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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