Summer Sabbath

The paradox:  As much as I love school and my students, I can hardly wait for summer. It's just a couple of exams and some boxes of packed up stuff away, and I can practically taste the watermelon!

Fifteen students sit in my classroom, poring over pages of an test, bubbling in answers and writing paragraphs to answer one last essay question. In less than an hour, they will complete this course and go rest their brains for 80 days or so.

As will I.

It isn't that I am eager to see them go. They have brought joy and meaning to my days. Truthfully, I will miss them.

But now is the time for balance, for my own renewal.  Time to read books for fun instead of freshman essays and The Scarlet Letter. Time to clean my house instead of cleaning out my email. Time to take long walks instead of running to the bathroom between 5th and 6th periods. Time to write letters and birthday cards and maybe even Christmas cards instead of writing lesson plans and tests and comments on papers.  Time to cook meals instead of throwing sandwiches into bags. Time to be still and know that God is God.

I need this period of rejuvenation. This Summer Sabbath is what makes the rest of the year possible. By the middle of July, I will desperately desire to return, will be making mental lesson plans, will come re-decorate my room, will buy school supplies with the joyful abandon of an expectant grandmother, will try (unsuccessfully) to learn the names of students before they enter the room in August.

In the meantime, my prayer today, exam day, goes like this:

Dear Father, 
     In these final moments I have with my students, give them peace. Help them to remember answers and to understand concepts and to think clearly and to pace themselves as they take this test. 
     As we leave for the summer, give us opportunities to serve those in need, to fellowship with your family, to be still and know that you are God. Give us wisdom and courage to pass the summer's tests. Draw us all closer to You, resting in the grace that Christ makes possible. 
    Through Him and by His name, I beseech you,
    Let it be so ...  Amen 

From Prynne to Proctor

My sophomores began the year with adultery. Well -- reading about its effects. In August, Hester Prynne showed my class how to accept her own error of infidelity, learn from it, grow past it; Arthur Dimmesdale showed them what pain sin can turn into when hidden; and Roger Chillingworth won the Most Vengeful award for his attempts to punish indiscretion with his own evil hands.

Discussions about confession and forgiveness on the pages of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter turned from simply literary and academic studies to deeply personal introspection.

• What letter (sin) do you keep hidden? 
• Who is the object of your (sometimes justified) ire?
• What is God teaching you that will allow you to serve others more humbly, more patiently, more generously? 

In our studies as the year progressed, we traveled with the ambitious Puritans, the founding fathers, the truth-seeking Romantics, the scientific Realists, the nature loving Naturalists, the rebellious Moderns (and their jazzy Harlem buddies), landing at the end of the year on The Crucible -- yes, more Puitans and more adultery, more accusation and more forgiveness.

Sure, we looked at historical parallels and literary structure. Yes, we studied character motivation and symbolism. 

But when a character chooses to die on the gallows at the hands of corruption rather than to lie to appease his accusers, who can pass up the opportunity to talk about living principled lives? When  people innocent of the charges levied against them give their lives so that the guilty find pardon, who can resist the urge to connect the story of John Proctor to Jesus Christ?

Whether you know these works or not, the point is this: ideas of sin and forgiveness leap from the pages of literature, works nearly every high school graduate has (supposedly) read. In my classroom, we invoke the wisdom of Christ and, because I teach in a Christian school, such a practice is encouraged. But I realize that is not the case everywhere.

Therefore, what I earnestly pray is this:

May discussions of principles and moral responsibility rain down on students everywhere -- in private schools and public; among Christians, Jews, Muslims, and atheists; in classrooms and hallways and cafeterias and locker rooms; from August until June, and in July, too.

May Truth drench every lesson, until seeds of righteousness sprout, grow, and bear good, good fruit.

May every scarlet letter worn represent lessons learned and character redeemed.

And may Christ be glorified -- even where His name is never spoken.

Perfect Attendance

Last year, for the first year time in 25 years of teaching, I made it all the way through the year without a sick day -- until I ended up in the hospital on the last day of class. We still aren't sure if it was appendicitis or not.

This year, I got a flu shot, washed my hands, ate healthful lunches, got reasonable sleep, took good care of myself, pushed through a cold and several migraines.  With just ten days of classes left, I haven't had to call in sick. Just ten days to go...

The end of a school year brings a flurry of activity:  dinners, awards presentations, tests, last minute grading, goodbyes, forms, packing boxes, cleaning, purging.  My to-do list has grown so long, and I've puzzled together a schedule to fit all the must-do's into the remaining days, the remaining hours.  Yes, it's a masterpiece.

Alas, I'm looking at it while I sit with my husband at the doctor's office while a substitute watches one of my classes take a test, two of my classes study for a test, and one of my classes sign copies of yearbooks to present on Friday. Yes, in the wee hours of the morning, I called in sick so that I could tote my sweet husband to the doctor and tend to him today.

Let me introduce my husband:  a man who cleans the bathroom and makes the bed and dumps ice trays and mows the lawn and grows peppers, a man who plays the congas or a ukulele or a harmonica to keep me company while I wash dinner dishes, a man who takes care of morning kid duties so that I can leave for school before the crack of dawn. He protects me after heavy weekends of research papers and yearbook deadlines. He buys me chocolate and Pepsi when I'm running on empty after a long, long week of classes. He listens to stories about classes and students. He makes me laugh on days I want to scream, and he holds me when I need to cry. He understands how important my work is.

That's why he deserves my sick day. That's why he deserves every bit of my attention today while tests pile up and school errands wait and emails fill my inbox. That's why he deserves to have me bring him medicine and drive him to the doctor and help him get dressed and hold him while he cries in pain.

That's why, when my seniors, whose last day is today, text me to say, "We missed you today on our last day," I can confidently reply this way: "My last lesson to you is that family must always come first. Always. They deserve you."

Maybe next year I'll finish with perfect attendance. Or maybe my family will need me again. And that's just fine, too.