Storm

Ray is singing "Let It Be Me," in the background. I have his voice turned up so loud that I may not be able to hear our weather radio if it goes off. Hmm I better turn him down.
I has been a long time since I have written in this blog. In fact, it has been a long time since I have written anything at all. It isn't so much that I have had nothing to write about as much as I have had nothing to say. That may seem like a subtle difference, but to me it is monumental. It is huge, gigantic. It is a huge gigantic monumental obstacle, because no matter how cool something is to me, it just does not interest me if it does not mean something.
You see, for a long time I was able to peer at all of my circumstances through a lens that seemed to force everything into making sense. Regardless of the situation I was in, if I just took out my special little looking glass, it all started making sense . Well, that little looking glass hasn't worked in a while.
Many things have happened that are interesting enough to write about, but without an effective looking glass of meaning it is almost impossible for me to start tappin' on the keys. Just to illustrate, I will give you a single example of this from this past week at my camp.
On Wednesday, I noticed that the clouds were gathering, so I hustled to the office to see the radar. It was obvious that a storm was headed our way, but I didn't know how long it would take to get there, nor did I know its severity. So, while I was trying to figure those things out all of the computers at camp froze. My screen would not refresh. The animated map quit moving. The back button did nothing and of course the forward button did nothing either. Damn, after muttering some words that were unheard and inappropriate I bounded out the door to my cart to warn my staff about the storm. My best guess was 40 minutes till it hit us.
Okay, so I knew that in 40 minutes something would hit us, but I had no idea what it would look like. Would it rain out the entire day? Would it have lightning? Would it pass by quickly? I did not know. I found each one of my supervisors and told them my news. Each wanted more info. How long would it last? How severe would it be? Lightning? I did not know I told them, but I assured them I was working on it. My radio was on and I turned it to talk to the office. There was no info from them and at times I was sure I was being ignored, I wasn't, but it felt that way. As I was traveling back to the office, I stopped a girl on a rec cart and asked what information she had. She had nothing except that the busses were only shuttling students back to camp, no shuttles were taking students out of camp. That turned out to be a big something.
Well, that was all I needed. I let all of my supervisors know to not only shut down but to tear down as well. I told them to get all gear stowed away, but I still did not know what hazards this storm had. I only knew that someone, somewhere thought that it was severe enough to evacuate the rec fields. My foot mashed the accelerator on my cart and it seemed to understand my hurry because it seemed faster than usual. I went to the Amphitheater to make sure they understood to tear down as well. They did, so I started helping.
37 minutes after my first warning I walked to the ladder that my last staff member was using to get down off the course. Lightning was flashing, but the thunder was muted. Just as I grabbed the ladder to help her down the wind hit and chairs began flying across the concrete. Trash cans bounded over the stairs spilling their contents to the air. Then the rain hit, and it hurt. This wasn't some little misty rain. This was a curtain of big, giant drops driven by 60 mile an hour winds. We couldn't be heard in anything but our loudest screams. Three of us held the ladder so that it would not blow away. Sarah made it down and we all scrambled for shelter.
The skatepark staff, the amphitheater staff, a dozen or so students and myself huddled by the stage and in the skate room waiting for the storm to pass. I was frustrated. So many times I had worked hard to make sure that we were prepared for the worst weather. A couple of times we had to scramble, but we were always a team. We had always made it, and even if it was close we could say, "Yeah, alright! Praise God!" This time the worst did not happen, and I don't even think that it was the closest call we had ever had, but I felt all alone making that decision. It did not feel good.
Normally at this time I have some insight about how this is a metaphor for life or I have some sort of clincher, or I can make some quick quip and end it. Not this time. I don't know what it means and scarier still, I don't even know if it means anything.
A lot of stuff feels that way right now. A lot of stuff feels fun, or interesting, or scary, but for now, and I hope it is just for now, it does not seem to have much meaning. Maybe the only meaning it has is this, get prepared, because another storm will eventually find its way to camp, and we better be ready.

1

It is not good to make decisions in the summer time. The laziness of the season contributes to a lethargy that numbs you much like tequila, slowly and seductively like a confidence man.

Such was my state of mind when I made my decision to leave my job of fifteen years to pursue ideals higher and mightier than comfort and convenience. I was convinced that I was stagnant. I knew that I had to jump out of the boat and swim for shore, and I knew that the cost of the dive might be my death, but I discounted the seriousness of the decision in my stupor. I was blinded by the prospect of personal growth and service to community.

My family encouraged the decision. I would be closer to home, they said. But I will have to work longer, I said. But you will drive less, they said. But I will work much harder, I said. But you live here… I agreed. In my application I said that I wanted the job because it is the very nature of teachers to make an impact on the community in which they live, and if the teacher lives in the community in which they teach that influence is multiplied by a power of compassionate effectiveness. A teacher that lives and walks where he or she teaches can change lives. I really believed it when I wrote it, because it was summer after all. I got the job.

The congratulations were unending. Friends were surprised that I had finally taken my own advice to be daring and to make bold uncomfortable decisions, and I noticed that none of them made similar decisions.

I was not worried. Why should I be? I was a great teacher. Everyone at my previous school said so. They said, “Don’t leave us…please.” I did anyway, anxious to show my mettle in a new field of battle. I needed to do this. I needed to grow. I needed to broaden my experiences. I needed the validation of a new medal on my breast.

In my fifteen years of teaching I had developed certain opinions about education, and I had decided that I was right, and I had decided that I needed to move into a position that would allow me to move my right opinions into right action. I wanted to become a principal and I felt that this decision was a step in that direction. It was risky to move from a job in which I excelled to a job in which I might not, but the risk was worth it. My beliefs about students were forged in a slow hot fire. I was right. I just needed…

A word. That is what I needed. A word of validation. You see, I am a person of faith, and it was this faith that almost cost me my life. I just needed a word, a promise, a whisper. I had told so many for so long that no one wanted you to know God’s will more than God that I had to act. I had to. I believed it to be the right decision. I knew that it was, but I wanted something a little more tangible than a belief. I wanted a word.

The word never came, but the first day to report did, so on the fourteenth of August I walked into Shawnee Middle School for the first time. I don’t think anyone noticed me.

Cellar

I couldn't sleep last night. Sometime in the early hours of the morning my weather radio alarm went off. I stumbled out of bed to find out what catastrophe awaited us and heard that we were in a tornado watch. My family lives in Oklahoma, so that's no big deal. In Oklahoma you are either fascinated by thunder, lightning, and tornadoes, or you are terrified of them because of some close call. I have always been fascinated, but most of my family has always been terrified.

The number of times that I can remember being awakened in the early hours, hauled out of bed, and carried to the musty cellar is more than I can count. I'm not kidding. Trips to the cellar happened anywhere. At friends houses if were visiting during an alert, at relatives houses, all locales were potentially a trip to the cellar if the tornado siren sounded.

At my great grandmother's the trips to the cellar were scary. Her cellar was the size of a large shower, but her family was the size of a small army. It was dark and wet, and if it had been raining there would be boards on the floor to keep your feet out of the water. The walls were lined with shelves filled with canned vegetables and fruit. A single bare light hung from the ceiling. Its meager light never made it past the jars of canned vegetables. If it was a particularly nasty looking storm, many neighbors would drift into the cellar with us which meant that the youngest ones had to find empty spots in the shadows on the shelves. It was there on those shelves that I realized that I was far more scared of what was lurking in the shadows than what was roaring outside.

When I became a teenager I was given a little more freedom about when I would or wouldn't go to the cellar. Although I always felt like this freedom happened because I was older, I now know that the real reason was the advancement of weather radar. With the advanced doppler radar, Gary England, Oklahoma's premier weather man, would keep us advised while we were sitting in our living rooms. Instead of sitting in the cellar clutching a transistorized radio and waiting for the all clear siren, we would eat popcorn and drink Dr. Pepper while we watched the storm waltz around us. Now, we didn't have to go to the cellar unless we could see it's electronic footprints marching right at us.

One cloudy evening while I was outside watching storm clouds gather, my grandfather and grandmother pulled into our driveway. When they arrived I knew that we must be in a tornado watch. I followed them inside. They sat down on the couch, and I sat in a chair by the window. Gary England was in front of his doppler radar tracing out the expected path of the storm I had been watching outside. As ominous as the clouds appeared, we were only in a tornado watch. That didn't still my grandmother. She was shaking visibly and was chattering about needing to go to the cellar now. That was not an option I liked very much because it might mean that I had to go with her. You know how it goes; we don't want grandmother worried about her grandchild. In desperation, I told her that it was just a tornado watch, but her formative years were not spent with doppler radar. She knew that when the clouds were dark and swirling it was time to get underground.

Instead of comforting my grandmother I said something sarcastic. I don't remember the exact words, but I do remember saying them with a laugh. My grandfather stood up and said, "Marcine, we're leaving. I am not going to put up with that." They both got up and walked out as light rain began to fall. My parents didn't say anything to me. Maybe they were thinking the very thing I said, or maybe they knew that I was feeling guilty enough not to need any correction. I don't know which, but I do remember watching them leave hoping that the storm wouldn't get any stronger.

So, last night the sound of thunder and wind driven rain was echoing through my bedroom and through my head. It made me anxious, and I wasn't sure why. Now, after thinking about it for several hours, I think that I have an answer. I don't have a cellar.

Rule Number One

I am about to break a rule that I had established for myself a while ago. I had said to myself that I would only post narratives that involved me. I would no longer post positions or beliefs or opinions unless they could be revealed by my experience.

So, what is this post going to be about? Well, just let me say that on one hand I am frustrated with everything theological. Why? Well, it is just that when we approach Christian Theology with a microscope we are doomed to committing some horribly grievous errors. Remember these are the opinions of one not theologically trained, so you may be wondering why all of the smoke and mirrors before I actually get to the point. The answer to that is, its complicated.

One of my dearest friends took issue with me about a book that I liked very much. There was much concern that it was not theological. There was even some concern that it was heretical. They wanted me to read a review by a theologically trained person about the weaknesses of this book. I did.

Here is what I found out, but you need to be forewarned that my discoveries had very little to do with the book review.

1. I am very glad that going to seminary was not in the cards, that it was not in the will of God, that the tea leaves didn't show up a the bottom of my cup spelling a fuzzy "if you go you will understand," primarily because I am becoming convinced that if I had gone I would understand less.
2. I have decided that my above mentioned rule was a good one, and now I am contemplating some sort act of contrition to remind me to never break that rule again.
3. I have decided that it is absolutely true that I don't understand very much, but I am just as convinced that most of those claiming to understand don't.
4. I am bewildered that in the interest of theology, and in the interest of upholding the faith, so much energy would be spilled out by those who are trained in biblical studies onto an area that they are somewhat less trained, Literature. Those who have been trained in the inerrantness of scripture have a very hard time understanding any literary devices like hyperbole, metaphor, simile, foreshadowing, or poetic language or imagery even though the Bible is filled with them. If I were to point this out, the response would be quick that those things are okay unless the topic of your literary work is faith.
5. I have decided that I do still believe in scripture. I am not checking out on God's Word, but I am going to be very careful where I go for mentoring in understanding it, however. I am not looking for some open theologian. Believe it or not, I still believe in the inerrant message of the bible.
6. I still like my book.

Jingle Bells

For as long as I can remember my favorite Christmas song was "Joy to the World." I remember singing it in elementary school plays when singing such songs was legal. I also remember the first time in second grade that I wondered to myself what kind of Lord could bring such joy. It was a few years before I really understood that Lord or the joy he could bring, but a lack of understanding did not keep me from appreciating the hope that was in the song.

Sure, Joy to the World has always been my favorite Christmas song, but it has been displaced this year by a different one; one that I would have never suspected. The change in my favorite song happened two days ago on my afternoon bus route.

I pulled into the school to pick up my kids, and many of them were anxiously awaiting my arrival with their jackets buttoned and their hoods up. I would have thought that they were hopping around to stay warm if I didn't already know that they usually hop around, but today the hopping was quite exaggerated. So, With all the hopping and bouncing and yelling, I was concerned that this might be a very crazy bus ride.

I noticed that one of my kids was more hyper than the rest. He is a small 1st grader with close cut blonde hair, a bright mischievous smile, and thick glasses that make his blue eyes look like a pair of dinner plates. He bounced up the steps onto the bus and began leaping from seat to seat. I had to call him down several times, and he eventually settled two seats behind me. He leaned his body over the seat in front of him so he could see the lost and found items under the dashboard.

I whispered to him, "Drake, do you know what month this is?"

In a voice just as soft as mine, he said, "No."

I said, "December." As the rest of the bus grew strangely quiet I realized that they thought we were sharing secrets that they were not supposed to hear.

He said, "Okay."

I said, "Do you know why December is special?"

"No."

"Well, Drake, December is the month of Christmas."

No longer whispering, Drake said, "OHH!"

He sat back in his seat in a more relaxed manner. Soon, just before the buses started leaving, he began bouncing ever so slightly. Then, as I pulled the bus away from the elementary school he began whispering again. "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way." there was a slight pause and then, "jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way." Another pause and then, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. jingle bells jingle bells, jingle all the way."

He began looking around like he might find the next words written somewhere on the roof of the bus. "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way." His face drew up pensively. His bright smile lowered then got big again and a new twinkle came to his magnified eyes. He began again with more confidence but still in a whisper, "Jingle Bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh" At that moment at the top of my lungs I yelled. "HEY!" He fell back into his seat with a wide look of surprise. Every student on the bus turned to see what was wrong with the crazy bus driver, and then I started whispering, "Jingle bells, jingle bells,"

Drake caught on and he started the song as well. Soon the entire bus was whispering Jingle Bells, but every time we got to sleigh they would stop and let me yell, "HEY!" as loud as I could. The bus began a medley of favorite Christmas songs of which we were lucky to know a single line. None of that mattered as every person on that bus was singing and smiling and waving and laughing. It was then that I realized the power of the Lord that could bring joy. So, this year, and probably only for this year, my favorite Christmas song is Jingle Bells.

A Gift for Dad

It happened to me again. A simple writing prompt sent shivers down my spine when it inspired a 7th grader to write a response that floored me. The prompt was simple: Who would you most like to buy for this Christmas? What would you get for them, and why would you buy for that person?

This time it did not happen until the last period of the day. I had heard my fill of things like video games for my mom, and vacations for my dad and others that involved special trips for the entire family minus the annoying little brother.

Well, I almost didn't let this young man share his, but thank God I did. He said that the person he would most like to buy for was his dad. I thought, Okay, that is about the 13th Dad today, no big deal. But I became intrigued when he said that the thing that he wanted his dad to have was a photo album of all of his pictures from when he was born to present. That sure did not seem like much of a "man" gift, so I asked him why he wanted to give his dad a photo album.

He said, "Mr. Gibson, I want my dad to have that because he left me when I was two days old, and I have not seen or heard from him since. I want him to have a chance to see his son."

I said, "But if your dad left you like that why in the world would you want him to have such a special gift?"

He answered, "Mr. Gibson, I am trying to forgive him."

Weekend!

Everyday I start my classes with a "bellringer." Some teachers call it boardwork, and others call it a bell activity. On this particular day my "bellringer" was a short writing prompt. It was very simple, and I was convinced that it would be a good topic for my students to show some creativity in their writing.

On the white board at the back of the room under "Thursday's writing prompt" I wrote, "How would your life be different if there were no weekends. Please explain your answer." I began thinking of all the things that my students would say. I knew that some of them were going to say that they hated school, and if they had to go all the time they would start skipping classes to get a break. I knew that some of them would say that if there were never any weekends they would not get to go to church. I also knew that some would say that without weekends college football games and tailgate parties would come to an end, and I knew that some students would say that without weekends they would never be able to have a sleepover with their friends.

I knew all of those. They weren't that hard to predict, but it did not take long for my students to share a loss from "no weekends" that I never thought of. It happened in my first hour class. Almost all of the predicted answers came from various students. Many were excited to share a distaste of school in an approved teacher led activity. Others wanted to share a little thing about themselves with the class. Finally, I called on a small, shy, girl in the center of my classroom.

She started, "I think my life would suck if there were no weekends. I would have to go to school every day, and I don't think I could handle that for very long. I don't hate school; I would just need a break from it. I would also hate not being able to see my friends that don't go to this school. Without weekends I may not be able to see them...ever. The most terrible thing about not having weekends, though, would be that I would never be able to see my dad."

As soon as she said it several other students shot their hands up and said almost in unison, "Me too!" I was crushed. I tried to hide my concern by moving on to the next activity, but another student said, "At least you get to see your dad. Mine left me when I was only two. I have never seen him since. " After this young man shared several students nodded their heads in agreement. I paused and let the class finish the discussion. I said that I was sorry and we moved on.

The same basic scenario happened in two more classes that day. This time I was prepared to let the discussion happen. It reminded me of "The Shack." When God was asked why he presented himself to the world as Father he said "because after the fall I knew that there would be a severe shortage of good fathering." I am not bringing this up to say how terrible the world is. I am not trying to say that men are terrible, or that men are slackers or any of that. No, I am only bringing this up to say that this is the way things are. I would like to change it, but at least for the students in my room, I can't. The only thing I can do is know it. I need to know that this is how things are. I need to know that this world is not heaven, and I need to help students that don't have the blessings that I do.

Today is the first day of a 3 day weekend for the students at my school. I really hope that they are all having a good time.