teaching, community and the church

Today is the start of my third week of student teaching in the third grade. It is quite the experience! Most of you know of my struggle with whether or not I really want to be a teacher. The thing is, I'm still unsure. I love teaching, but does that mean I'll be a teacher. I think that I am going to have to try it before I can really know.I had to write this paper a few weeks ago for class. It is probably the most honest thing I have ever written in my whole college career. I'm going to share it with you because I feel like it puts words to what I cannot.

“The great aim of education is not knowledge but action.”

Herbert Spencer, English philosopher (1820 - 1903)

I’ve always wanted to be a teacher. My very earliest memories are of me playing school. Growing up I just assumed that I would be a teacher, I never really thought about why. I’m sure that as a fifth grader I would have said something along the lines of, “well, I like to use markers and write on the board.” However, now I know that teaching is a profession that requires much more that what my childhood dreams included. It’s harder. It’s not always fun. I’ve struggled with reconciling the reality of being a teacher to my childhood dreams of being a teacher throughout my time hear at Kennesaw State. However, as I near the end of this journey I am sure of one thing, I did not choose teaching; teaching chose me. I love teaching. It is natural for me. I do it whether I am in a classroom or not. I also love to read. My friends and I have been reading this book called The Irresistible Revolution by Shane Claiborne. He shares about community and how it is important to our lives. These are some of his thoughts that have helped to reassure me of the decision to become a teacher.

“Vocation comes from the same root as voice, denoting the hearing of a divine call. Beyond knowing that God has a purpose for our lives, most of us (especially non-Catholics) spend little energy seeking our vocation, especially in light of how the needs and sufferings of our neighbors might inform how we use our gifts for divine purposes (Claiborne 138).”“So not everyone responds in the same way, but we must respond. We must seek our vocation listening to the voice of God and the voices of our suffering neighbors (Claiborne 142).”

My family and I have always lived in the same community. The land we live on was the land that my dad grew up on. Back then it was farm land. My mom lived less than a mile away on another farm. Our community has certainly changed over the years. However, the longing for true community with others has grown in me. I feel like being a teacher in a local school is a way for me to be a good neighbor, to be involved in the community and to be able to address and meet the needs that are there. I truly feel like that my gifts can best be used to help my neighbors by loving and educating their children.


Reading this again makes me realize that I am connected to my community in way I've never been before. Some of the kids I teach at school are the kids I see at church. Knowing these kids and their stories puts a face to this community. These are no longer nameless strangers to me. They are the children in my class. Children with hurts and fears and parents that have to work really hard just to make ends meet. These children have made it impossible for me to drive through this community and not care. I have to care, I know them now. And that is the key. I know them, so I care. This is what being a good neighbor is all about. This is what I long to see the church be, a good neighbor.

So for now, I'll go to my classroom, do my best to love and care for these children as I teach them all about the habitats of Georgia. I know regardless of where I end up or what I end up doing that these children have changed the way I view my neighborhood forever. Once again Jesus is using children to stire the heart of compassion in His followers. I pray that I will continue to see this community through the eyes of the students in my classroom.

God, Let me be the hands and feet of Christ to this community.

Birthday Party!!

Saturday my friends and I got together to have dinner and paint pottery to celebrate my birthday. I can't wait to see how our creations turned out!!

crying

Today I cried. Not the crazy, loud crying but the quiet tears roll down your face kind of crying. I tried to pull it together, but it was too late. I hoped no one noticed, but they did. It was embarrassing. It was in an awkward situation. When I was back in the safety and privacy of my car I began to think about my tears. A month or so ago I was told that someone said I have a beautiful cry. This comment caught me off guard. Could there be such a thing? It seems like an oxymoron, crying is not beautiful. There is snot and puffy, red eyes and running mascara. Not a pretty sight. I feel lots of things when I cry, but beautiful is never one of them. My friend's statement has stayed with me. These weeks have passed by and I have thought about what my friend meant. Today in the parking lot of the doctor's office, it all came together to me.

I hate crying. I hate it more than just about anything else. It makes me feel so uncomfortable. It makes me feel weak. It makes me feel out of control. I don't like that. I want to be strong and in control. I don't like it when other people see me cry. To me it's an admission, "I am not strong. I am not in control." Reality is, I'm not. I'm weak. I have no clue. I like to pretend. To fake out everyone in my life. But sometimes I just can't. It's just too hard. In those moments I cry. In those moments I am real. I think that is where the beauty comes in. When I cry something happens. This independent, have it all together, don't need anyone or anything woman fades away and my humanity breaks through. I am not always okay. In those moments I need people.

Crying for me equals humility. Tears come to my eyes to remind me of what I am not, who I am not. Humility. I think that is the beauty in the tears. I like to think I'm a humble person, but I'm not. One tear reminds me of that. The fact that I resist that feeling building up in me, the "oh no, I'm going to cry" feeling tells me that I am indeed not humble. Tears push me to that place of true humility, of true humanity. I want to learn to live my life in tears, not literally, but in that place of vulnerability. It's hard. It's dangerous. But it's real.

I've always wanted to be beautiful. The stunning, vain, look at me kind of beautiful. That is not what God is calling me to. God is calling me to be beautiful. REAL beautiful. The kind of beautiful that is only found in humility. I long to practice humility in my life. Not just to be forced into it by my tears, but to live it, to be it.

But he gives us more grace. That is why Scripture says: "God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble." James 4:8

God, give me more grace. Grace to be humble. Grace to be real. Grace to see beauty in my tears and in the tears of others.

letter

Today I went to the mailbox. I usually don't do this, but I was home this afternoon and my mom wasn't, so I went. I opened it up and grabbed the wad of mail. Back in the house I started sorting it out to put it in everyone's personal mailbox (aka: the kitchen table). Some for my parents, some for Amelia, some for Alicia. Then I saw it. I got a letter. Not just any letter, a letter from Kennesaw State University. I live in fear of these letters. Over my extended college career these letter have always been the bearer of bad news. My heart sank when I saw the envelope. What could it be? I'm doing better in school. I'm almost done. Graduation is in sight. I am nervous. On closer examination I see that the letter is from the College of Education and then I really start to freak out. There must be a problem with my student teaching. Oh no. Even though I'm home alone I feel the need to lock myself in the bathroom to view the contents of this letter. I shut the door and stare at the envelope preparing myself for the worst. I begin to tear the seal. I open it up hold my breath and begin to read. "Dear Lindsay: It is with great pleasure that I congratulate you on being a member of the Dean's list this past term." Pleasure. Congratulate. Dean's List. These are not terms that I am familiar with reading in letters from KSU. I look again. It has my name and my address. It is to me. I made the Dean's List!! I have been in college for 7 years and never once have I made the Dean's List. This is a milestone and my education career. It has been hard. I have struggled against it so many times. I have wanted to drop out. I still do a lot of times. I have not done my best most of the time. I have failed. I have withdrawn. I have just stopped going. And now I have made the Dean's List. It has not all been in vain. This unending pursuit has an end in sight. Not only will I finish, but I will finish strong. On good terms. On the Dean's List.

Most days I think that I don't need a college degree. I don't need one. I don't even necessarily want one. But I can have one. I have the option. I look at my parents, especially my dad and know that he would have wanted a chance for a college degree, but he didn't have the option. My dad is so smart and brave. He is a true student. He loves learning. And now at 55 years old going back to school is an option for him and he is going to do it! My dad going to college!! I think that is awesome. I admire him so much. So as I keep walking this road to graduation I will think of my dad. Of the opportunity that I have that he had to wait half his life for.

When I get my diploma, it will be a celebration of so many things. Of the long road that lead me here. Of the countless people who have stood beside me on the way. This letter reminds me of that. This is not something that I have done on my own. You all share a part. This is our letter. Our day to celebrate.

Experiment

I've been silently contemplating this blog experiment for a while now. You see, I used to be an avid journalist. I loved to record my thoughts and my life in a way that I could look back and see where I've been and where I've come to. Something happened though. I just can't do it anymore. It's just gone. I want to want to, but I just don't. I look at my journal and it's just empty. No words. No life. That's how I feel. For the past year, I have maybe 5 journal entries. When I look at that I feel empty and dead, like nothing in my life was worth recording. What is sad is that is true. There wasn't anything in my life last year that was worth putting on paper. That which did happen in my life, I would never want to put on paper. It would be too hard. Much has changed. God has rescued me in a major way. He has filled my life with incredible goodness. With life and love. With friends. With community. That is the stuff I want to remember. But I just can't get it in the stinking journal. Maybe I've just gotten too lazy to actually pick up the pencil and write. I don't know. I just know that I don't want to look back and have no record of this incredible time in my life. So I figure I'll give this a try. I spend so much time on the computer, maybe this will act as a pre-journal journal. It could never take it's place. There is just something about looking at your own handwriting. It's like a time machine. In an instant you can be back to the day you first wrote it, remembering what you were feeling, what was going on. It's good for us to have that record of our lives, our history. So, I'm hoping this little blogging experiment will resurrect the part of my heart that loves to journal, that my life will flow off this screen and onto the pages of my journal.