Auld Lang Syne

(to be listened to while reading this post)

My Resolutions for 2012:

1) Learn to play the guitar

2) Workout upper body more

3) Volunteer and serve more in the community (plug for cool ministries like the Potato Project)

4) Invest in others more intentionally (pray more for others & keep a prayer journal; write and send more letters to people)

5) Fall more recklessly in love with God in 2012 than 2011 (more Scripture, more Sabbaths)

6) Kiss Lea Michele

Worth

[context: working as a Pastoral intern at the Boys and Girls Home for the summer]

The other day, I led a Bible study here at the Boys and Girls Home for some of the newer guys. At first, we just talked about life--the bad stuff we’ve done in our pasts, the mess we’re in now, how cruel life’s been. So I asked the question: 

   What are you worth?

Are you worth more than the life you’ve been given? The situations in which you’ve been placed? The things that have happened to you? Are you worth more than the quality of life you have right now?

Without a hesitation, an adamant “yes” from every guy. So what are you worth? “Everything.” That one word--“everything”--released from the breath of the youngest, invaded the room, filling the spaces between each of us. Whether that one word captured the inner voice of everyone in the room, or whether the conviction in which it was said was so sincere, or whether the ache for it to be true outweighed the need to utter an alternative, that one word “everything” connected us and stole the need to speak.

Silence. So loud you almost smarted from it. Then (of course), I talked. I was probably wrong for what I did—I’m usually very wrong. I looked that young boy in the face, who’s struggling through layers and layers of the injury being rejected has caused, and I told that boy, “No.”

To be honest, you’re not worth it. You’re too risky an investment. Too many times you run away. Too many drugs stay in your system. Too many wounds, too much bitterness, too much. It’s not worth unpacking. Even if you change, even if you don’t totally screw up again, your return would never be worth the investment. Everything? You think you’re worth my everything? All of my goals and passions, all of my desires and needs, my very life—you’re worth that? No. You’re too dirty, too stained, too messed up. Not strong enough. Can never be good enough. You don’t deserve anything because you’re just not worth it.

But for some reason that I do not get, you are loved anyway. Despite the risk, the cost, the loss; despite your brokenness, and helpless; despite how many times you’ll walk away and give up on, no, turn your back on him; despite how many times you’ll curse him, and fight him, and criticize him, and doubt him; despite the fact that you will always disappoint yourself and never do enough right—He will love you.

As dirty and untouchable as you feel, you are accepted by the maker of things as intricate as blood cells and as massive as mountain ranges. You are loved and prized by majesty. The God of all, the God who births all life and works to make it good, says you are worth it. And let the one who knows you best and loves you the most anyway tell you your worth.

Finishing my monologue, I gave every guy a copy of the words from the Psalm: “O Lord, you searched me and know me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up…You hem me in, behind and before, and your hand is always upon me…Where shall I go from your Spirit?”

******************

God, take the stupid works of these barren hands and the crippled words from this broken vessel and use them in spite of me. I pray every child here finds a home in you, where your consuming and steadfast love gently tickles our ears with the assurance that, to you, we are worth it. 

The Cost of Discipleship

I heard a sermon by Dr. Williams, one of the religion professors here at Gardner-Webb. At the end of his sermon, he brought up The Great Commission where Jesus sends out his disciples. Dr. Williams said that if you look back at the original Greek manuscripts, there's only one imperative verb in all of that passage; it isn't "go," and it isn't "teach," and it isn't "baptize"--it's "make disciples."

Jesus traveled and preached to masses, he healed people and ministered to individuals, he gave people purpose and hope, but none of this was his primary ministry. Jesus' primary ministry was to his disciples. Everywhere he went, everything he did, his 12 disciples were always shadowing him, watching him, learning from him, being changed by him. Jesus ministered to thousands, but his primary investment was in 12 men. Through those 12 men, Jesus created a revolution; and now, above all else, his one imperative command to all of us is to make disciples.

A lot of people go their entire lives asking the question, "What is my purpose?" I think Jesus answers that right here. Make disciples. Of course, this will look differently for us all, but for me, it looks like high schoolers. I'm trying to completely surrender my life to this aim of making disciples, and I won't lie: I hate not being able so see results sometimes, and I hate feeling like I'm giving my everything and it's not making a difference. Make disciples. It's hard. It's painful. It's changing my life, and I'm realizing that it's when I'm trying to disciple others that I'm opening myself up to be truly discipled myself.

A couple days ago, I picked up one of the guys I'm trying to disciple, and we went to Yamatos to have dinner together, to talk one-on-one, for me to encourage him, for me to invest in him. We mostly laughed and joked about everything from school to sports to girls. We also talked about searching for God everyday and how to live for Christ. During our time together, I talked about what God's been teaching me and I discussed the verse I've been meditating on, which we actually memorized together right there in the restaurant (John 8: 31-32, "If you follow my teachings, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free."). We talked about how obedience precedes knowledge and understanding, even freedom, and that ultimately it's our obedience, what we're actually doing, that counts for something (for a better look at this verse, check out Shannon's super insightful and enriching blog). He sits and listens while I rant. He talks and questions. He makes stupid jokes that bring us back to the mundane and the crass.

Before we met, I spent all day praying and being with God. Dare I say it, I even skipped a class because I felt God nudging me to, reminding me how little time I've spent with Him/Her, reminding me how much S/He's worth it. Reminding me how much the people I'm discipling are worth it. I'm not just investing in myself when I spend intentional, focused, one-on-one time with God; I'm investing in everyone I come in contact with. After we met, I spent the rest of my day alone, neglecting my homework and praying for him, asking God to draw him and transform him and renew him and use him.

The cost of discipling was $20 that night (homeboy ordered freaking steak and shrimp! haha). It cost me several good nights of sleep (since I had to spend the next few nights making up for that skipped class and a day's worth of academic unproductivity (this should be a real word)). It costs me a lot of aching (the more I pray for these guys, the more I have this soft and constant aching, almost a hurting). It costs me my precious free-time and college friend-time and so much. But heck, it's the only thing worth it. And it changes me. I find I'm more encouraged, and I feel more love, and I have more of a hunger and drive to search for God, and I'm a better person. I'm more complete. Somehow, discipling disciples me.

Then the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. Then Jesus came to them and said, "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." Matthew 28: 16-20

The Defeated Prostitute I Didn't Talk To

Across the street, two prostitutes were talking to eachother. To my left were three guys chilling on the curb, clearly drunk and still drinking. To my right was another prostitute. Looking back, I guess it was pretty dangerous for a gringo like myself to be all alone with my nice clothes and bookbag on this poorly lit street at 11:00 at night, waiting for the last bus because I didn't realize I had just mised it. I suppose I should have listened to my mama tica.

I was travelling back to San Jose after visiting my family from last year. My mama tica said I should take a taxi when I get off the 2nd bus in San Jose. The late buses are unpredictable. Also, it's really dangerous, especially in the part of downtown San Jose where my bus stop is. Yeah well, I didn't feel like paying the extra money for a taxi, so I walked the half a mile to the bus stop (like I said before, unaware that the last bus had already come). I can honestly say I've never seen so many prostitutes in my life--and the occassional transvestite. I've definitely never had that many prostitues yell at me, stroke my shoulders as they walked by, talk all sorts of vulgar to me, telling me what they could do for such and such a price. My mama tica flipped out when she found out that I had been in that part of town at night and had waited at the bus stop for 30 minutes alone before finally acquiescing to the taxi.

In retrospect, she was right and I should have been afraid. It was clearly dangerous, especially for a rich white boy. However, at the time, the whole scene depressed me too much for me to be afraid. I remember this one girl. She was on the street corner right near where I was waiting. With her heavy makeup and long hair, she was wearing black boots, a black thong, and a black bra--I'm not making this up. But unlike the other girls (and dudes...) I saw that night, she didn't say anything as I walked by; she didn't yell anything as I stood mere steps away from her; she didn't show off her body like the other girls, despite her lack of clothing. Rather, her shoulders bent in, as if she was trying to hide, and she never once looked up from her feet, so I never got to see her face. I'd give her maybe 15 years of age. I remember thinking how defeated she looked.

What would Jesus have done if he had been walking down those streets and seen those same prostitutes? I have no clue. All I know, is that I felt so hopeless. Who was doing something about this?! Where do we even begin to change all this?

Here in Costa Rica, there's a ministry called Renacer, and it's doing something about this. In a way, this ministry catches girls before they get to points like prostitution. Funcioning as a children's home, girls from ages 11-18 come and live here. Every girl is coming out of an addiction of some sort, so heavy therapy occurs. Many girls go through violent withdrawals, and most need therapy for some sort of crime commited against them in life--mostly sexual and physical abuse. Most of these girls haven't been in school in years. When they come to Renacer, they find a home, a family, and God.

Hugging one of the girls before I left, I couldn't help but notice the scars on top of scars of past ripped flesh on her forearms. I found out that Renacer found this girl in jail, at 15 years old, for having almost beaten someone to death. With an intense history of sexual abuse, this girl first came to Renacer after living on the streets and having heavy drug addictions. But the other day as I watched her sing in the choir for worship, I didn't see any of that. Yes, you can see layers of scars all over her arms, but you can't see the same defeat and brokenness she used to carry. Instead, you see a girl with such a big smile, you wonder how she can manage to sing. Instead, you see a girl that reads Bible verses to other illiterate girls during the bi-weekly chapel services. Instead, you see a girl full of joy, constantly serving; because someone has put her first in life, has believed in her, has loved her like she deserves to be loved. She's almost 18 now, and still has a few more years before she'll finish high school, but she'll finish, and then she'll go on to college. "Who knows, maybe I'll work with girls like me one day," she says.

And so I remind myself: one person at a time.

A Wasteful God

God, I am so pissed off at You right now!

I just got a facebook message from one of my Camp Joy kids. I've spent only 5 days a year with him for 4 summers, and it's been over a year since I've last seen him. Yet, out of the blue, he sends me this message saying how I'm like a brother to him. That he remembers when we prayed together, just us two. That when his guardians yell at him, he remembers all the love he felt at camp. That no one's ever led him to You God like I have.... What the hell is that, God!?!?!

He says those things about me? It's been over a year, and I was only with him for 5 days a year before that. Where are the parents he deserves? Where's the environment and the neighborhood he deserves? Where's the school and the opportunities he deserves? Where's the security and the family and the constant love he deserves? Where's your church, God? Answer me! I'm so angry at you God! You mean you've put no one else in his life to love him and lead him to You, except the crazy white college kids he sees 5 days a year, college kids he's too old to see at Camp now? I don't understand God, but I will love these kids until it kills me, even if their maker won't.

I don't trust you, God. I trust you with Keith. You've done nothing but lavish blessings on me--education, family, opportunities, love. What I don't trust you with are all these kids I see all around me. Kids labeled high risk because they aren't first in anyone's lives. Because You aren't loving them like you're loving me. I see you bring Heaven to me, beneath my feet, here in this world everyday; but I don't trust you to bring about Heaven here for all these kids. Heaven here. Heaven now. I don't trust that one day You'll make all this okay, but that won't stop me from giving and working and hurting and dying and trying until every youth I meet knows and feels they're loved, and then lives in that love so completely that their lives become dedicated to the same suicidal purpose of persisting in love.

I don't trust you. I'm having too hard a time seeing past what I see right now. I see too many without any love, without any homes, without any hope. Too many with only the negative as influences. Too many that know despair and abandon more than joy and affection. Too many surrounded by only hatred and selfishness. Too many orphaned. Too many never hearing the words,

"I love you. I believe in you."

No God. I don't trust you. Not with that. They're too valuable, too priceless for flippant and reckless trust.

I don't trust you, God.

But I want to.

I read in one of Your scriptures today, Luke 9, that popular Sunday School story about Jesus feeding the 5,000 with 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish. I don't believe you, I don't trust you for miracles like that anymore. But I want to. I want to believe in a God that preaches healing and hope to hurting people, and a God that when others say it's time to send the people home so they can eat, says, "No. We feed them," and a God that then takes a meager meal and turns it into a feast, physically feeding and showing people what Heaven here looks like. A God that is verb-loving the people here, now. I wan't to believe in that kind of God. And how wasteful you were! There were 12 basketfuls of food left over!

God. Take the 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish that I am, and feed 5,000. Prove to me that I'm not wrong in wanting to trust You. Prove to me that you're still a wasteful God. Be wasteful in your use of my life. Show me what Grace and Provision and Love in waste look like.

The Life I Want

I found him.

His name: Don Horacio López.
Place of birth: Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Current Location: San José, Costa Rica.
Family: beautiful wife, 3 beautiful children.
Profession: Missionary, youth and homeless ministries.

This--listen well, God--this is the life I want.

Anoche. I go with Horacio and his daughter to Carpio, a lower socioeconomic community largely consisting of Nicaraguans. I walk into a blue warehouse-looking building and straight into the middle of band practice. They're all about 16-18 years old. Baterias, guitaras, teclado (unweighted keys and no pedal), micrófonos, and voces that make God cry. We play, we sing, we worship. Some call me Andrés, favoring my more culturally adaptable middle name to my straight gringo first name. Some don't play or sing, so for a while, I join a game of one-touch fútbol (two touches and everyone gets a free kick at your body. I know. So awesome). "Hey, debes venir en domingo a la iglesia y cantar con nosotros para el servicio." Por su puesto. No hesitations. A few other people walk in carrying three loaves of pan y 2 litres of fresco. We're sharing cups and passing around the table the sweet, fresh pan still warm from the local bakery. This communion we share while they tell me jokes and talk about the Copa Mundial.

Horacio starts talking, and immediately all eyes are on him. Respect and love are in those eyes. Horacio prays. He asks who's grown in God this past week. Jeffry, a leader in his group of friends, speaks up first. "He estado leyendo la Biblia todos los everyday. Esta mañana, leyó Mateo 13." I laugh at his use of espanglish and am moved by his spirit I sense inspiring his friends. Horacio reads the parable about the people at a wedding with their oil and their lamps, waiting for the groom to arrive. "Es un buen mensaje para nosotros jóvenes, porque no podemos esperar. Tenemos que acercarnos a Dios hoy, servir al Señor hoy, y ser preparados para su vuelta hoy," one says.

Esta mañana. I walk to Horacio's house and join him and his wife in their car, first helping them load coolers of water and café and huge containers of pan into the trunk. We drive straight into downtown San José, where a group of indigentes (homeless) are already waiting for us at el parque. The youth from the night before are waiting for us there too, ready to serve. Rudi plays his guitar and the boys sing worship songs. Indigentes are surrounding us. Some singing when they know the words, some dancing, everyone at least clapping. The youth and I hand out café and pan. Horacio leads a short devocional. Did I mention that Horacio's kids started this street ministry? O that these youth and homeless ministries aren't what he gets paid for? That he's a pastor, and that these ministries come straight from his own pocket, like a Christian zakat? Someone tells me how great Don Horacio is, how he's different. He understands us. He even sleeps out here on the streets with us sometimes. Another man interrupts, "Soy el portero, y usted va a jugar con mi equipo."

Left midfield. You know, I always prefer the right, but it pays off. Indigentes, jóvenes, y un gringo playing the greatest sport, the greatest equalizer: fútbol. First half, only one goal for nuestro equipo. We're losing. Half time, tres indigentes y Jeffry y yo share a cup of hot water. Second half, dominación. "Centro, Centro!" I yell. José with the perfect pass. Off the laces. Top left corner of the goal. Minutes later, a corner kick. Jeffry lauches it and I dive into the best header I've ever had. Bottom right corner. "Ay, gringo!" everyone yells. Thirty minutes later and Horacio, standing as el arbitro, blows the final whistle. We win.

I get back in the car. Our portero, wearing clothes that needed washing weeks ago, runs up. "You always have forever friend with me. Come back in the next week!" I learn what it feels like to hug Jesus, and he sings as he walks away. Driving back, I can't stop thinking about how bad I'm going to feel when Horacio drops me off and there are butt and back sweat stains on the seat. "¿Entonces, vas a venir conmigo mañana a la iglesia? Y en miércoles de nuevo a los indigentes si quieres venir." Wouldn't miss either for the world, Horacio.

Remembering the Semester, Anticipating the Summer

Haha, that last post looks so dramatic now. It was for real at the time, though. I now want to write about some of the ways God has answered that prayer...

This past semester, I've gotten involved in a youth group that I met on a Focus trip last semester (Zoar Baptist). At the beginning of the semester, I went and helped out with the occasional Bible study, mainly going when I could find the time and when I didn't have a lot of work. Towards the end of the semester, I was going every Sunday night and every Wednesday night. I also hung out with any of the youth that wanted to hang out with me, anything from disc golf to tennis to hide-and-seek tag in Walmart (is that bad?). It's amounted to me hanging out with high schoolers during like 80% of my free time.

And life's never been so good.

First of all, it's amazing how much a bunch of high school guys can teach you about God. I would hope that each of the youth would say something about me being a witness for Christ and a Godly influence in their lives. I would hope that each of the youth would say something about me showing them a bigger picture of God's Grace and Love relentlessly fighting for them. I would hope that each of the youth would say something about me leading them to a deeper relationship with God. But the truth of the matter? They do that for me. Screw accountability partners. You want to be held accountable in speech, action, lifestyle? Find some people younger than you, people you'd give your life for. I'd do anything to see those youth get closer to God. And to think that maybe, maybe, just one of those youth looks up to me? Well, that's enough to keep me accountable.

In so many ways, by getting to know both the youth and some of their families, I've found my own families away from home while at Gardner-Webb. That's really taught me about God's Love. For sure. I love it when a parent says or writes something. Those moments are worth a world of encouragement, and God has really used them to minister to me. But overall, the most encouraging and inspiring moments I've had have been the result of words from these guys, often in the form of a random text or facebook message. Here are a few:

~keith can i ask u a favor? i always forget to read my bible will u hold me accountible and remind me? and if i have questions can i call u and talk about them? i reall ywanna get in the habit of doin this like we talked about in church
~alright im not finished yet but i read the first chapter of james im goin to read some more tommorrow and im praying for you
~i love you bro!!! thank u for everything
~keith andres menhinick im gonna miss you so much over the summer but i hope you have fun in costa rica and spread the love of christ around there you have definetly opened my eyes and showed how much love can make a difference but i cant wait until next week i love you man!!

I do not deserve this.

God has completely and totally expanded my worldview by focusing it on these youth. I see a bigger picture of myself and of life and of relationship, but what I've awakened to most is a bigger picture of God's Love. I would literally die for any one of those kids right now. Just for one of them to have another chance or a better opportunity I'd give everything. I find that when I'm alone, all I want to do is pray for them. These youth motivate me to change, to live differently, to be someone worth following. Maybe it's needless to say, but I've become attached to these kids, and I love them like crazy. I will miss them all so much this summer.

This summer... another crazy way God has answered my prayer. This Monday morning, I'm flying to Costa Rica. Last summer, I spent about a month there with the school to study Spanish, and I fell in love with the country. Now, I have the opportunity to go back with one of my bestest friends ever, Rosalee Johnson!, and work with some missionaries down there, spreading the Love of Christ (see youth message above). I might even get to help with music worship while I'm there. Spanish, missions, music, Rosalee...really God?

I do not deserve this.

I guess the point of all this is to say that God answers prayers. I wanted God to really use me for something worthwhile in life, something that will last, and now I feel used and see evidence of God's working in my life. I wanted an opportunity to leave America, apply my Spanish, and immerse myself in missions, and now I'm packing my bags to go. We serve an Awesome God, one who hears and answers prayer. God had to take me through a lot and take a lot away from me to get me here, but the place where I am with God right now is immeasurably better than any place I ever imagined.

And I know that the best I can imagine for the future is way less than what God's wanting to do.

The Power of the Tongue

This morning in my Educational Psychology class, we watched a documentary called "A Class Divided," by PBS Frontline. The film is about a 3rd grade teacher named Jane Elliot teaching at a school in Riceville, Iowa, an almost all-white town. As Elliot recalls, it was right after Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered, and blatant racism plagued America. She was watching the news, and journalists kept asking black people that were a part of the civil rights movement what they were going to do about their people now that their leader had been assassinated. What would their people do now? Elliot says she was disgusted by this subtly condescending language, this language ridden with racism beneath the surface, this language distinguishing between an "us" and a "them" based on skin color.

Elliot decided to push back all of her lesson plans for the week and do a unit on discrimination. Her class of 28 third graders was all white. She began by asking the students about racism, what they thought about black people, Indian people, people that looked different from them. Words like "nigger" and "stupid" and "dirty" slipped out of the mouths of young, developing, frighteningly impressionable minds. When asked, the students said that it wasn't fair to judge others based on factors like skin color, but this mentality of "us" and "them," this racism, was deeply imprinted on these children.

What happened next amazes me. Elliot plays no games. She tells her class directly that they are going to do an experiment for the children to understand discrimination better. Dividing the class into two groups, brown eyes and blue eyes, Elliot tells the class that blue eyed people are naturally better people. They're stronger, smarter, more responsible--better. Brown eyed people, however, are lazy, irresponsible, and much more stupid. They make bad decisions and just aren't as smart. Collars were passed around for all of the brown eyed students to put around their necks, that way the blue eyed students would be able to tell from a distance. Blue eyed children received 5 extra minutes of recess, access to the water fountain, extra attention from the teacher, and were treated as superior students to their brown-eyed peers. Elliot even instructed her blue eyed students not to communicated with the brown eyed students and not to play with them because they were better than those brown eyes.

Before long, the class began to perpetuate this mentality that Mrs. Elliot was feeding them through their behavior. When a brown eyed student would do something wrong, a blue eyed student would blurt out, "It's because they're brown eyes." Little undercuts like that. During recess, the children actually listened to Mrs. Elliot; no blue eyed children played with brown eyed children. A fight even broke out between two previous friends, and a brown eyed boy punched a blue eyed boy in the gut for calling him "brown eyes." The students began excluding other children and making condescending comments about the other students' intelligence and capability based solely on eye color.

The next day, Mrs. Elliot told her students that she had lied to them the previous day: brown eyed students were really better than blue eyed students. The collars traded owners, and the top became the new bottom, yesterday's bottom the new top. And the exact same behavior occurred. Mrs. Elliot taught this same lesson for three consecutive years with different classrooms, and she received the same results every single time. I know. Terrifying. It's appalling to see how easily discrimination can breed and infest someone so quickly, especially our children. Obviously, there are huge truths here about racism, sexism, and discrimination of any kind.

However, what's haunted me all day is a truth much more universal I believe. Mrs. Elliot tested the students each day that she conducted this experiment. The students on top consistently scored higher on assessments. The students on bottom consistently scored lower. Reverse the standards, put the top on the bottom and the bottom on the top, and the results are the same. After this experiment with her students, Mrs. Elliot always has a debriefing. She explains to her students that discrimination is not only illogical but wrong. No matter what your skin color, eye color, or whatever, each one of you is intelligent and beautiful. Each one of you is great. After the debriefing, all the testing scores of all the students were higher for the remainder of the year.

Astounding.

In only 24 hours, students changed completely. They freaking scored higher if the teacher said that they belonged to the smart group. If they belonged to this smart group, children felt better about themselves, tried harder, scored higher. As Eliot states herself, "Almost without exception, the students' scores go up on the day they're on the top, down on the day they're on the bottom, and then maintain a higher level for the rest of the year." Something strange happens to these children that alters their academic abilities. They realize their intelligence, their greatness. It's incredible to think about how spoken words can influence children so drastically within the classroom environment in a simple 24 hour time-frame.

Proverbs says that "Death and life are in the power of the tongue" (Proverbs 18:21).

In America, suicide is the second highest cause of death for teenagers. In America, 2.5 million juveniles are arrested every year. In America, 74.9% of whites graduate high school, 50.2% of blacks, 53.2% of Latinos, and 51.1% of American Indians. (Swanson, 20004)



What the hell kind of words are we speaking to our children?!



If spoken words can have such a drastic influence on children within the classroom, imagine the effect, the eternal effect, that our words can have if we speak LIFE into a child. If we pour LIFE words into a child, imagine the effect that our words can have on that child's destiny. Rob Bell says, "Jesus reminds his disciples, ‘You did not choose me, but I chose you.’ People in the Scriptures essentially are loved into their futures. Think of how many of us had encouraging or affirming or inspiring words spoken to us years ago about our worth, our value, our future, and how those words shaped us. We often carry those words of agape around with us our whole lives.”

Seriously, what kind of message are we giving our children and our youth?

What Teachers Make

One of my friends showed me this poet. He's quickly becoming one of my favorites. The poem I've chosen to highlight by posting it here is the one that speaks to me the most. If language offends you, I apologize now. Try to see past and get the message. Imagine the difference if we were all so intentional and deliberate, especially our teachers.



What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don't work out, you can always go to law school

By Taylor Mali


He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about
teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you¹re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (brains)
then you follow this (heart) and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a g-d difference! What about you?

Collateral Blessings of Going to Class

Every Monday, I have a night class from 6 to 9, the teaching of writing. The class is composed of half undergraduate and half graduate students, all either prospective or current teachers, so it makes for some very interesting discussions. I love the class. One of my fellow undergraduate friends, however, always has the same complaint: the undergraduate students are optimistic and passionate, aiming to change the world through teaching; the graduate students are negative and bitter, having lost their love of teaching. I suppose to some extent this is true. At least, I understand why he would say that. I hope he saw things differently tonight.

Recently, the graduate students have been giving presentations and leading class discussions for the first half of class. One of the graduate students tonight presented on self-efficacy and writing. She was asking a lot of good questions, like what are the connections between self-efficacy and writing, and whether or not being a good writer will affect a students' self-efficacy. This graduate student teaches at an alternative school in Charlotte, and she talked about how a lot of her students are very poor writers. Regardless of whether or not they really are poor writers, they certainly see themselves in this light. Many of these students have been told their whole lives that they're not good at school, that they're stupid, that they won't succeed in life. So many of the students at this alternative school have internalized what they've heard, and their self-efficacy is practically non-existent. They don't ever see themselves as being able to succeed in life--life outside of the streets--and especially don't see themselves as being able to succeed in the classroom.

As a part of her presentation, this graduate student read a letter one of her students had given her. This student has been in and out of trouble his whole life and currently is in juvie. 17, about to turn 18, and in the 9th grade. His letter would be considered as "bad writing" by school--lots spelling and grammatical errors. This graduate student, this student's teacher, however, didn't read that letter as "bad."

He wrote about his life, his struggles on the streets and in the classroom. He talked about how he's never been a good writer and he never will be. He had no potential in school and no future outside of trapping--drugs was his only future.

This student bared his soul in that letter. And school would call it "bad writing." In class, I started getting caught up in my own anger over how the education system works. I was fuming, barely listening I was so mad. I'm glad life didn't leave me in that place for long. I hardly had any time to be angry. This graduate student, reading her student's letter, started crying. That completely unplanned, choking kind of crying. For a while, she just stood there. Her lips trembled, her face grew red and wet, and she just stood there. When she finally started reading the letter again, it took her several tries to find her voice, and when she did, it came out in soft, short breaths.

Everything that we had talked about in class that day--grammar, writing, literacy, self-efficacy, --melted away, didn't even matter. The love this teacher had for her student overshadowed it all. And it re-focused me on why I'm in this education track in the first place.

His name is "Today"

I am who I am today in large part because of who has invested in me. I'm pretty sure I was unaware of these efforts at the time, but in retrospect, it's obvious who cared enough to invest in my life. I'm pretty sure I know exactly who was praying for me, too. I know for a fact that I wouldn't be who I am and where I am today if it were not for these people in my life. Looking at only one semester of classes left in my college career before I begin teaching, I've been thinking a lot lately about discipleship and mentoring. What's disappointing is that I realize I've missed a lot of opportunities to invest in others, especially since I've been here at college. What also sucks? It's really hard to pull myself out of the rut. The rut that says, "You'll be working with youth the rest of your life. Just focus on you right now. You're still developing, Keith." Okay, sure. This is a very developmental time in my life--lots of ideas and philosophies about life are taking form right now, lots of heavy life choices being made, blah blah blah. I just can't get that stupid voice out of my head: "Keith, this is your developmental stage, your foundational years. Focus on you right now, on your studies and on college stuff. You've only got like a year left of college. You have the whole rest of your life to change the world."

But then there's the quieter voice, the voice I hear less often: "Keith. I understand you need to invest in your studies and in college activities. But can't you see? don't you understand? Children and youth are being molded right now--their bodies growing and their minds shaping now. They will not wait for you. I get that you think you need to focus on you, but these kids can't wait till tomorrow, till you feel ready. They're being overwhelmed with influences, influences slamming them left and right, influences that won't wait for you. If you really care, if you really want to make a difference, drop your excuses and your fears. Be one more positive influence in these kids' lives now. And I'm not talking about the occasional Bible study or Focus trip or basketball game. Youth are more important than that, and what they need is so much more. They need long-term investment. Yeah, it's more demanding. But the world's influences? Relentless. These lives can't afford for you to wait any longer."

"We are guilty of many errors and many faults, but our worst crime is abandoning the children, neglecting the foundation of life. Many of the things we need can wait. The child cannot. Right now is the time his bones are being formed, his blood is being made and his senses are being developed.
To him we cannot answer 'Tomorrow'. His name is 'Today'." (Gabriela Mistral, 1948)

A Naked Bush

"Without training and pruning, fruit trees will not develop proper shape and form. Properly trained and pruned trees will yield high quality fruit much earlier in their lives and live significantly longer. A primary objective of training and pruning is to develop a strong tree framework that will support fruit production. Improperly trained fruit trees generally have very upright branch angles, which result in serious limb breakage under a heavy fruit load. This significantly reduces the productivity of the tree and may greatly reduce tree life. Another goal of annual training and pruning is to remove dead, diseased, or broken limbs. Proper tree training also opens up the tree canopy to maximize light penetration. For most deciduous tree fruit, flower buds for the current season's crop are formed the previous summer. Light penetration is essential for flower bud development and optimal fruit set, flavor, and quality. Although a mature tree may be growing in full sun, a very dense canopy may not allow enough light to reach 12 to 18 inches inside the canopy. Opening the tree canopy also permits adequate air movement through the tree, which promotes rapid drying to minimize disease infection and allows thorough pesticide penetration. Additionally, a well shaped fruit tree is aesthetically pleasing, whether in a landscaped yard, garden, or commercial orchard."

FOCUS--Fellowship of Christians United in Service--is a ministry GWU offers where teams of about 10 or so college students go out to different churches and lead weekend retreats for their youth groups. This past weekend, I went on a FOCUS trip to Wake Forest Baptist Church. Last year, I went on the same trip to the same church and loved it. It made such an impression on me that I made sure I went back again. This year, it was even better.

The focus of our weekend was John 15--the vine metaphor. Verse 5 is on the back of our t-shirts: "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." We talked a lot about God's command in this passage: remain in me. I think that's where we miss it as Christians; we focus on the fruit. God's command is not to bear fruit but to remain in Him. The fruit? a byproduct, a symptom of relationship, something God creates, not me. My friend in the grad school here at GWU told me that in Greek, the word for "remain" is meneo, which refers to a dwelling place, a home. Our command is to dwell in God, to abide in God, and trust that S/He'll take care of the rest.

Verse 2 talks about a gardener, the one who comes around and prunes the vine's branches so they can grow more fruit, better fruit. Imagine what this looks like. You know, you're driving down the road and see a gorgeous house with clean, freshly-mowed grass, maybe some red and yellow tulips, several young, lush trees... and then the bushes right there in front, the ones that have just been pruned. And they look bad. I mean absolutely terrible. They ruin the whole scene. Bereft of their green robes, they've been stripped of all their leaves, all their dignity. Naked and exposed, they kind of hunch and crouch, trying to disappear, like they're embarrassed. Their limbs amputated, they look like they're in pain, and all that remains is a bunch of harsh-looking nubs.

And that's how I've felt lately. An ugly, hurting, embarrassed, pruned bush.

The past few weeks have been hell. I can honestly say they've been some of the most difficult and painful times in my whole life. I've never struggled so much with feeling rejected and betrayed, with feeling unloved and unappreciated, with feeling abandoned and deserted. I've felt naked and alone, punished even. Hurt, embarrassed, ashamed, ugly; and mourning the loss of my once emerald leaves, my once lush branches. I've been hunching over, crouching down.

God destroyed that this past weekend, and S/He used a bunch of high schoolers to do it. Fyodor Dostoyevsky says: "The soul is healed by being with children." I have found that to be too true. I think my problem the last couple weeks has been an issue of focus: my plans, my expectations, my hurt. I talk a lot about what I want, wanting to pursue my PhD, wanting to go to these places, wanting to meet those people, wanting to do this, accomplish that, have this title, win that award...

"Bro--you wanna do all that stuff? Fine. We can go that direction and do all those things, and I'll use it if that's what you want. But this--this!--is what I made you for. This--pouring into youth, investing in what matters, loving what really matters--is the passion I gave you, the passion we share. All those gifts I've given you? all those lessons I've taught you? all those branches I've pruned? it's all been for this. This is your purpose, your fulfillment, your love. This is the greatness I created you for."

Well damn, God. I get it.