A First Day Prayer for Teachers (originally posted on 8/9/22)

 Bless the teachers, O Lord.

As they head to bed on this last night of summer help them to sleep through the night with no nightmares of missing school supplies, 45 children in a classroom and no furniture. Let them dream of shiny apples, clean whiteboards and children with new clothes.

Allow them to see through to completion these three things on the first day of school.

•  Get every child fed. 
• Get every child on the right bus. 
• Get every child excited to come back the next day.

We pray to the Lord:

     for the brand new teacher to be aware of just how cool her job is, that she eats breakfast even with butterflies in her stomach, that a mature teacher will put an arm around her and tell her she's doing fine.

    For the veteran teacher to know that each first day is endless with possibilities and that there is time to start anew, that they remind the newbies that the teacher' smile and greeting at the door are more important than a Pinterest worthy bulletin board.

    For the near retirement teachers to be as excited for this last year as they were their first, that they enter this year with listening ears and an open heart, determined to make this year their best.

We pray to the Lord

For our teachers' safety. Keep intruders at bay. Give parents sweet word to share and fair, honest questions to ask.. Let the administrators see their hearts much clearer than their plan books.

We pray to the Lord

for all teachers to realize their importance in their classrooms, schools and communities. They alone are entrusted with our world's most valuable and precious resources. 

Hold the teachers, Holy One.

May they learn, teach, listen, and talk, 

May they show tolerance and patience and grittiness and softness and a sense of humor.. 

May their expectations be high but their safety nets sure. 

May their classrooms be full of laughter and grace and love. 

May their desks be joyfully cluttered and their flower vases always full of dandelions and clover.

Let it be, O Lord. Let it be.

A New Season of Walking (originally written on 8/15/22)

 In the fall of 2005 my grandpa died at the age of 90; my grandmother, at 87, followed suit a few months later. As lifelong farmers, they had lived their lives divided into seasons. Spring was for plowing and planting. Summer was for blackberries and cutting hay. Fall was harvest time while winter was for enjoying the hams hung in the smokehouse and canned goods stored under the bed. 

My grandparents' death brought me into a new season of my own.

 The ends of their lives caused me to consider my own. If I was lucky and able to live with the same good health and longevity as they, my journey was half way complete. 

My oldest was a freshman in college and my twins were juniors in high school. In other words, what I had considered unending tasks of daily mothering was in reality coming to an end. The wind was shifting in my life and without fully understanding, my becoming was at hand.

 What exactly would I do with what was left of my "one wild and precious life?"

As I leaned into trying to make this decision, I (very seriously) decided to devote much time in prayer. I would figure out what God wanted for me. My quiet time of looking inward lasted for about 23 seconds and I gave up on having the gift of discernment. Instead of praying, I began to walk.

I walked alone early in the morning and again in the evening. When the weather was rainy or cold or hot, I walked.

 For a year and a half, I walked, and slowly,  I walked back to the woman God had created me to be. 

 A woman with simple tastes and needs. A woman who would love and delight in her children no matter what road they chose. A woman who would return to her parents to celebrate and mourn all that life brought. A woman who saw her teaching as a calling itself and not just a stepping stone to something more. A woman who didn't want the big house or big debt that went with it.

I walked away from my marriage.

I wish that the next season had been one of light and love, but the changing of seasons is often stormy and disconcerting. A divorce is never easy. The process is messy and heartbreaking and the recovery can be a long time coming. 

As I began to navigate this new season, I found the perfect walking companion in a rescue pup I named Grace. 

(Side note: Before separating, my then-husband and I tried marriage counseling. The therapist asked me what I would need to stay. I quickly said I needed to live in a house full of grace. When that turned out to be a deal breaker I knew it would come at some point in my life. So for better or worse, a puppy that would grow to be 110 pound ensured that I would most definitely live in a house often bursting with Grace.)

Grace and I walked -- a lot and we began to count our walks as prayers.  We walked right into our worth and the holiness that had always been there. We walked with friends and family. We walked alone, and ultimately, we walked with Walter. Our prayers had become conversations and laughter and joy.

Covid brought a new season for all of us. Grace's age and arthritis were noticeable and my enthusiasm and energy for teaching 5th graders was beginning to wane. Our walks were shorter and slower, and we no longer needed a leash to hold us together. The thousands of walks we had taken had melded us together for all time.

During this season, Grace has completed her journey. I've retired from a long and happy teaching career. 

Honestly, my walks have been far and few between until this past week.

Walter and I adopted a new dog named Jayber, after a beloved character in Wendell Berry's novels.

 Jayber is learning to walk on a leash, and I'm getting used to having a walking companion that loves fire hydrants and has an enthusiastic obsession with birds and squirrels. I can tell that we are going to be great friends.

And as I enter a new season yet again, I notice that I'm walking quicker and holding on to the leash tighter these days. Yet in the middle of it all  I know that God remains, and I find that I'm still walking with Grace.

The Church That Grew Me (originally posted on 3-6-23)

 As a young child growing up at Main Street United Methodist church in Covington, I was loved and taught and encouraged by so many folks who have since joined the saints that continue to surround me. I knew the stories of Moses in a basket and Jesus blessing the children.  I knew that a boy along with Jesus served the five thousand with only a basket lunch. I knew the good and loving God who had created me, in the Divine's very image. That I was destined to be the hands and feet of Jesus. 

By the time I was 12, I had witnessed a few moments of the underbelly of church. 

There were arguments of women wearing pants in services, what color should the carpet be and, of course, who could play the piano that a cantankerous woman had "donated" to the church but seemed to think she would make the rules. Baptism was another topic that could get people worked up as well.

 There were times when I thought, even then, aren't we supposed to love one another. Where is God in any of this? and more practically, who gets the final word at church?

When I began my confirmation classes in the 1970s, I remember vividly how interesting and impressed I was by the structure of the United Methodist Church. It felt like, for lack of a better analogy, there were plenty of "checks and balances" for anything terrible to really happen.

Even then, I loved the rhythm and tradition in the denomination and in my own small church as well. It felt good to recite the Apostle's Creed and sing the doxology, knowing that other United Methodists were doing the same all across the country. 

The church idealist that I was then also loved that Methodist pastors were well educated and that ordination was no walk in the park. Even the Book of Discipline seemed to me to leave room for growth and discovery in a world that was and is evolving and changing. 

I was witness as the denomination made way for those divorced as well as recognizing the call in women. And, while the Bible was front and center, with weekly readings from the Psalms, the Epistles, The Old and New Testament, we were not worshippers of the Bible but of the living and loving of God. We followed the teachings of Jesus.

I'm no longer part of the UMC, mostly because that the wheels for inclusive love were moving way too slowly for me. I was fortunate enough to find a church that welcomed and honored all of my friends and family, not matter who they loved.

 For better or worse, my parents still remain.  

 Over 60 years they've given to the Methodist Children's Home, packed countless UMCOR buckets for disaster relief, sponsored missionary trips. They've walked along side young confirmands, taught Sunday School and run the Mountain Mission room that sends home items to Eastern Kentucky. They've mowed the church's  grass and served in any way possible with the preschool program. They've visited and cared for the sick and dying. My mother, perhaps, has even snuck a few pre-packaged communion wafers and juice to share with those who could not come to church.

 In other words, they've bore witness to the good and bad in the Methodist Denomination, and they have stayed. 

Over the years, while active in no other denomination, their vision of God's love has grown and broadened. They've devoted themselves to the teachings of Jesus. They are supportive and empathic for those who have suffered through a divorce.  They celebrate babies whose parents aren't married. They learn from pastors who are women. Their friendships are inclusive of every walk. In other words they try desperately to love God and love their neighbor. They see the divine in all of us and recognize that Jesus' created us all.

Because of the conservative climate of the county that my parents live in, their church has decided  to vote on whether to disaffiliate from the denomination because of the long-coming change to the Book of Discipline that gay and lesbian folks can be active church members and seek ordination. Apparently, this is the sword that some members are ready to die on, willing to pay out not an insignificant amount of money to disaffiliate.

Now at this point, I could go on and on how we are all created in God's image, that we should celebrate our differences and honor God's call in every person's life, but I'm not even going to preach that sermon. The sermon I will mention is that if you choose to believe that the LGBTQ community has no place in the Methodist Church, then leave your local church and join the church down the road.

 Unfortunately, in a small rural county anywhere in Kentucky, you probably have a quite a few homophobic, misogynist churches to choose from. Don't simply vote to disaffiliate and destroy the local Methodist church. 

Saints that helped to build the church long before you came worked with and for the denomination. They never thought the political climate of a community could be leading the way to disaffiliate. Let there be one safe place that fully embraces Open Hearts, Open Minds and Open Doors.

I'm not sure what my parents will do if their church chooses to disaffiliate. I do know their hearts are broken that people would deny the presence of God in those who love someone of their own gender. Their God is bigger, and they will continue to follow the inclusive love and teaching of Jesus. They will continue their prayer that all people recognize and honor the Divine who lives in every single person. 

Thanks be to God for parents like mine. And, while they grieve, I could not be more proud.

Lessons Learned at the Dollar Store (originally posted on 1/1/24)

 My mother has had a rough time making it through this her 80th year. 

Early in the year, her beloved church voted to disaffiliate from the larger United Methodist denomination. In simple terms, the church was voting an up or down on allowing gay and lesbian folks to be ordained. Since Mom believes that we are all created in the very image of God and that our birthright as a child of God is an ordination, the act of even needed a vote was distasteful. While the vote resulted in staying as United Methodists, a significant number of members left the church. People that my mom considered family; folks that my mom had loved and ministered to over the past 20+ years. 

It broke her heart.

In the middle of all this, my mom's only brother succumbed to a years' long battle with kidney disease. She has mourned his passing, grieving for the little boy he was and the childhood they shared. My uncle, who never married or had children of his own, had always left the tough decisions to mom, meaning she was responsible for his final arrangements and then the executor of a rather complicated estate. 

The added struggle was her physical health. Arthritis throughout her body  and lung issues as a result of her immobility took a major hit to her overall quality of life. Thankfully, she agreed to hip replacement but the quick recovery we had convinced ourselves of hasn't actually panned out. She is making strides forward each day but the therapy involved has been painful and she has lost hope from time to time.

Like I said, she's had a tough year.

Luckily, for me since my retirement last year, I've had more time with my parents, especially my mom.

 We've eaten lots of Sausage Egg McMuffins (mom's favorite). We've shared stories of heartbreak and hilarity. We've agreed that we have lived lucky, love-filled lives. I've even taught her to say a few cuss words. We have also made lots of trips to the Dollar Store.

Throughout the year, I've learned lots from my mom. How to love folks who hurt you, how to grieve for what was and what you wish it had been, and how to plow through physical and emotional pain, while loving those around you, seeking out the broken and never doubting the presence of God in it all.

But oddly enough, the most profound lessons I've learned have been at the Dollar Store, trailing behind my mom as she slowly pushes her buggy down the crowded, unkempt aisles touching a dishcloth on one side and then a plastic flower arrangement on the other side. What started out as painful for me, a person with a strong aversion to any shopping, has become a holy time and I am changed because of it.

These are the lessons I've learned.

1. Dollar cards with a hand-written note from my mom are much more valuable than the $5 ones at Hallmark.

2. Slime that makes fart sounds is a gift of communion when the recipient is your 4 year old great-granddaughter.

3. Knock-off crayons are not acceptable, no matter how cheap. Some things are worth the higher price.(Mom was a kindergarten teacher after all.)

4. Fuzzy socks and loofahs and handsoaps are good to put into "thinking-of-you" baskets to be delivered throughout the week. They are my mom's physical representation that she shares in your joy or carries your grief.

5. Don't go through the self-checkout aisle. Wait for the tall, skinny young boy with tattoos and ear gauges to catch your eye and cheerfully open a lane for you. Ask him how he's doing, look him in the eyes smiling at him like you've just seen the face of God.

I'm looking forward to a healthy year with my mom, with her being able to make me French toast in place of McDonald's and sweep her own floor, with her laser eyes seeing specks of dirt that my own eyes could never see.

I'm even looking forward to those Dollar store trips, where she walks a little quicker down those sacred aisles.

Unsolicited Advice for Young Public School Teachers

 I'm just a few days shy of retiring from a full and rewarding career, and in the vernacular of the day, I'm "feeling all the feels" as the one constant in my adult life is drawing to a close.

On Friday evening, I spent a few hours celebrating retirement with colleagues and friends.

 I found myself chatting with the young, dynamic kindergarten team. Truthfully, I don't know any of these teachers since we live in elementary school version of "two separate universes."  I spend my time with 5th graders on the second floor, and they are on the opposite end of the hall on the first floor. 

And, since they began their careers amid Covid19 social distancing, we haven't even spent any meaningful time together in faculty meetings, if meaningful faculty meetings are a real thing, but I digress.

In just a few minutes with these women I knew that the future of teaching was bright,  and I found myself a little bit sad that I had not known them in any significant way. I'm sure they could have helped me with my new smart panel and entering data into platforms and such. 

And maybe, I'd have a few things to bring to the party. Things they will no doubt learn on their own, but maybe a little earlier if I share them now.

1. Teaching is holy, important work. Maybe the most important work there is. Over your career, hundreds of families will entrust you day after day with their most valuable gift. Don't take that honor lightly.

2. While teaching is important (Rule #1) you are not in the middle of a heart transplant. Your guided reading lesson can be interrupted for the first snowflake of the season. Families will treasure the school pictures that ruin your schedule more than whatever lesson may be interrupted when the announcement comes over the intercom to come to the library for pictures. If your colleague knocks on your door to borrow a book, stop for a second and hand her the book. This will teach your kids how to be a decent human.

3. Find a work mother or aunt. They may not go out with you on Friday night, but they'll tell you when your skirt is too short, your lessons aren't rigorous enough. They'll let you know the edicts from the board that can be ignored and those that must be followed. They will tell you that you never go to the copier or bookstore without asking your teammates if they need anything.

4. Eat lunch. Go to the bathroom when you need to. Sleep 8 hours every night. Use your personal days.

5. Realize that teaching in a public school is a political statement, whether you want it to be or not. By signing on as a public school teacher, you are saying that there is a place of respect and honor in your classroom no matter your race, gender, sexual orientation, sexual identity, religion, socio-economic background, or your immigration status. If that isn't true for you, teach in a private school.

6. Read the book to your class; don't let a video do it for you. Reading with children is an intimate, life-changing act for the teacher and students. If there's only one thing you do every single day, read to your students.

7. Remember that for 99% of the children you will teach, their parents know that child better than you. They are the expert on that specific child, no matter your experience or education. They are important partners, not the enemy.

8. With any luck at all, every child you teach will have someone in their life that thinks they hung the moon. Remember that, when you're ready to give up on that one kid.

9. Teach children that their power comes in their ability to read and write.

10. Let the kids know you. Show them picture of your pets. Tell stories of your failure and the lessons you learned. Share music and art and poetry that you love. Most of the things that we love to do are because someone we loved shared it with us.

11. Don't ask questions you know the answers to. This will make teaching more interesting and raise your questioning to a deeper level at the same time. It will also keep your kids from thinking that there can only be one answer.

12. You should not be working harder than your students. When that happens, re-evaluate, ask a colleague for suggestions to shift that way of thinking.

13. When teaching doesn't bring you joy, get a different job.  Teaching isn't effective if it is joy-less.

14. Give the old teachers a break. They haven't given up on the kids or the profession. They're just tired of learning new curricula and management systems and data platforms that will you think will last forever, but will change in 3 1/2 years.

15. Find your village. Surround yourself with people that will celebrate with you,  grieve with you. People that will make you look better than you are. People who in 30 years will break your heart when it's time to say goodbye.

Teach on, my young, new friends. Teach on.

Confessions & Making Amends

I've been tired.

Covid 19, virtual teaching, and time isolated from family and friends were exhausting to me, and, honestly, I was spending quite a bit of time dedicated to feeling sorry for myself and my poor, pitiful life and the unfairness of it all.

Then, I woke to video feed showing the police officer's knee on George Floyd's neck and I realized that even my reasons for tiredness were rooted in white privilege.

 I had worried about viruses and missing birthdays and missed educational opportunities. I didn't worry about a police officer killing one of my own sons and if you're truthful with yourself, you know why I didn't need to.

My sons are tall. One can be quick to anger and intimidating; they can be mouthy and disrespectful, but the police call them sir whenever they get pulled over. I worry about their finances and their relationships, but I never worry about their safety, them being unfairly judged or followed by security guards in department stores. My sons are white.

I can't understand the tiredness that comes with these worries.

The tiredness that has been part of the very DNA of black mothers for four hundred years.

And, then, when a visceral response comes to this murder from the black community, the good white folks add superficial and unimportant counters to their anger to increase their weariness.

The tiredness that comes from white people defending the confederate flag more than their black sons and daughters.

The tiredness that comes from white people wanting to preserve history through statues instead of telling the history that resides outside of the white man's experience.

The tiredness that comes from white people countering "Black Lives Matter" with "All Lives Matter," which is another way of saying "Let's not talk about your condition."

 The tiredness that comes from white people saying "I'm not a racist because I never use the N word, and I have a black friend," which is the start of nearly every defensive answer.

So, I decided to give up my tiredness and try do something to help carry the worry loads of black mothers, but even as a well-educated, progressive, fairly intelligent middle-aged woman, I had no idea where to begin.

As with most unknowns, I started with books, and then added recommended podcasts to the mix.

As I have read and listened, I have felt a significant amount of shame and regret and defensiveness in the very pit of my stomach, which usually lets me know that I've done something wrong and that a confession was necessary.

 I decided to start with the "How to Apologize" poster that has hung in my classroom for years.


These are the sentence starters along with the rules.

1. I am sorry because ____________.
     If words such as but or if come into play, the apologizer must begin again.
     
2. It was wrong because _______. 
 This must come as a statement of specific facts. "It wasn't nice" doesn't cut it. It must not implicate others as well. 

3. How can I begin to make amends to you so that we can continue our work together? 
This is the hard part because the person who started the conflict must listen without speaking until the aggrieved is finished talking.

So I decided to give it a try.

I am sorry because I have benefited from white privilege and supremacy throughout my life in every single way.
It was wrong because my benefits of privilege came at the sacrifice of hundreds of years of slavery followed by nearly 200 years of continued bigotry and racism designed to keep black people from succeeding.
How can I begin to make amends?

I am sorry that I have supported and voted for candidates that did not have the ending of systemic racism in the forefront of their campaigns.
It was wrong because while it hasn't hindered my white life it has continued to keep and treat black Americans as less than. In fact, I played a part in the knee on George Floyd's neck.
How can I begin to make amends?

I am sorry that I have been silent when black people were criticized for "taking a knee," for not responding to Confederate flags and statues in a way I should have, for remaining in rooms and conversations where there were subtle jokes and stereotypes shared.

It was wrong because my silence allows discrimination and racism to continue. My white privilege gives me a voice and platform and I've failed to use it for my black brothers and sisters.

How can I begin to make amends?

Each day as I continue this journey of confession I discover another bit of me that needs to apologize to African Americans.

I'm pledging to myself to continue to listen and read for what my black siblings need/require from me in order to begin the process of making amends, but here is where I'm starting.

1. I will not remain silent anymore.
2. I'm going to keep my white friends in check, and ask them to do the same for me.
3. I'm going to "take a knee" during the Star Spangled Banner, and the Pledge of Allegiance until there is equality for all of us.
4. I'm going to vote for people who are actively interested in ending systemic racism as well as putting reparations on their platform.
5. I'm not going to try to come up with answers to black problems, but I will listen and support the answers of black community members.

As my confessions continue, so will my ways of making amends. I've learned with my students that righting a wrong can take a very long time.

This American wrong has existed since the 1600's so I'm not naive enough to think that we can ever give back what we have taken, but black folks have been tired for hundreds of years. The very least we can do is put away our defensiveness, shut our mouths, and listen.

The First Day of School

Tomorrow will be the beginning of my 20th year of teaching at Crestwood Elementary. I started to count how many total first days I've experienced but decided that would only make me feel even older than I already do.

I can say that teaching has changed since I entered my first classroom in 1985. 

Ronald Reagan was president, and public schools, along with the rest of the country had swung into the Back-to-Basics mode.

In the school where my career began,we shared an art and music teacher with the district. No one blinked an eye at the 29 students in my first grade classroom, and my important teaching supplies included a box of chalk , a few blank mimeograph papers and an attendance book that only an accountant could understand. (Thank God for Infinite Campus who makes attendance keeping a piece of cake!)

Our Professional Developments consisted of "Make-It, Take It "workshops, which were kind of a cross between a project from Michael's craft store and the School Supply store.

Everything in the classroom was made of wood and I'm not sure the word "differentiation" had even been invented. And moving from individual desks to tables was considered radical for all you "flexible seating" gurus.

There was not one single computer in the entire school, and the principal used a paddle on even our school's tiniest offenders.

And yet in many ways, school hasn't changed at all.

Back-to-school nightmares for teachers still exist. First day haircuts, new shoes and a planned outfit are still around. Bullies still show up and we still have hard conversations about scary things, whether it's a Space Shuttle falling from the sky carrying a teacher or (fast-forward 30 years), mass school shootings.
Head lice, lost teeth and strep throat are as common in classrooms today as in 1985

School hasn't changed much for parents either. They still worry if their kid will have a friend, will someone help them navigate the lunchroom, is a red folder going to work even though you asked for orange.

In fact, when you think of the heart of teaching, what really matters hasn't changed at all.

Every year since school immemorial, parents bring their most precious offerings to the altar of the school, with their hearts full of fear and excitement and sadness and wonder. And with only a few tears from the kindergartners' parents, they leave those precious gifts with a group of people they barely know, trusting that we will care for them and teach them and honor them and, especially, love them.


Since time began good teachers have been meeting kids where they are and helping them to move forward even before differentiation was the catch-phrase of the day. And teaching kids to read and write has always been about making sure they have access to political, social and economic power. We have always wanted our students to use math to seek out patterns and solutions to help with world problems.

The core of teaching -- relationships, trust, supporting each other, looking for solutions instead of pointing out problems, being with children and their families when the sh-- hits the fan-- will always remain.

Sometimes we forget though. And, God forgive us when we do.

Sometimes we forget that every kid in our class, even the one that kind of rubs us the wrong way-- their parents think they hung the moon.

We get so involved with standards and bulletin boards and PowerPoints, we forget to listen to them, to sing Happy Birthday, to ask if Grandma came home from the hospital. We forget that they need to move and to laugh and to talk and then move some more. We forget that remembering bus numbers and lunch numbers and homework can be hard. We forget that mistakes are how they learn.

We forget that in every single set of eyes in our classroom reflects the image of the Divine, no matter your faith tradition. We are so focused on new trends and strategies that we forget the work we do is time-less and for all-time. It is sacred and holy.

This year my beloved grandson begins his formal years of school as he begins kindergarten in a couple of weeks. My prayer is that every adult in Painted Stone Elementary will recognize him as the gift he is. That they will forgive his mistakes and failures. That they will encourage his curiosity and creativity. That patience and grace will be everywhere.

After all, he hung the moon, just like every other child in my classroom did.