Never never EVER give up!

My story didn't start yesterday.  It didn't start last year.  It didn't even start ten years ago.  While my story, like all of yours, has been in a state of becoming since I was born, the part of my story that nearly killed me started in 1990 and first became traumatic in 1991.  That's over 23 years ago.  After my father died (not unexpected--he was 81), I felt the grief that anyone would feel at the death of a father.  I was the baby, so maybe it was harder for me; I'm really not sure.  However, in July, 1991, my world was shaken.  My baby, Tommy, died at 24 weeks gestation.  It was not a stillbirth; he lived for eleven days.  Miracles happened both during and after his birth; still, my precious son died.  I'm not going into that now--that's not the point of this post.  Thirteen months after Tommy died, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy named David.  Two months after David was born, I started a new job.  Four months after that, my husband unexpectedly died.  He had a cerebral aneurysm and lived for eleven days, just like my son.  I'm not going into any of that right now, either.  That's not the point of the post.  I struggled with grief, suicidal thoughts, horrible decisions, miserable choices, and then--I began to experience healing.  THAT is STILL not the point of this post.  But patience, friends.  I'm getting there.

As I began to experience healing, I was unable to do much more than receive for the first several years.  When I was able to reach outward, at first it was only through writing and singing.  But before too long, I began to want to serve others--to help others in the way that I myself had been helped.  I took 2 Corinthians 1:4 as my life verse: He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. However, the more I asked God to allow me a chance to help others, the less likely it seemed that he would do so.  I never understood why, but nothing ever seemed to work out.  Whenever I asked for a chance to help, the answer I got was "wait."  But I didn't want to wait!

Well, here it is, 23 years later, and I find myself preparing.  I know that the time is not yet at hand, but it is coming.  I am resting in the Lord, waiting on Him, and He is reminding me every day of something that He wants me to take into this new life.  One day I will remember a miracle, another day I will remember the sweetness of a healing, another memory will come of something that he showed me in his Word that brought an understanding that I hadn't yet received.  I see all these things coming together.

One thing, though, that I hadn't seen, was this.  I understand now why I had to wait all these years.  It took that much time for me to be ready.  Not healed, ready.  I couldn't have taken the steps that I'm about to take even 5 years ago.  It took people criticizing my Spanish to understand that people mean only good when they criticize.  It took people proofreading my stories (in Spanish) and projects for me to realize that you don't disintegrate when you receive criticism.  It took me having opportunities through the years to sing, to share my story, and to share my readings to understand that it moves people when I do so, and it can bring healing.  I didn't understand that 23 years ago.  I understand it now.

So I wait again, and hopefully for the last time.  I know that at the end of this waiting, I'll be free to help others receive the hope and healing that they can find through God.  It will be truly time.  And I will be so thankful that I waited.

So this is my point to you:  as Winston Churchill said, Never never EVER give up!  You might be in a holding pattern, too, and the days may see pointless and long.  Please do remember that God is walking your path with you.  He knows how long you need before you're ready to take wing and fly.  Please don't despair--he will give you the desire of your heart.  He WILL.  Just have faith.  

By the way, I'm discovering that you are leaving comments and somehow they're not appearing.  Please email me at meggiev7777@gmail.com until I figure out what's going on.  I so want to hear from you.

God bless you!

i make a difference

I make a difference.
I come into a room,
knowing that every life in that room
will be touched
changed
by their time spent with me.

I make a difference,
I have the power to make evenings a joy
or a misery.
I can turn a peaceful family experience
into a nightmare of horror
with a simple phone call.

Conversely,
I can make a family proud
and happy
and uplifted
with a simple email.

I make a difference.
I instill knowledge,
and I try to make it fun.
I spend hours planning lessons
that last 50 minutes,
but can be remembered for a lifetime.

I make a difference.
I teach.

the home visit--a lenten story

Marty started teaching with high hopes.  She saw herself as a shining figure, looked upon with awe by her students.  She thought she could make a difference in the world.  She imagined that she would be surrounded by adoring little faces, asking for hugs and fighting each other for the chance to hold her hand.

Then reality intervened.  First of all, she was a new teacher.  New teachers get their pick neither of schools nor of grades.  You get what you're given, and in this economy, you're happy to get whatever you are given.  So Marty--Ms. Banks--was given a sixth grade class in an area of town that was not the best.

Things didn't start off well, and they went downhill from there.  Her dreams of teacherly bliss soon faded, to be replaced by the understanding that this was a war zone.  Her students didn't want to be there, and she didn't really want them there, either.  They were not very nice.  They were foul mouthed, they cheated, and some of them smelled bad.  Oh, there were two or three who had a ready smile for "Teacher", but most of them said little and worked less.  Within a week, Marty was sure she'd made a mistake.  By the end of the first month, she realized that teaching wasn't for her.  By the end of the first semester, she decided that she had to quit.  She hated to do it to her students, but honestly, they would be better off with a teacher who cared.  So right before Christmas break, she went to the principal, Mr. Evans, and explained that she wanted out.

Mr Evans reminded her that she had a contract.  However, he said, he would disregard it if, in return, she would do one thing for him.  She could leave without breaking her contract if she would first give each of her students a home visit.  Marty was immediately struck by the thought of what kind of homes these students must live in, what kind of neighborhoods, but before she could say a word, Mr. Evans said that he'd been to every home in the school.  He promised her that she would be safe.  The parents knew that she was a teacher, and they would make sure of it.

Marty didn't want to do it, but she knew that she was being offered a deal that was more than generous, so she agreed.  That very afternoon, she made her first visits.  She decided to start off easy, so she visited the house of two sisters who had asked to be placed together.  The house was poor but neat, and the parents--both unemployed--were nonetheless very careful to make sure that their children were clean and minded their manners.  It was a very nice visit.  The next day, she visited a few more houses, then a few more, then a few more.

As the week progressed, she ran out of "good" children to visit and started to visit the ones that gave her problems.  First was Enrique.  He never did his homework, never paid attention, and always seemed to be talking to another student beside him.  When Marty rang the bell, a woman in a long dress and a shawl answered.  Her coal black hair hung in a braid behind her, and when she saw Marty, she immediately called for her son.  Enrique came to the door along with a little sister holding a baby.  They looked on shyly as Enrique said, "Teacher!  You come see me?"  Marty said that she was only here to say "Hi," to the family; that he wasn't in trouble.  Enrique said, "Oh, my mom no speak English so good."  Marty spoke some Spanish, and she and the mom chatted about her children, her husband in Mexico, and about Enrique.  She thanked her over and over for coming--no other teacher ever came to visit--only Mr. Evans.  As she talked, Marty watched Enrique interact with his sisters.  He was so gentle, so patient with them!  He never uttered a word of English--they all spoke Spanish.  Understanding dawned--"Enrique, when you talk to the other students in class, what do you talk about?"  Enrique explained, "I still no speak English so good, and I talk to my friends.  You talk a little fast, but they help me."  Marty smiled and said that it was fine for Enrique to ask his friends for translation.  She said goodbye to the mother and went to the next house on the list--Bozie's house.

Bozie was never clean.  He came to school, yes, but he didn't seem ready to work.   He slept half the time, and the rest of the time he acted out--calling out questions, getting close to her and just standing there, jus tlittle stuff.  He was big and never seemed to wear clean clothes, and Marty thought that maybe he had some special needs.  Bozie's dad opened the door.  "What do you want?" he said.  "I'm Bozie's teacher, and I am paying all my students a visit over Christmas.  I just wanted to introduce you and say hello.  "Bozie really likes your class," he said.  He's out at the store right now.  I"m disabled, and Bozie helps me out a lot around the house.  It's been hard on us for the past few years--his mom died right after I broke my hip at work, and things just haven't felt right since.  He'll be sad he missed you.  He talks about you all the time.  It's really hard, you know, raising a boy on your own, but Bozie is a good kid, He's been slow since his mama died, but the doctor tells me that happens when kids go through trauma.  She died in a car accident--did I tell you that?

Marty left the house before Bozie's dad could see her cry.  As she continued her visits, she realized that the only person with a problem at the school was her.  The other students had problems, yes, but she had not realized that and hadn't tried to help in any way.

When she came back to the principal the week after Christmas, she told him that she'd changed her mind.  She wanted to stay.  The principal told her that he had not doubted that.  Sometimes we had to remember that we were here to serve. It is hard to know how to serve if you don't know who you're serving.  When second semester started, Marty had a different attitude.  No, things didn't magically improve, but Marty's attitude did.  Now she understood.  The answer to her problem wasn't a new job--or more discipline--nor was it better classroom management.  The answer to her problem was love.  Love those that are put in your path, and that love will be paid back a thousandfold.  It was a lesson she never forgot.  And every Christmas from then on, Marty made it a point to visit her classes.  It was a labor of love.