back to school

How I love the smell of fresh notebooks, newly sharpened pencils, and dry-erase markers heavy with watery ink! I remember my days in elementary and middle school, the nervous-yet-excited feeling in my stomach I got as mom walked us down the Wal-Mart back-to-school aisle, checking off a list of new school supplies to acquire, along with the rest of Joplin's school-age population.

And now I'm on the other side. I confidently walked into my 4th grade class on Monday, looking at my students' excited (but apprehensive) faces, and started up my well-practiced "Teacher Billy Voice," which includes very colorful explanations and a lot of clearly-enunciated, oft-repeated words. As I left the classroom, I could feel their nerves twisting and turning, some of them not sure about this new Teacher.

Classes have gone well this week. We English teachers decided that a strong, firm front at the beginning of the year would be the best approach. As I gave my classes their syllabi, putting forth my expectations for the year, I basked in their quiet acceptance of my authority. Much different than last year's chaos, I commented to myself.

With the commencement of classes also begins our morning routine. David and I have discovered the happy secret to making real Quaker oats by simply putting the oats (and Craisins!) and boiling water in a covered bowl, letting it sit for 5 minutes, and POOF, yummy Craisin oatmeal. So, after a steaming bowl of Cran-oatmeal and perhaps some hot tea to kick-start the day at 6:00 am, we're off to school.

Even we teachers have our peculiar school routines. :)

hanging on

I happened across this picture looking through my files just now, and thought I would share it with you all. This is my housemate David and I, exhibiting our respective personalities to the extreme on a swinging bridge over a gorge in the Sierra, close to the Basaseachi Waterfall. It was taken by our dear friend Kristen as we were traveling with her family when they came in April.

And no, I'm not eating David's hand.

Not only is the picture funny, but I think it humorously illustrates the way I feel right now: just trying to hang on and ride the storm.

School starts on Monday. I'm teaching Algebra II to high school sophomores, the majority of which don't have a great level of English, which means I'll probably be using a lot of Spanish to communicate mathematical ideas. I also feel way behind in preparing my 20th Century History class.

Church is pretty wild right now, as well. We've been having services about 4-5 nights a week, because there's a revival going on, so I haven't had much time to prepare classes aside from a few brief hours in the morning and afternoon, since we've been teaching English to all the school personnel for three hours in the morning.

So, part of me feels worn a little thin, trying to hang on to something solid during this tempestous time. I read a Puritan prayer this morning that said something about the Spirit guarding my soul that its waters would remain undisturbed by worldly gales.

"When peace, like a river..." and "when trials, like sea billows" - two extremes held together by the "It is well, it is well with my soul."

May the peace of Christ attend your souls...

bumbling thoughts on poverty

The following is free verse that I wrote after walking through the center portion of the city 2 weeks ago. I see a broken and limping humanity, but my compassion for it is just as weak.

Who cares about the trash you’re moving around in the street?
Are you the only one?
That spent styrofoam cup, the chip bag tossed aside by a carefree kid
Are more like treasure than rubbish to you.

Drawn coffee-brown skin, filthy long fingernails,
Scraggly yellowed hair, scrawled mutterings of a neglected soul.
Your dark race put you here, tramped-on leftover of a white-eyed society.

What am I bid for the street beggar?
50 centavos, no mas.
Where does he sleep? Who cares.
What’s he like? Well, he babbles a lot.
What thoughts does he carry in that patent-busting brain?

The crowd around loves the flash, the look, la moda.
Looking to drop plenty to catch the envying eye
Of those supposedly less fortunate,
Jockeying for position.

In the bustle, he’s huddled up
(I almost stepped on him),
Busted, rusted guitar strains out what he knows,
A few broken chords,
A symphony of pleaded sympathy.

What’s the value of that human soul, so easily kicked aside
Like a used styrofoam cup?

Could it be as much as my own?