Lessons from a Butterfly

Peace and quiet.  We hear that phrase on occasion, but few of us really know what peace and quiet truly feels like.  Quiet, yes.  Peaceful, not so much.  One of my students today wrote a rather eloquent description of peace and quiet… a much appreciated sentiment after a hectic day.

“When I am in church

I am like a quiet butterfly

   fluttering, listening, praying.

When I am worn out I rest

  my wings

and think.”

This simple, sweet description of a little girl’s quiet place made me think… how often do I take time to retreat and meditate?  Am I ever like a quiet butterfly?  Alive and fluttering, yet silently listening to the echoes of the world around me?  In our high-stakes tested, intensely rigorous, deeply engaged world of education, I think sometimes it is easy as an educator to lose sight of the silence, the necessary peace and quiet where we must sometimes rest. 

I have a plaque hanging just inside the front door of my apartment declaring, “today I will stop and smell the daisies”.  How often am I too rushed to even notice the artwork that reminds me to take time to live life? Between the challenges of school and the burdens of daily life, the stress often threatens to overwhelm me.  As I read my student’s delightful little poem today, I thought to myself “Today, I need to take time ‘to rest my wings and think’”.  And as I spend my evening hours grading papers, updating data, giving descriptive feedback to students, and updating my blog, I will remember that sometimes I need to just be like a butterfly- quiet and still and completely at peace with the world around me.

And I will begin with a cup of coffee.

Shared Grief

“Sorrow makes us all children again – destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing. ” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

This past week, I faced a personal heartbreak…the loss of my beloved kitty-cat, Pangur.  He was in many ways my dearest friend- unconditional, faithful, loyal, and loving.  Pangur and I had been through many seasons of life together; college, my first teaching job (and subsequent changes in positions), and most recently, graduate school.  Over the past few months, Pangur began to show signs of an illness which ended up being diagnosed as feline lymphoma.  As it turns out, the silent killer of cancer was inside my kitty’s body, and though we tried hard with the best medicine, chemotherapy treatments, and lots of prayer, Pangur’s little body grew very tired and it was time for him to go home to Heaven.  On Friday morning, January 28, 2011, Pangur surrendered in his brave fight with cancer.

My students had known about Pangur’s illness for some time.  They often left me little notes to tell me they hoped he would get better soon, and that they knew how much I loved him, and that they wanted me to let them know how he was doing (as of course, third graders love to include “write back soon” in the post-script of their letters).  We had many conversations about life that began with Pangur- thoughts about how wonderful our animal friends are, and how they teach us to be responsible and love without reservation, and how much it hurts when we lose a four-footed family member.  Pangur had become known throughout the school… last year’s third graders vividly remembered the stories of when Pangur used to sleep in the bathtub and in the bathroom sink.  They asked daily as I passed through the lunchroom how “the big white kitty” was doing, eager and hopeful eyes waiting for a good report.  My students, present and past, loved to hear reports that he was eating his tuna and sardines, and hung their heads with me when I shared that he wasn’t eating well anymore.

The morning Pangur departed from this life, I entered my school building with a heavy heart, praying for strength to endure the day ahead.  My students immediately knew something was wrong, and walked with me, somber and silent, to our classroom.  I shared with them that I would be very sad that day (and likely for many days to come), and I needed to let them know why.  Their intuition had already revealed to many of them that the very saddest moments had occurred that morning with my baby-boy-kitty, and I spotted a tear coming down one of my dear little friend’s faces.  As I haltingly told them that my Pangur had passed away, the girls, without prompting, gathered to hug me, and the boys sniffled back the tears they were too “tough” to share.  My students took care of me that day, as I struggled to make sense of the grief that threatened to consume me.  They tenderly encouraged me, shared stories of their own losses of family pets (and even people, too), and in the innocent manner of children, took on my pain as their own.  A little girl from my class took on the burden of sharing the sad news with my fourth grade friends, who approached me with silent hugs, knowing that there were no words that would heal but wanting to offer comfort somehow.

These expressions of love throughout this longest of days taught me something precious, a lesson I never want to forget.  In sorrow and grief, we become more like children, questioning and struggling to understand this thing that hurts so much.  And yet children, when faced with a friend’s sorrow, are wise beyond their years.  They know, as adults often forget, that words are just words, but “being there” is the most important part of grief counseling.  They know that a hug can heal.  And they know that sometimes all you can do is let your friend cry, and cry with them.  So, with a heart that is still a little broken, I say thank you to these precious cherubs who so willingly loved on my broken heart.  May I demonstrate such child-like love, and child-like faith, as I walk this journey of life.

Remember the Herdman's?

This comes from a journal back in August of 2009...

In light of trying to "journal" with my kiddos at school, some thoughts have come to mind that I think the teacher heart would appreciate. ♥

Okay, so all of us who are teachers know that someday we could write a book about our experiences in the classroom that would bring tears of laughter (or sometimes just tears) to our readers' eyes. Today was such a day in my third grade classroom for MANY different reasons, but as I reflect on the day, one little moment comes to the surface as an unexpected example of God's provision of levity and laughter amid the storm.

There's always that one kiddo- you know, the one who no matter what you ask, always does the opposite? Sits when he's supposed to be standing, runs when he's supposed to walking, talks when he's supposed to be listening, just generally makes every day more challenging? Well, once in a while, a teacher is blessed to have "that one kiddo", only one with lots more challenges. Here is where that moment of light comes in...

Following our morning meeting today, I was reading to my class "The Best School Year Ever", by Barbara Robinson. We were very caught up in the antics of the Herdman kids- if you haven't read the book, you really should!- and my class was quite shocked by all the things the Herdmans did...bite people, steal baby brothers and tattoo their heads with markers, catch things on fire, walk their crazy cat on a chain, among other silliness. Now remember "that one student" in my class? The one who challenges me basically every minute of every day? Well, as I was reading, my little friend was being quite a little booger in "his corner" and was beginning to draw some attention from his classmates. A little girl sitting directly at my feet- a former management school attendee who is working her hardest to "be good"- said to me with wonder in her voice, "Hey, we have a Herdman in OUR class!". Hooray for a text to self connection! Of course, she realized- with the help of my "teacher look", although I admit I was laughing inside- that she shouldn't really say something like that, but God bless her, we were all thinking it! :)

So the brightest part of this moment for me came when this little girl, who was a booger herself for many years, finally got to realize that she's not the Herdman in our class. The juxtaposition of her demeanor of not very long ago side by side with our little challenger of this year was a stark contrast. And all those good choices she worked so hard to make added up to one of the best phone calls home I've ever gotten to be a part of...a little girl telling her family she's been good for 5 whole days! That far exceeds the lenght of time a Herdman could ever be good!

So thank heaven for small blessings; today's was a precious reminder that even the ones who you want to give up on can certainly grow in character when that seed is watered! I pray that you all have a sweet reminder in your classrooms or homes or interactions with children in the next few days...love those life lessons God teaches us through our children!

Oh, the stories!

Teachers, much like parents, have the opportunity to view life from the perspective of both a grown-up and a child.  The attribute that often sets teachers apart from parents, however, is that we often look through the lenses of many children with much different backgrounds than ourselves.  This is not only a child-like view, but often an entirely different worldview.  Each weekend, as I gather with friends- often fellow teachers- to decompress and debrief after a challenging week, one of our traditions is of course to swap stories of our school experiences.  More than once, a friend has said to me, "You should really write a book!"  To be honest, I'm not sure my stories would really grip anyone enough to read an entire book, but I'm certain that some of those stories might make you laugh...or cry...or both, because sometimes you don't know which is really appropriate. 

So, in trying my hand at a "personal" blog, I'd like to share with you some stories.  The names will be changed, of course, to protect the...well, you know where I'm going with that!...but the characters and their circumstances will be very real.  The stories will be random, from years of journaling with my students, or memories that have cemented in my mind even though they happened years ago, and hopefully each story will serve as a lesson or reflection on life from a different perspective, through the eyes of a child.