, but you know what I mean) and I can keep them all straight and summarize everything, but I have trouble memorizing things like lines of poetry and phone numbers.
I feel things in colors and it’s very weird and very scary. And pretty cool.
I used to cut school like a fiend and only got caught once — by an Assistant Principal who went on to become the Superintendent of Dade County Public Schools in the mid 80’s, and thus, my boss. Tee hee.
I majored in English, and minored in French and Psychology. I probably could have picked up history, too.
One of my favorite cities is Paris.
My favorite cartoon is Marvin the Martian.
I have a soft spot for marching bands, especially woodwinds.
I don’t like the circus.
I like to dance.
Although I can be loud and even gregarious in a group, I am much more comfortable with one or two people.
I think sour apple Jolly Ranchers are disgusting.
I lost count and am not sufficiently vested in the accuracy of this post to go back and count.
I’ve had this on-going conversation with a friend for several years — it goes like this:
“I hate my job.”
“No. You don’t.”
“My students make me crazy.”
“You love them.”
“They are a mess.”
“God put you there to bring order to their chaos.”
I usually come in from the ledge at that point — but I do so grudgingly. I never thought that pursuing a career in education was akin to ministry, but there you have it.
To be honest, I never wanted to be a teacher. Ever. I wanted to be a writer and imagined myself living as some bohemian artist in the East Village. Whatever. Like you didn’t want to be a fireman or an astronaut, right?
What I never expected was that my dream would be so closely tied to my career.
It has become painfully evident to me that God has called me to this place, and to my shame I have come kicking and screaming. I know my fault; it is the same one I’ve struggled with my whole life. I want to serve God, I do…according to my will, not His. Note to self: God is all-powerful and all-knowing and patient. Really really patient. The moral of the story? I never stood a chance.
So I resisted. In my resistance I missed a little detail. I am a writer. In all those years I’ve pursued my dream, writing on scraps of paper and filling notebooks, I’ve also been carrying over those skills into the classroom.
God married my avocation to my vocation. I am slow to see these things.
The realization, though, doesn’t make it any easier to bear. The modern classroom looks nothing like the textbook scenarios I encountered in my methodology courses. I am sure those model classes exist. I am equally sure that I will never witness them.
Recently, The Chronicle of Higher Education published a commentary piece by an adjunct professor who vented about those very things I face in the classroom. The article has gone viral, no doubt because of the writer’s naked honesty and frustration. It is mine.
But my friend’s comments ring loudly in my ears. God has placed me here to bring order to their chaos.
The adjunct’s vent complains but doesn’t offer solutions — just a vague call for reform. A reform, by the way, in a system that is bigger, but weaker than the sum of its parts. A system where the best change is done one person at a time.
Of course, it requires my abandonment to God’s will, which is easier said than done, for me, anyway. And then I happen across St. Paul’s letter to Timothy, and have to come to terms with this reality:
But you, be self-possessed in all circumstances; put up with hardship; perform the work of an evangelist; fulfill your ministry.
Really?! Fulfill your ministry? These are not words I want to hear. It is hard. But I come in off the ledge and go back to the classroom. God’s plan placed me there — let me work it to His glory.
I find comfort in St. Francis de Sales, the patron saint of writers and journalists, but also teachers. He said, “There is nothing which edifies others so much as charity and kindness, by which, as by the oil in our lamp, the flame of good example is kept alive.”
His use of the lamp and flame delights me because I am always drawn to the imagery of light in scripture. I just now made the connection with the lamp of learning so often used as a symbol for education.
The call to the light, and a desire for charity and kindness have always been a part of me. And I’ve always brought it into the classroom, even when I wasn’t aware of it.
I used to think that all the driving around I did was because I was always hauling children — mine, and other peoples’ kids — all over the place for the multitude of activities in which they participated (and by default, I ended up as team mom, concession director, stage mom, booster minion, ticket master, chaperone, chief cook, and bottle washer).
No.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I just like to drive. And I like adventures.
Which brings me to today’s mission: I drove into the city of Atlanta to visit a tiny statue squirreled away in a side altar. You know there has to be a story here because even I have my limits.
Well, not really, but there is a story. It started last month when I was in Miami for my birthday and took a little trip to the Ermita de la Caridad, the national shrine of Our Lady of Charity, patroness of Cuba. A dear friend accompanied me, and asked more questions than I could answer, which led to some more things, and suddenly I found myself exchanging emails with some very interesting people.
In one of the exchanges was a request to find anywhere in the world where there is a statue of Our Lady of Charity. Well, I knew there was one in the Archdiocese of Atlanta because of the annual celebration, but I didn’t know where. A friend of mine, a newly ordained deacon who happens to be Cuban, told me she was on one of the altars at the Cathedral.
Impossible, I think. I grew up going to that church. The altars are gold mosaics with bas relief images. No virgencita there, my friend.
So I went to the Cathedral of Christ the King to find out for myself. I walked into the beautiful cathedral and was suddenly transported back to my childhood when I was a student there. I stood in the back, taking it all in and letting that wonderful feeling of being home wash over me.
I realized that Mass was going to begin soon and I didn’t want to be a distraction (and I wanted to stay, too) but I also wanted to find the statue. Was she really at an altar? Was she in the hall behind the sacristy? I panicked a little, thinking I was going to have to get permission to wander around.
Suddenly, she revealed herself to me. It was so strange. I happened to be standing in just the right place, at just the right angle to look between the columns towards the altar on the right, and there she was, beckoning me. If it’s possible to make eye contact with a statue, I accomplished it. That’s quite a feat, too, cuz boy am I near-sighted.
Do you see her? On the right?
Better? No? Here you go, then…
Isn’t she just like our moms, patiently waiting in a corner watching for when we get home?
This particular statue has a fascinating history. The Archdiocese of Atlanta has celebrated September 8th, the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary — also celebrated as the feast of Our Lady of Charity by Cubans– since the 60’s when Cubans began arriving in Atlanta in large numbers. It was a beautiful way for these exiled Cubans, alone — very alone in this new country, to connect with each other, and connect with the community and the Church under the welcoming and comforting mantle of their beloved virgencita.
Many years ago, a woman, a young wife and mother, came to Atlanta with her small children to visit her husband who was incarcerated at the federal prison here. She had traveled with the statue, and upon learning that the Archdiocese was using only a painting of the Blessed Virgin, offered the good people from the office of Hispanic services the use of her statue for the annual event. Grateful, some representatives from Catholic Social Services went to her home to pick up the statue. After the celebration, they returned to her home with the statue and discovered that there was no sign of the woman. Further investigation revealed that there was no person by her husband’s name incarcerated in the area.
Her appearance…and subsequent disappearance have remained a mystery for decades, but thanks to that miraculous appearance, Our Lady of Charity has found a permanent home in the cathedral.
I’m that person that blinds you with the high beams on a country road. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. I’ve just hit one too many deer in the past years and hate driving down the winding road after dark where the county doesn’t bother to put up street lights. A friend of mine suggested that I paint a tally on the side of my car – what a joker. He gave me The Deerslayer for Christmas and was quite pleased with himself. Smartass.
I’m not trying to be obnoxious; I just like to see where I’m going. The headlights illuminate the road and a little bit of the surrounding area, but then, the light just…ends. Everything beyond that clearly demarcated line remains pitch dark. In spite of my own misgivings, though, I make it home safe. I trust that the headlights illuminate enough of the road for me to drive safely, and frankly, I get the light that I need.
It’s not unlike my experience with a hesitant faith that sometimes shines like a brilliantly lit candle, and other times flickers, pathetically clinging to a wasting wick almost drowned by the wax.
That happens because I forget the source of the Light.
I can’t make the light or flip a switch and turn on the high beams no matter how much I’d like to see further down the road. But just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean the road isn’t there, and as I keep traveling along that road I get enough light to keep moving.
My faith has often been like that, and I have mistakenly claimed to have been in the dark because I was focusing on the space in the road that was out of reach. The light was always there, illuminating my path, but I wanted more. More control. More knowledge. More … more.
What I needed was more trust.
And maybe a swift kick in the backside to see the light and quit moaning about the darkness outside.
I needed to trust more. The issue of trust, of course, is a difficult one, especially for me. As a student of literature I could expound on the juxtaposition of light and darkness as powerful universal symbols. I could build upon the metaphor. I could quote scripture, and literature, and The Rolling Stones.
They would be empty words because the surrender is missing.
In order to trust more I would have to surrender my control, and that, ladies and gentlemen, runs counter to every fiber of my being. I’ve always been in control, always been in command. Always expected, even demanded, that my charges trust me to do what was best for all of us.
Oh. Well. Isn’t that a little eye-opener for me.
When I found myself consumed with the idea that I was all alone in the dark because the naked bulb hanging over my head was casting, not a safety net (though it was) but a circle beyond which lay the darkness, I focused on the unknown outside my lit perimeter.
I won’t beat myself upside the head over it, just observe that even in my darkest hour there was light and there’s something terribly, frighteningly, awe-inspiringly comforting about that.
We’re deeply into the season of Lent. For me, it is like a drive down that scary country road. The journey requires that my senses be alert – focused on what is revealed to me one piece at a time. As I cover more ground, the light shines on the pavement, illuminating the way.
I struggle to keep up with the promises I made, but God, merciful and loving, knows what I need. After my most recent confession, I received something that I jokingly call a parting gift from the kindly priest. He reached into a book – maybe a Bible or prayer book – and shared the following poem with me:
The Pillar of the Cloud
LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home—
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
~Blessed John Henry Newman
I first read that poem decades ago when I was too young in the journey to ever think about the ups and downs of life. Could that priest have known me so well in 15 minutes to have pulled out this particular poem? Surely not. It is the One who knows me so well.
I see in this poem the hope and surrender essential for growing in my faith. I see that I receive what I need, not in one fell swoop but in the increments that I can handle.
One could say I see the Light.
—————–
Totally worth bringing this video out of the combox. Thanks to Laura from The Bronzed Shoe Archives for the link
another cup of coffee 