This month's existential crisis came in the form of Esther. (Is it normal to have a monthly existential crisis?) I've heard the story of Esther since I was a young girl. Esther, the beautiful queen destined to save her people. Today Pastor John taught on this story again, and I've been emotional since. Mordecai, Esther's uncle, persuades her to act on behalf of the Jews who will otherwise be exterminated at the hands of Haman. Mordecai says, in one of the book's foundational verses, "For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father's family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?" (Esther 4:14). For such a time as this... At lunch after church I was distracted. "Esther had a real calling on her life," I said to Chris, "a true Purpose." 'Yes," he replied. "But she didn't know that when she became queen." And he was right. She didn't know right away, but she eventually knew. What if I never know? I had a snow day on Friday and found myself doing some deep cleaning and organizing. In the bottom drawer of my nightstand I found a roll of black and white film that Chris had taken before we were married. I stared at those pictures, trying to remember what I was like at 22. My skin was so smooth with no wrinkles around my eyes. I had not yet decided to become a mother by adoption, and I had yet to lay eyes on my two beautiful sons. I was finishing up my teaching degree, and as always, I loved learning. I stayed up later and said yes to more adventures. I wore thrift store t-shirts with cut-off camouflage pants. I believed there was a Purpose for me. Soon I had a vocation: English teacher. And I've had moments where my work feels like a passion, but I wouldn't say it's ever felt like Purpose. I felt a hint of that purpose during my summers working with youth at camp. I've felt similar hints when I've met with young girls for Bible study. And of course there's always been my dream to be a back-up singer. I don't need the fame and spotlight of a lead singer; no, just give me a mic and let me sing harmonies. Likewise, I read the work of professional bloggers and think, "Oh, I would love to do that," but that's not my calling either. I'm always living in my head, asking all of these big questions and not often getting answers. Maybe I'll never know my "for such a time as this." Maybe my purpose isn't saving a whole people group like Esther. Maybe it's being a mom and teaching students about Orwell and helping young writers find their voice. Or maybe it's something totally different. Or nothing. Or everything. See what I mean? Existential crisis.
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My personal and professional lives overlapped in the power of the prodigal son. It was the assigned reading for College Comp II, a part of our chapter on analysis. This is a class all about close reading and writing. It comes with a heavy serving of reading and discussion. Maybe you know the story. Father has two sons. Younger son takes money and runs. Lives the party life. Finds himself destitute and living with pigs. Literally. Comes home to rejoicing father. Older brother is peeved. Still, celebration ensues. "This is a story about bad parenting," a student remarked. I nearly spit out my tea. "Can you explain more?" I queried. "Sure. The kid didn't learn a lesson. The father gives and gives and gives. The older son has every right to be angry. How does the dad expect the son to learn from his mistakes?" A lively discussion followed. We talked about grace and forgiveness, about cultural context, about the importance of character placement. (Just why is the older son there? What is his role?) We talked openly about how our own parents might shape our interpretation, and my students looked for my input as the sole mother in the room. "Well, you know," I began, "in my house we mess up every day. In big ways and little ways, myself included. When my kids come to me and say they're sorry about something, my first response is always to hug and kiss and forgive. Then I move into teaching and correction." "Oh, in my house that was always opposite," the same student who initiated the conversation reflected. That same night as I sat in church, I thought again about the parable that I've read hundreds of times and heard dozens of sermons about. While many of my students connected to the older brother, I always find myself relating to the younger son, maybe because I've been the one messing up so very many times. Unlike the younger son, it seems like I'm always drifting away, not necessarily running at full speed. But then I blink and discover I'm away from my Source, the One who really loves and welcomes me home. (Oh, I do so love the love of Jesus.) I sat in church and reflected on my own parents, the ones who first introduced me to that deep, deep love of Jesus around the oak kitchen table as Dad read devotions. The parents who took me each week to sit on the stark wooden pews with a soundtrack of rumbling hymns that taught of "streams of mercy, never ceasing." My parents always sided with grace. Family folklore tells the story of the night I missed my curfew. (I'm sure my siblings can also recite the details by heart.) I was sitting in a friend's yard on a perfect summer night when I saw headlights coming down the road. I had already missed my midnight curfew by at least an hour. "It's my dad," I joked. And it was. He cranked down the manual window and said four words to me: "Get your butt home." And I did. I learned from that lesson, too. I wasn't berated or shamed when I got home. I was first hugged because my parents had been worried that my car was in a ditch on a gravel road. Yes, there were consequences for my actions because I had broken the rules. But I was corrected in love. Grace always won. This lesson will come back to the classroom, too, because I label this as a teaching blog. I hope I'm known as a teacher who sides with grace. This morning two senior boys came into my classroom on the day our Kate Chopin literary analysis is due. Our school has had district-wide filtering and network issues this week. These boys had both been victims with no access to their first drafts. I could have said, "I'm sorry, but there will be a penalty for your actions." And maybe I should've. But I will forever be that young girl in an old church singing, "Let that grace now like a fetter bind my wandering heart to thee." So instead I said, "I understand extenuating circumstances. I know the tech is up and running now, so try to get it to me by the end of the day." And each boy smiled and said, "Thanks, I will." So that's my response today, too. "Thanks. I will." |
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September 2020
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