September 2018

I’ve left Mr. Whiskers in the care of some kind neighbors for the weekend while I attend the annual MIDTESOL conference (for English language educators) in another state. And as I sit in session after session of informative presentations today, I’m struck by the common thread between both animals and all kinds of people: this desire to be both free and loved – and how the two are inter-related.

It may seem like an elementary thing, but I have to stop and remind myself that we can never truly believe we are free (and thus feel and act like it) until we understand that we can be or are truly loved… AND when we are truly loved and we know it, trusting that love (or learning to trust it again when the time is right) will lead us to live all the more freely in a good way.

It will lead to any or all of the following: more contentment, greater clarity, decreased fear, resounding (positive) impact, indescribable peace. And I think those are the marks of true freedom…much more than just the wide bounds to do whatever one feels like doing.

I see this not only on a basic level in the behavior of my guinea pig but also in the way at-risk folks I quietly advocate for open up to a sense of community when they know they are safe with me and in the way my students overcome their anxiety to develop more fluency whey they see they will not be punished for their honest, learning-driven errors.

Hard to believe I’ve had Mr. Whiskers for over a year and a half now. And equally hard to believe how far he’s come in expressing himself more freely and learning to trust again after being treated poorly by his previous owners.

One day last weekend, he curled up in a ball in the sunlight and slept like a rock while I worked busily very nearby.

And the next day, while I played a certain song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxO5rLV9pWU), when I leaned close, I could hear him squeaking along softly and sweetly with the music.

Fitting…and, oh, so true.

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It’s that time of year again for those of us who live in certain climate zones: the season of heavy dew that can border on frost and the time when early morning drives may require use of defrost for a moment, to keep that film of mist on the inside of the windshield from temporarily blocking our view of the road.

While I thought about that this morning, I began to imagine that mist as a representation of all that holds us back and burdens us in life. For the person who only has him/herself to rely upon, internal angst over the areas where we feel afraid or inadequate can certainly and understandably be daunting. But if a person believes that Providence will provide needed strength, protection, and life-foundation, what’s there to truly worry over or be lacking in? 

In this society of ours, it seems: a great many things, areas, reasons.

That’s because we dwell in a world where imperfection, fear, selfishness, and pain temporarily have the upper hand. And while we live here, we will always have to wrestle, to grow and learn repeatedly how to lean if we want to find and maintain a true sense of security.

And finding that true sense of security means the foundation of my soul-house must be on the rock of God’s faithfulness. And the framework of my soul-house must be nailed together with the iron of His unchanging truth.

If that’s the case, the windy days will certainly come, and hurricanes are bound to hit in their season, but though a window may crack or some shingles come loose, the soul-house will still be left standing in the end. In other words, the temporary circumstances that lead me to question my identity and sense of security will eventually clear away, repairs will be made, and peace will flow from the center of the soul-house again.

Through all of these musings, I ultimately came to this conclusive prayer: “Blown upon by the security of my Father’s-child identity, may my morning-mist insecurities evaporate day by day.”

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Last week, students in my Business English course were required to come to my office for one-on-one conferences. Since it was just the second week of the semester and nearly all of them only recently arrived in the States, this was my first time to really talk with most of them extensively. To a person, I was struck by how sweet and thoughtful they are…and by how unique each of them is.

I thought I would be worn out by the long day of intensive communication, but it didn’t drain me nearly as much as I’d expected. At first I thought this was because we’d found lots of areas for connection: similar hobbies or interests, places we had both traveled to or places we both dreamed of visiting, special needs or questions they had that I felt very comfortable in discussing…

Later, however, I realized it was more than that. There came a moment in each meeting when I looked into a student’s eyes and the beauty – the gift – of their most basic being hit me. 

I’d like to call this a “heartbeat moment”: the instant (whether we grasp it consciously or not) when we look at a person near us and we acknowledge that they are a person, that they are living, breathing, feeling, and deserving of basic respect and in need of love.

I reflected further on those encounters and smiled at the thought of how meaningful our next class session will likely feel for me. It may not be that much different for the students, but when I look out at their faces, I will see individual marvels with individual stories that I now know more of.

This thought also comes with a challenge: to keep that heartbeat moment alive through the term and remember the humanity of these students when making various planning and grading decisions later. And it comes with a jolt of responsibility: to keep tender eyes open so that I am primed for more “heartbeat moments” with those I encounter daily – especially those I am more likely to overlook when life gets busy and distractions (and prejudices) might cloud my heart vision.

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This Labor Day, I pause to reflect for a few moments. And if I’m honest, I will confess that I struggle to maintain a balance between two extremes: working my heart to the bone to try please those I work for or with versus not really caring about work and wanting to somehow escape its responsibilities.

The first extreme springs from a fear that the work I’ve done and all the work I’ve yet to do will somehow never really be good enough. The second has roots in the over-exhaustion that comes when I find myself trying to recover from the backlash of the first.

And somehow, I have a feeling I’m not the only one out there who has found him/herself in this boat, caught in this cycle.

So my mind floats to those old, wise words telling me not to worry, not to fear. “Look at the birds and the flowers – they don’t worry and all is provided for them…” And yet, I see members of the natural world also doing their “work” and receiving the gifts provided for them, gathering and storing for the winter ahead. Noticing one of my bushy-tailed little neighbors yesterday inspired me to write this poem:

Instincts sharp

and shiny

eyes vigilant

enough to

steer clear

of my

careening tires–

even though

that mouthful

surely outweighs

your head.

Bounding gracefully

over blades,

launching expertly

onto bark…

I instinctively

want to

hear if

you fear

the knowns–

and unknowns–

of winter?

Then I ask myself – what’s the difference between worry and fear? And how are humans different than animals with our given ability to make choices — choices that include one to trust the Creator when fear or worry (or both) would threaten to drain the joy from work that we should be reaping along with a salary (as Solomon suggested in Ecclesiastes 3:12-13)?

My head tells me that the contented and peaceful trusting-middle is the place where I should dwell, and my heart cries with the need to comply. But every day, as I face the winter of the world, I, the human, must make a very real choice: to be a little bit more like the lily, the sparrow, the squirrel.

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