inequity

We teachers learned it in Ed. Psych. 301, although we'd all heard it from our mothers long before taking our collegiate seats. You've heard it, too.

Life isn't fair.

Not fair, not equal, not just. Not by any stretch.

Have you ever known anything that was? I'm about to attend a funeral visitation, a memorial for a beautiful 20-year-old. I don't understand it. I don't like it. It isn't fair. And so, there arises in me a need to hold it up against everything else, to question this death against all of life.

For example, that whole "All men are created equal" thing -- yeah, I'm pretty sure our founding fathers were smart enough to know the fallacy in that kind of thinking. And I'm pretty sure that what they had in mind was our right to be represented by a protective government and our right to choose both goals for ourselves and the level of effort we are willing to exert to attain them.

Everything else? Not fair. After all, is it fair that the man who shows responsibility is given more work to do while the woman who exhibits only irresponsibility is rewarded with additional leisure? Is it fair that one student can run a 4-minute mile while his classmate sits, not in the stands, but in a wheelchair to cheer him on? Is it fair that my grandfather lived to be 92, but our school family has lost in the past six months both this lovely young lady (whose service will be packed with loved ones) and also a ninth grader, full of potential and a future?

Even when we attempt to create equality, a disparity in fairness arises. Distribute gifts equally and listen to complaints about choice. Distribute knowledge equally and listen to complaints about practicality. Distribute the time equally and listen to complaints about quality. Distribute money and listen to complaints about additional need (?).

Of COURSE it's not fair.

LORD, teach me to count my blessings, to realize how unfair your grace is -- how it provides me with far more than I deserve. And teach me to be both kind and patient with those who suffer with what they feel to be inadequate. Help me direct them -- gently -- to your Providence.

And, when the rain falls on the just and the unjust, help me to remember what a blessing those drops are, rather than seeing the downpour as an inconvenience.

What a Headache!

I don't want to complain; I try not to whine in such public forum. But today, I am blinded by the littlest light, wincing at the slightest sound. Haloed vision. Nausea.

Yeah, I know. It's a migraine. The question is Why?

Some attribute the affliction to hormones, some to stress, some to weather, some to certain foods. I haven't tracked my diet enough to link anything to this last possibility, but all the other stuff is a go: this week has been one of the most difficult of my life, with changeable skies (literal, metaphorical, and biological) aplenty -- and it's only Wednesday.

Whatever the reason, the fact is that life is just hard sometimes. And with hard times come natural side effects: intense headaches, uncontrollable tears, gastric distress, thunderous rain... and newfound strength.

Strength from new wisdom, from old friends, from prayer, from the release of screaming at God, from giving in to His Providence. Strength that wasn't there before. Strength that will come in handy later.

Lord, for this new wisdom, I thank you. When my students are suffering, remind me to direct them to your strength, to guide them toward you when they are in intense pain. Be my strength both today in my own weakness and throughout this coming year when they need me to hold them up to you. Amen.

No Quick Fix

Some things are easier than others to fix. Without the right tools, the right materials, the right knowhow, the energy, you might as well forget it -- unless you're McGyver. I'm no mechanical queen, but I've been single a long time and have learned to do a good bit on my own.

When the garbage disposal jammed, I fixed it. When the bathtub faucet leaked, I fixed that, too. When the motion sensor porch light broke (ok, when I broke it with the end of the broom handle), I replaced and rewired it. And even when the dryer had to be replaced and that scary 220-volt outlet switched out, I did that, too. Sticky locks -- got it. Ill hanging cabinet doors -- no sweat. A myriad boo-boos, head bonks, knee bashes, and belly aches -- I can manage those.

But there are some things I'm no good at fixing.

My son ripped his ear half off in a football practice once. I couldn't fix that. We went to the E.R. and someone with all the right stuff put Humpty Dumpty together again. When the timing belt went bad in my convertible and a fallen tree knocked the electrical wiring from my house, I called in the experts.

And that's just fine.

It's fine because (and it took me a very long time to learn this) no one is supposed to do everything all alone. The needs we have draw us to other people. We are communal creatures, made to support and help one another, and yet our society has turned isolationist. When's the last time you borrowed a cup of sugar from a neighbor? Or even talked to your neighbor? For some errant reason, we pride ourselves in individuality, in independence.

Bunk.

I was at the fabric store yesterday, looking for curtain fabric for a friend who needs curtains (if only to make me feel better about pulling the fitted sheet down from the kitchen window), when a little man came into the store. I heard him say to the clerk, "I bet you know what I'm looking for."

"Velcro?" she guessed.

He laughed and shook his head, "No. I need someone to make me some pillows. Do you know anyone who does that?"

"No," she answered, a little condescending in her reply. No doubt she was thinking, Now how on EARTH would I have known THAT?

Perhaps she was new and uninformed of the history of the store. She was quite young. In a twinkling, another, more kindly clerk, chimed in. "We used to have a bulletin board with names of people posting services like that, but it's gone." He thanked her sweetly, grateful, no doubt, both for the kind reply and the confirmation that the information source he remembered was not a total fabrication in his mind.

I thought he had given up and left, but I nearly ran over him when I turned a corner in the upholstery section. We were both stretching our hopes a little, both seeking what we would not find.

He repeated his question to me. Now, really, I can make pillows. But what he actually wanted was new covers for his sofa cushions, a little out of my seamstressing expertise, although I knew that if my mother didn't live 800 miles away, she could have easily done the job. Hating to leave him completely empty-handed, I suggested, "What you should do is to drive out of here and down the street until you come to a church with an open office. Go inside and ask if they have any members who might help you. Every church has somebody who sews."

His face lit up as it broke into precious smile. "Thank you," he replied. "That's just what I'll do."

I don't know if he did or did not go. But I do know that sometimes, when things need fixing, the place to go is where the family of God gather. The Divine concept of community -- whether in a church building or camp or school or even on your block -- is that we help one another, bearing one another's burdens, sharing lives in tough times so that we can celebrate together, too.

I'm so glad I'm a part of the family of God because we're fixin' to serve Him.

Faith in the Unseen Fruit

I must be out of my mind.

With so few days left before the onslaught of school and without having cleared several of the bigger items on my summer t0-do list, I have taken on a massive project. What was I thinking?

Perhaps it was the need to help a friend in his time of crisis. Perhaps it was the need for a little academia to grease my own mental wheels before having to spout lessons about grammar and syntax. Perhaps it was insanity that prompted me to volunteer to proofread this 180-page doctoral thesis.

The title is daunting. I can see my pencil (no red pen between friends) quivering with uncertainty: Can I DO this? What if I read the first three sentences and none of it even sounds like my native English? What if my ADD kicks in and I can finish only a page each day because the precious puppy next door needs to be scratched and the laundry needs to be folded and the weeds in the flower beds need to be pulled???

I forge ahead. The first paragraph makes sense. I mark a comma error.

Paragraph two flows neatly. I suggest a different word in one sentence. . . .

An hour and a half later, I've absorbed 11 pages, marking, making suggestions. And I realize that my years in the classroom haven't dumbed me down as much as I thought.

More importantly, as I read about the Rise of Rhetoric in the Reformation Pulpit (you can thank me later for the paraphrasing of the title), I am inspired. In just a few weeks, students will warm the desks in my classroom, less than eager to learn why (and when) an infinitive should not be split, what symbols are developed in The Glass Menagerie, and why a clear thesis sentence is vital to an essay. They will learn these things to glean a grade acceptable to themselves, to their parents, to the colleges they want to enter. But they will learn. They will learn because I will teach them.

And someday, when someone volunteers to read THEIR doctoral theses, the unwitting editor will say just what I said: "Ahhhh. Good, clear, academic writing. How refreshing!"

Waning Summer

Twenty-four days of summer remain. Twenty-four days to collect sunshine, to lunch leisurely with friends, to sleep late, to go to the zoo, to linger over a second cup of coffee rather than carry it, banging against a school bag full of unread test essays and a copy of The Scarlet Letter. It's really time to start getting the "work brain" oiled up and ready to run, but last night was so interrupted with thunders and lightnings, that I don't expect to get much done today.

With the storms finally over, I thought of taking a nap. They did, after all, keep me thoroughly awake from the wee hours of the morning.

But as I began to curl up, the sun came out again, looking as though it might stay only briefly and then fly away again for some tropical clime where its worshippers more devout than I have stripped themselves within a string or two of complete nudity and slathered themselves in coconut-scented oils to roast themselves to a golden brown within earshot of an eternity of pounding waves and the screaming of seagulls.

That has never appealed to me. I've never liked to be hot. In fact, I would far rather be shivering with cold and have to bundle up in another sweater or a snuggly quilt than to be sweltering and find that to shed any further layers would be illegal. I like cool.

But this summer, beginning with a drive to Florida with the top down and the mottled sunburn that ensued, I have embraced the sun, the heat, the sweat, the browned skin. I even rather like it, as long as I have plenty of time to shower and re-coif and don breezy clothing before engaging with the world again.

So today, when the sun came out, I looked for a reason to bask in it. Ah... look there: a little bench, painted twelve years ago and desperately in need of a new look -- something other than its stenciled green grape leaves on a white background. Is there red paint left from the recent refurbishing of the awnings? There is! Well, then.

I threw on my swimsuit again -- it's quite modest as swimsuits in the 21st century go, I assure you--, grabbed up that ratty little bench, stirred the paint, and got to work.

The sun beat down, apparently eager to make up for lost time, and I sanded and cleaned and dried and then painted. The good news is: It's going to need a second coat tomorrow or the next day. A second coat of Awning Red means another hour in the sun and another shade of brown for me.

I can count the number of times I've had a tan on one hand. I confess: I'm kind of enjoying this.

With that done though, I'm still quite tired. More than that, I'm just bored. (I hate when students tell me they are bored -- I tell them REALLY smart kids use their imagination to come up with something to do. What does that make ME?) Anyway, tonight is the last evening I'll have to myself for a while. No son. No company. Just me and the house. I hate to waste it napping or reading. Surely there's something better. T.V.? Please! A movie? Maybe. Re-grout the bathtub? Hmmm...No! Bake? Clean? Sew? Shop?

Maybe tonight would be a good time to start writing that book....

... or at least revisit my old, neglected blog.