Running fully

William Booth, founder of the Salvation Army, as he was interviewed near the close of his life. This is what he said: “God had all there was of me. There have been others who had greater plans, greater talents and greater opportunities than I; but from the day I got a vision of what God could do, I made up my mind God would have all there was of William Booth.” 

What would it take for God to have all of a person? We can see the example of Mr. Booth above and a few others we've heard about. But, what about in our own lives? I should probably ask, "What percentage am I at now? How can I make it higher? What does this truly look like anyway?" At times, the quest for a greater percentage seems to be another excuse to wallow in guilt. How do I go beyond the need for guilt, goodness, purpose, comfort, control, false humility, peace, distraction, and give all to God? Do I even want to or am I content serving him as I do now? Right now, there are flashes of intense giving and goodness, but what would it mean to serve God fully? I'm sure it would look like much more.

I remember the codependency class taken at church in which we examined the ill-effects of the savior complex, the need to fix, the desire to control God or others through actions. At times if I "gave fully to God" the codependency tendencies might be unleashed despite my sincerity. One must be rational and proceed with caution.

Yet to be used fully. A bumpy road. Sacrifice. Conflict. A full outpouring of resources.

A better question might be: what prevents me from fully being used by God? Today, right now. Can I admit that some of these things might not be purposeful -- they might be time-wasting -- they might reek of vanity and smooth highways? Sins?

Father, help me to give more of myself daily. I know that I can't be like William Booth or Mother Teresa; I know that daily life as a mother, wife, teacher looks a certain way. However, help me to cast off restraints that prevent me from running fully and joyfully in your service to make this world a better place -- to show you -- to become more like you. Help petty mindgames explode into rain which waters and grows.  Amen.

Pacific pathways

I just returned from Los Angeles. There, I

met others who actively care for struggling learners;

discovered that SoCal has mountains and cool air;

reunited with a cousin and met her black husband and biracial children;

spoke on a walk with her about her pain from her parents' banishment;

received a certificate to practice educational therapy;

had a dog pee on my bed;

was reminded each morning how much God cares for me;

had dinner and wine with California valley girls;

spoke and had dinner with visitors from South Africa;

learned new techniques on how to stimulate cognition for learning growth;

ate lots of chocolate;

became more convinced of the path and mission which I'm on;

sounded like a dinosaur with my lips covering my teeth;

received highly complimentary remarks about my writing!;

swam with my little cousin after our own personal manicure;

was told that I need to practice one of the brain rewiring methods for my own good;

got hugged to death by my teacher at the end of session;

dipped my toes in the Pacific;

watched the start of the Olympics with my cousins;

navigated the morning and evening commute on the freeway;

dreamt in phonics;

enjoyed the support from a loving husband back home;

sat by a wedding dress sales lady on the plane;

forgot where my van was parked in the 106 degree day;

drove up to home feeling happy all-around;

hugged family;

slept to wake with a start!

Barbed wire and safe pasture

I remember the problem of barbed wire when I was young. To get to the other side, you could crawl under, but your shirt might be snagged and you would be caught face down in the dirt. Or, you could find a post and climb ladder-like on the wire; however, at times, your inner thigh or the shorts could be punctured. Ouch. Or, you could separate two strands of wire by holding the top wire up, while you found room to swing your legs over and through. In such a precarious position, you could get the barbs either on the top or the bottom. Double ouch. Such a pain, the barbed wire fence.

My siblings and I usually used a different method of crossing; while they were long and lean, they tended to use the ladder pole method. Since I was short and small, I would typically crawl under. However, every so often we would try the different methods, sometimes surving and sometimes not. 

At the NILD conference, I had to cross a barbed wire fence. Small groups of people from the same school, or those who had gone through a training level together, clustered together. A common understanding permeated the ranks that all children deserve a Christian education and that Christian education was the one that needed to adjust to accomodate all types of learners. I was an outsider from a foreign land.  I had to shake off old shyness and join their ranks in order to learn.

At times, it worked. Two Pennsylvania ladies sat in the same spot, and one was pleasant enough to answer my basic questions. Other times, the ladies I sat by were turned toward one another, and I would smile as they glanced my way and away. Sometimes, just walking through the hallway where the break was happening, made me feel like I wanted to hurdle the fence and run, back to the solitude in a proverbial covered woods.

During one lunch, I asked God to direct my table selection in order to provide someone to help give me more guidance. I sat down, and the woman next to me happened to work for a college; she didn't have training either; we really couldn't provide much to one another except social support.  However, the woman on the other side started talking to me, and I slid under unscathed to the other side. She was trained, older, went later to become a School Psychologist (one of the options I'm thinking about), and has a son with Asperger's. As she talked, I smiled. God is good.

God allowed us some more time throughout the conference; she was even on my very early shuttle van to the airport. We were able to eat breakfast together and chat more. I have her e-mail and contact information; she acted as a willing mentor to me and is willing to do so in the future.

At times, when you cross under a fence, you are escaping either a mad bull, or a frightening neighbor owner, or a sense of being lost after having wandered too far. By going through the barbed wire during these meetings, I felt God reiterating this message to me again:  Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Psalms 37:3-4. I pray that we can all dwell in His safe pasture and cross over, through, or under the barbed wire which wishes to keep us confined. Amen.

Loving how we all learn

About six months ago, I became angry and grieved. Full of sorrow and spit. Some fist shakes. Some trail stomps. And, then God posted on my FB page, "Be the change you want to see." Or, was that Ghandi or Einstein? Hmmmm . . . No, it was God because He was the one I was interrogating: "Why? Why do your people act like this? Why can't my son take a single test home to help him stay at this Christian school? Why is the administrator's hand moving determinedly against accommodations of any kind? Why does she state so emphatically? Why are some children who need much turned away in favor of those who have much? Why isn't Jesus's style of ministry copied? And, how can You let all this happen to hurt children who need help so desperately? You. You. You." Immature stomp and spit and maybe a doorslam.

God sighed and said, "Do you really think this reflects my heart? Have you read the Bible lately?'

And, everywhere I turned I saw verses where He admonishes us to help those in need. I still couldn't reconcile the discrepancy, though, at the school where I taught. They said that resources couldn't be afforded. They said that the emphasis is on college prep. They said that everyone should be taught to the same standard like in this cartoon below:

Sucks to be the goldfish.

And, God delighting in my churning, challenged me to be the change I wish to see. Rather, He kind of demanded it, and "obedience" to what He wanted to work through me became my word. I researched. I threw out some notes to people. I caught others in the hallway. I promoted my fuzzy idea of my half-baked understanding of His steelcut vision. I met with some silence but with lots of encouragment. However, none of that people approval stuff mattered because God asked me to do something about it.

Okay, I got distracted by Facebook, blogging, mandolin playing, coffee with friends, the state of my hair, Words with Friends, career tracking, etc., but I knew that within me, I had to obey even though I dallied fearfully and carelessly at times.

During a part of my research, I came across an organization called the National Institute of Learning Development which trains educational therapists to help kids with learning disabilities in Christian schools. There were plenty of Christian schools who saw Jesus' heart as a model. I cried and rejoiced for their existence. And, I kept revisiting the NILD website because, because, because . . .  I was intrigued. As I contemplated what career tracks I wanted to lay down for the future, I kept thinking of God's heart and desire for me. Could it include what this organization had to offer? Something that was also close to my heart?

In the meantime, I applied for a counseling graduate program. However, I kept visiting the NILD site and finally decided, with the blessings of husband, to attend their conference in Orlando just to check them out. An expensive venture. We usually don't do things which are expensive without solid reason, but he agreed, and I didn't balk at the money requested.

I went. I was the lone Missourian. I found nice women from Pennsylvania, Arkansas, and Oregon, in particular. A woman from Boston gave me a compassionate, side bear hug which almost started my rotator cuff injury up again.

And, I found my tribe (as son calls it). When I heard presenters quoting Bible verses which talked about supporting the weak, helping the needy, unfolding the gifts of each child, requiring Christ's true heart in all that we do, I teared up. The conference was about so much more than learned principles applied to educational therapy. I had carried weight for so long about educational options, opportunities, misfires, deadends, for my son. I had the same steelcut conviction that these people had about making Christian education available to all types of learners. Ah and oh.

All through the week and after the sessions, I would go back to my hotel room and cry  to release all that had built up in me from hearing such good news, concern, love, and action. It's a good thing I didn't have a roommate.

The week was incredible, and I will blog more about it later. But, God was there in particular people I met as well as in his heavy Spirit, prompting me to enter into His waters of loving mission.

Jump, splash, coral reef.

Amen. Selah for all.

Planking

In "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,"a memorable short story from the excellent writer Ambrose Bierce, Peyton Farquhar must stand on a plank with a noose around his neck. When orders are given, the soldier on the other end of the plank will step aside and Mr. Farquhar, the Southern loyalist, will hang for his crime of planning to set this bridge on fire to stop Federal advance.

We read this story in class today. I must admit to a great love for literature and for teaching it, and I love the students and our interactions. So, right now, I feel like a woman on a plank. If I become accepted to the graduate counseling program which I applied to yesterday, I could hang and find myself away from the teaching of wonderful students and literature. However, if I don't apply and pursue a future professional teaching career, I feel on a plank of weariness, low pay, and assault (especially in the public school where behaviors are such a problem).

I need God-guidance. I need to make the right decision. Good night, Mr. Farquhar. May the best person awaken to the right kind of reality.

Stick and Pumps

I apologize for my literary geekiness in my last post; I realize that it's not kind to all readers.

Yet I am the English teacher lady at the board with a stick-it-to-them pole and wearing high-heeled pumps  . . . I must speak the part.

Speaking of career, earlier today I was a graduate study social worker and a professional counselor, while signed up for a graduate education course. This evening, I am now a possible counselor and the same, smiling English teacher (with high heeled pumps and stick-it-to-them-stick). I have been swirling in the possibilities of a career move, researching, calling, caffeinating, but for now, the counselor track seems like a possibility as still does the teaching track.

Work. Ambition. Macbeth.

Work. Ambition. Hillary Clinton.

Work. Ambition. Mother Mabel Carter.

Work. Ambition. Rebecca Skloot, Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf.

And, then there's Clara Barton, and Mother Theresa, and women who are the fabric of our society. Money isn't an issue. Their role, conviction, courage in everyday, faith are exemplary.

Illuminate my path, Counselor.

To be strumming or to not to be strumming

Career path => elusive, disappearing. I'm rarely completely happy on the one I'm on; however, perhaps I was born to strum music in a coconut grove. For this, I can't be blamed.

Yet something inside me, the Kiersey temperament test designated Idealist-Champion, desires a meaningful work role -- one which makes a difference. One which calls for sacrifice . . . . Sacrifice can be problemmatic to other good things, though, like family, or music strumming time, or a sense of safety and security.

I could become a worker where one puts in her time, makes environmental, surface relationships, learns to ingratiate and integrate, and reaps the paycheck at the end.  Yet would the work matter to someone else besides the beneficiary of my paycheck? Would I feel content?

Right now, I teach English at a private Christian school. It's wonderful in its way. The students are pleasing, attentive, appreciative, and I  promote writing and thinking. My colleagues are generous and loving. Yet . . . the job consists of full-time hours on a part-time schedule. My nights and weekends are busy fulfilling my needs for, and the job's needs for, satisfaction and excellence. It becomes tiring. Yet I do have flexible hours too and only work on MWF. How perfect is this role which was given during the time I needed it? Fairly perfect.

However, my exclusive and pristine school doesn't accept or make accomodations for special needs kids. My son could go there and take a few classes, however, if he dipped below a C, there would be no help for him. And, had I not been teaching there in the first place, he wouldn't have been accepted. I dislike this fact intensely and feel like Jesus operates differently. It's a big thorn to me, and I disagree. I am writing for change, but will "core policy" be adapted? I have a sinking feeling.

I also feel a push to seek a career which involves higher education. How can I better myself? How can I fulfill who I was created to be in a work role? Although my work life has been delayed in lieu of family commitment multiple times over (with worthwhile outcomes), time is opening up a larger door for me to walk through. It could be time to pack the bag and do it.

Therefore, today I investigate and think and make some calls. Tomorrow, we shall see.

The new year rolls on . . .

Leaning upwards

I should never feel guilty about floating around my flowers here at my lovely home. Yet last night at the Bible study I attend on Thursday, it struck me again how unfair life can be, and I'm glad for the beatitudes, promising good first to those who suffer here.

Many of the women struggle with poverty, addiction, racial, family issues which are foreign to me. When the sweet woman next to me, squirming baby in arms, tried to tell me about her DFS visit in order to find housing for herself with a drug record and an abusive man in her life, I could only listen and offer to pray. Sounds quite mild, although prayer is a rope.

The women just reminded me, though, of what is often distant to me: the trials of rising above circumstances, thick and heavy ones, the suffering. When I choose to draw near to it, and not just go to a more comfortable study in my affluent white church, I am made aware. It's difficult to be aware because pain isn't enjoyable to look at. It reminds me of the comment that Mary Sheehan, the anti-war mother who lost a son said recently that Americans are more interested in who wins American Idol than who is dying over in Iraq.

It's easier to look away and become distracted and indifferent. I came home last night with her baby's smell all over me, after taking turns with him. She's got an uphill to still press against. I pray for her and the other women there and ask for help in not avoiding how I can help. To not look away. To not become buried in my bounty.

The precious name of Jesus gives hope to us all. Amen.