Empty Arms

I go into Hallmark, searching for a card, knowing no matter how long I search I won't find a card that says what I want it to say, but also knowing I want something that will give comfort..  Finally, I find the cards I am searching for, tucked at the very bottom of the rack, underneath the 'loss of a pet" cards. Tucked quietly behind, is the 'loss of a baby' cards. Two designs to chose from. That's it, two. It is hard not to feel a pang of hurt and disappointment...


Fourteen years ago, I discovered, much to my surprise, that I was pregnant. I was engaged and moving in with Rick. That morning, I had talked to a friend to tell her I was getting married. Since Rick and I had only been together a short time, her first question was, "Are you pregnant?" This had not even crossed my mind, so I quickly responded with a curt, "no!"  I relayed the conversation to another friend as we carried the couch down the stairs, unto the truck, and I realized that maybe I better check.

I was the kindergarten teacher in a town of less than 600 and single, so my friend decided she would purchase the test and after Rick went to work, she would bring it to me.  I remember sitting there, on October 30th, knowing Rick was at work (pre-cell phone days) and the town was at the Halloween party. I sat there staring at the two pink lines unsure if I should cry or rejoice.  I had been told for years that having children was not in my future, but here I was, pregnant, yet the timing was less than convenient. Rick came home 12 hours later and responded to my announcement with "oh shit."

The next few months flew by in a blur. In January, we found out that our baby was a girl. We began to prepare and search for a name we could agree on. However, our dreams were cut short when at 25 weeks, I had a placenta abruption. I was home alone on the ranch. I had sat down on the floor to fold laundry. The laundry would wait, it would sit on the floor, unfinished as a reminder. I had felt it the minute I sat down. I was barely able to flag down Rick as he drove by the house headed to the field. He called the squad as I lay bleeding profusely. It didn't help that the squad was staffed by volunteers that were our  friends and colleagues; or that is was coming from 20 miles away. It didn't help that Rick was part of the fire department and his radio not only mirrored my cries and pain, but the sense of urgency in the operator's voice.

We rushed over the mountain pass, driving the 60 miles to the nearest hospital. They worked relentlessly to start an IV with no luck (I later counted over 27 pokes), and I lay fighting to stay alert, fighting the urge to quit. We were at the top of the Pass when I started to fade. A while later our daughter entered the world way too soon via emergency C-section. I was told she tried to cry, that she was pink and fighting. I thought things sounded good. I continued to float in and out of consciousness. Children's was on the way to take her to a more advanced hospital. But just a few short hours later, our dreams were  crushed again.

Rick came into the room, his face filled with devastation. Kailie was not well. We had to make a decision. Based on what we were told, we chose to remove the ventilator and allow Kailie to pass while in my arms. At six hours old, she returned to Jesus. I held her for a short time, then she was taken from my arms, and she was gone. I was moved to a different wing away from the newborn cries, away from the reminders that my baby was gone. Funeral arrangements were made, people came and went. I was discharged to go home. People, meals, donations arrived, but comfort did not.

A week after she entered our lives, we buried our firstborn. It was the second worst day in my life. The next four months I fought to find a reason to get out of bed, a reason to take the next breath. Three months in, I met a sweet girl who would become my lifeline. She had just buried her sweet Noah. Together we grieved, we were angry, we shared tears, disappointments, fears. Thirteen and a half years later, she is still my rock (besides my husband, of course).

Over the past  thirteen years, I have met many "empty-arm parents." Too many have lost a child. Too many have earned the title Mom or Dad, but are left with empty arms and crushed hearts. I discovered that we each are united through a bond of grief and despair, a bond that unless you have lost a child, you couldn't understand. We discovered that it is a taboo subject to mention, as people begin to squirm and fumble to find words when it is mentioned.  Then, by "chance,"  one person who has  already lived through the grief, smiles and begins to share. Suddenly an instant connection is
formed. Through these bonds, I have sadly discovered that the loss of a baby or child is far too common to hide the cards on a bottom shelf.

Today, I sat and listened to my pastor offer words of comfort to the family of a baby born too soon. As I watch the mom's chest heave in great sobs of sorrow, my heart felt each breath, each pang of overwhelming  grief. I wanted to take her hurt, but felt helpless as I knew I couldn't, but I prayed Jesus would. I too, felt the comfort in the words uttered by our pastor, in the peace of knowing that as a believer in Christ, I will be reunited with my child. That my friends, who have placed their lives and trust in Christ will be reunited with their babies. One day, the empty arms that have broken so many hearts, will be filled with the babies that currently rest in the arms of Jesus. Oh what a day that will be!

Just Another Manic Sunday...

Easter Sunday, our pastor  talked about how many pastors view Easter Sunday Sermon as the Big Daddy Sermon of the year. Churches stress over how to get record crowds into the pews, how to reach the most people on that one particular Sunday. I remember seeing ads on facebook, "come worship with us this Easter Sunday and you could win a free flat screen TV," "Come visit us and win an I-pad."  Our church, had no fancy electronics to entice wanders to cross our thresh hold. How could such a tiny little church complete with the offers of grandeur made by some churches? We can barely keep the sound system from screeching and the powerpoint operating some weeks.

I can tell how "on fire" my Pastor is going to be each Sunday before I even get out of bed. I have noticed for quite some time that the more God has in store for that morning, the harder Satan attacks. The kids fight, we oversleep, no one listens, clothes can't be found, every one is grouchy. We fly out the door, usually five minutes after we should have left, to make the thirty minute trek up the highway to Wapak, only be stuck in construction traffic. 

This morning was no different. Thing were just not good. Kids had fought all weekend, one had been caught in a big lie, one refused to get up.  I was tired, and to top things off my body hurts. My carpal tunnel is at a new all time high, waking me up in the middle of the night with numb hands and  searing pain shooting up my arms, rendering it almost impossible to find any strength in my hands.  My good ol' arthritis has began to kick in due to the chill in the morning and evening air. Yet, somehow, despite these "satan blocks," this morning we managed to leave on time, arriving before the beginning of the service.

We arrived in time to greet our church family and find our way to "our" spot. Grandpa found Rick and assigned him to the sound equipment, the kids wondered off to Adventureland. I sat and wondered what in the world was going on. There were new faces everywhere. The pews began filling up and I am pretty sure I heard our little church let out a joyful groan as it stretched its doors open a little wider, a little prouder.I thought perhaps I had missed the divine marquis above our church that was pointing down at the doors saying, "come one, come all."  There really is no feeling like seeing so many new faces to worship with you in the place you so love.

In the book of Matthew, Jesus states, "For where two or three are gathered together in My name, I am there in the midst of them" (18:20, NKJV). And boy, let me tell you, God was in our presence well before the sermon began!  As it was stated by Pastor Stephen, the sermon was just thge "icing on the cake" today.  God is working. He has great plans for this little church. It is so evident to me by how the Holy Spirit shows up each Sunday: the many new faces, the spontaneous sharing of testimonies, the occupied altar, the family that started with five attending, but now takes up two pews. 

Today it struck me, as it has many times, that we, as a church are growing both in numbers and in our faith. But how can this be since we have no fancy Sunday give aways, no television commericals advertising "Miracle Sunday." In my mind, the answer to this is very simple. We have an amazing, humble pastor whose only goal is to allow God to speak through him. He preaches nothing more than God's word, His promises, His commands. He does this in a manner that allows each of us to connect, to find what God is saying to us, what God is asking of each of us. There is no added pizzazz, no added promises, no tweaking of the scripture to fit what he wants to say, just what is written in our Grand Book.  We are growing because we have Godly leadership, but also because we have love and understand that we are a family. Never have I been part of a church that is so giving, so loving, so welcoming. Each Sunday morning, it is like returning to a family reunion, seeing family that I have not seen in years. And by the time I move out of the embrace of the first hug that morning, nothing else seems to matter.The stress of the morning has melted away. My heart is ready to worship, to receive what God has in store. 

How fortunate we are to have found our home and to be part of a growing congregation whose heart is so focused on God's will, on serving our Abba Pappa. I can think of no other place I want to be on Sundays, even if it means rebuking Satan and dealing with Sunday morning madness! 

Frank

His name was Frank. He had those big blue eyes that melted my heart, messy brown hair. He was a rule breaker, and I fell for him. I was barely twenty, he was seven. I was student teaching when I met Frank. The teacher had already developed a strong distaste for this boy who would not follow rules, that tried her patience, that just refused to cooperate. He had been separated from the others,and had spent a great deal of his first grade year counting the bricks in the hallway.  But, I liked him.  Perhaps at first it was because my cooperating teacher had a mutual distaste for both him and me (and I could not stand her).   Regardless what the early draw towards this boy was, we developed a strong bond. The last I saw Frank, he had come to school with huge bruises all over his arm. As a last resort, the teacher called me to see if I could get him to talk, I couldn't.  I have always wondered what happened to Frank.  Looking back,  I can say that Frank was the first in a long line of trouble making, rule breaking, score-crashing kids that I fell in love with.

After surviving a horrific student teaching experience, I vowed I would never set foot in a classroom. I decided to do Voluntary Service through the church since I had just wasted four years on a teaching degree. I mean, that is what made the most sense...waste money on a four year degree, take a nonpaying job--brilliant! In all honesty, it was where God was leading me. It was what God had planned for me. I was just trying to be obedient.

The first two assignments I was offerred--teaching troubled kids. Kids with severe mental illness and had severe behavior issues.  I KNEW that was NOT for me, so instead I took a job with the Boys & Girls Club and as a youth minstry director.  Even here, I found myself drawn more to those rowdy kids that others found exhausting!  There was Alex with his crazy wild hair, dirty socks tucked under his feet and stuffed into his shoes.  He ended up staying with me for several weeks after his dad backed out and his mom was training for a new job. There was Scott, who challenged every ounce of patience and self control that I had. When he moved away, I cried.

A year and a half into my service commitment, my first teaching job found me. They sought me out. Teaching preschool couldn't be too bad, right? My first day teaching was the first time I had heard a four year old drop the "f" bomb and use it in a grammatically correct manner! That little gem was Stephen, cute as a button! Then there was John. He would climb out of his window at home and walk along the second story roof.  Boy, I love that kid! His curly blonde hair, his toothless grin, and those deep brown eyes that penetrated right through to my heart.  As much of a challenge as he was, I chose to keep him for the full day instead of the half day preschool session. It was what would be best for him.

When we chose to move back to Ohio, the job I was offerred was that of an special educator for a class of kids with severe mental disorders and behavior issues--the exact thing I had turned down six years before.   It was to be a transition job,to get my foot in the door with the district. I had no clue that I would fall in love.  These kids that many times other staff did not want in their rooms  have given me so many great memories.  For fourteen years, I cared for these kids, or maybe they cared for me. So many good stories, so many good memories: the boy who stole his cousins shoes and brought them to be as a gift for my newborn son, the girl with with hair piece that flew off during morning holding, that began to scream "my hair! my hair" as the entire school turned just in time to see the hair fly across the auditorium.

Long before I was ready to listen, God was preparing me for the the mission He had for my life. It is only through His strength and direction that I have worked with the children He brought to me I look back now and the path that I have taken to get to where I am now, makes me smile. It took me a long time to know what God wanted for me. I am so glad that He is patient and never gives up on me.

In the next few months, a new part of my life mission will begin. I look forward to the relationships, the stories, the challenges that lay ahead.  Only God knows what will happen. So, I will trust Him, because He  has the answers, knows what is best, what will come.

It has been almost twenty years since I laid eyes on Frank.  His face, like many other past students, is still etched into my mind, leaving me to wonder where they are and who they have become. Perhaps when I arrive in Heaven, my Abba Father will share stories of who these little guys and gals became! Until then, when their faces and memories pop into my mind, I will savor the time I had with each of them!

Ebenezer is not a "who"

         Robert was by far the living definition of a juvenile deliquent. He had lost his father at the age of 8. By fourteen, his defiance and path of destrution became too much for his mother to handle. In desperation, she sent her son away in hopes that an apprenticeship would straighten him out. Instead, he plummeted further down his dangerous path. Until one day, at the age of seventeen, with full intent to crash an evangelistic meeting, h showed up at a church.  God worked His love and changed this young boy's heart. By the age of 20, Robert had left his disasterous ways and had become a minister, preaching God's word to others. While preparing a sermon, at the age of 23, God's love inspired Robert to a poem that was later set to music. Today, 250 plus years later, we know this hymn as "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing."

   A while back, my pastor did a sermon based on this song. This sermon has stuck with me, because of one word: Ebenezer. If you are like me, immediately your mind flashed to your favorite version of the Christmas Carol and you were seeing good 'ol Scooge.  But that isn't the Ebenezer that I mean. In the second verse of the Come Thou Fount, there is a line that states, "Here I raise my Ebenezer..." Again, insert  mental image of a giant hand lifting Scrooge high into the air. Yet, the Ebenezer in this song is a "what" not a "who." 

   In the book of 1 Samuel, the Ark of the Covenant is taken in battle from the Israelites by the Philistines. This did work out so well for this clan! The Ark, did not bring great fortune for the Philistines, instead it brought death and destruction, to the point that the people were beggng for it to be sent back. Eventually, the Philistines loaded it up, sent it back, and called it good. Several years later,  they attacked the Israelites again, looking for an easy victory. Instead, the Israelites called on God's favor, and defeated the Philistines. In honor of this victory and to honor God's hand in this battle, Samuel took a stone, named it Ebenezer, placed it between two cities as a physical reminder of God's help.

Ebenezer-- a stone. A stone whose name literally translates to the "stone of help." It is a physical reminder of what God has brought us through, His holy sovereignty, His divine help,  a reminder of  His ever present, unfailing love.  I'm no expert, but I think by definition, this Ebenezer is way better than a stingy old man! 

I am thankful that like Robert, at the age of seventten, God met me and molded my heart for His love. Since then, God has brought many Ebenezers into my life: songs, passages, sermons, people. But I have to say, my strongest, most readily called on Ebenezer is my first bible. The bible I received before I knew God, that I used to discover Him, that I sought comfort in while learning who I was in Him.  Like Robert, and his struggles, there are times that my heart is "prone to wonder, to leave the God I love."   When I feel lost, and need that stone of help, it is then I open my drawer and pull out this bible. I unzip the faded, stained cover, open it, and begin to absorb the words written inside.  It is filled with notes from those who helped guide me in the beginning of my journey. Passages are highlighted with notes of importance. Prayers are written in the margins. It is there, in this book that I am able to ground myself again, refocus myself. It is in its pages that I am drawn to bow my heart before God, admit my never ending need for His divine guidance and ever plentiful grace. It is there that I can quiet my heart, drowned out the distractions, and remember why I so desperately need to fall face down infront of my God. To anyone else, this bible is just that, the written word of God. And while I know and ackowledge that, I also know that at times, it is the Ebenezer I so desperately need in order to find my way back to my Father.

As time passed, Robert fell away from his relationship with God. It is said that at one point, he encounted a woman on a stagecoach, obliviousy to who he was. Somehow,  in conversation, she quoted words from the song to him. He then told her that he was the man who wrote that song and how he would give anything to feel what he had felt when he was walking with the Lord. To this, it is said she replied, "Sir, the "streams of mercy" are still flowing."  I am not sure if Robert ever discovered the Ebenezer that he needed in order to renew his relationship with God.I would like to think that this woman's gentle reminder was the Ebenezer he needed.  For me, I am grateful for each Ebenezer I encounter, that keeps me my heart bowed, and my eyes focused upward!

Blurred Lines

Exactly one month ago, I resigned from my job. The decision, while some may think was made in haste, was well thought out. Being an educator this day and age is scary enough before adding in inconsistent expectations, bendable rules, and unpredictable responses from administration. Then top off with a little common core, student preformance based evaluations, a blood thirsty media, and it is a recipe for burnout.

Last fall  I, along with the rest of the teaching staff, attended a training by legal counsel on the topic of teachers, first admendment right, and social media. The jist of the seminar, educators are not afforded the same first admendment rights promised in the Constitution. Educators, somewhere between the licensure exam and first teaching assigment sign, away these rights, and are given the cape of a super hero. Perhaps, there is a vow of celibacy from being real that should be added at the bottom of the exam or licensure application. 

The seminar warned of how what is posted on social media can cost one their job. A single picture of a professional enjoying a glass of wine cost that individual her job. The decision of termination was upheld by the supreme court.  To be honest, this was somewhat concerning, yet really didn't apply to me. I am always careful. I don't want to be offensive. My theory is, if I am friends with my aunt who is in her 90's, with my pastor, with my family, what I write is nothing I will be ashamed of sharing. It isn't out of fear of retaliation or even of offending someone, but more because that is who I strive to be. Not that I am always successful, but it is my goal. You can only imagine my surprise when I recieved a call saying that something I posted had caused an uproar in the local school district. 

By the sound of things, you would have thought I had unveiled the district's most well protected secret, condemned the district to Hell,  or had posted pictures of me pole dancing at the local Hooters while wearing a ripped up shirt with the school's name on it.  Nope, I wrote that I had mixed feelings of being moved to a new position. I posted that my students were made of aware of this move before I was given the official word.  So, why the uproar? The issue was one of my FB friends is a parent of one of my students.  Was I really portraying the district in a positive manner? 

My faceook page is not linked to the district I taught in nor the agency I was employed by. It is not linked to what city I live in or even what school I graduated from. Why? Because I like my privacy. After that seminar,  I came home and deleted all of my coworkers from my account. But, as the year progressed, these coworkers crossed the line and became friends. Friends that I spent more time with than I did my own family. Friends that were my support system at work and in my life. Apparently they too forgot to take the oath of professional relationship only, no mingling as friends. Then there were the students and parents. I have always upheld the rule, "if I am your teacher, I cannot be your FB friend." So after students left my class,  I would get requests. This happened with family members,too. To be honest it was a case by case decision whether or not I accept. While an educator is not supposed to show favortism, there were definitely some students and parents that I clicked with more than with others.

I always knew that I would teach. I guess it is in my blood. In 1915, my great grandfather, a recent graduate of Miami University,was awarded his first teaching certificates--one in Ohio and one in Florida. . He taught in the community he grew up in. He taught his siblings, he taught his friends' siblings, he even taught his own children. While I am positive he was well respected as an educator, he was also well respected in the community. I bet he knew the students' parents' names, their siblings, and even what was going on in their lives. I bet he strived to not only teach academics, but the importance of being a responsible citizen. I know he had compassion and I am sure there were more times than any one knows that he went over and beyond what is expected.  In 1946, my great grandmoher was awarded a teaching a certificate. Their daughters went on to teach. My cousins, second cousins, third cousins, and cousins once or twice removed have been educators.  Not only is there a desire to teach that runs in our genes, but there is a strong gene of compassion that runs through as well.

I wonder what my grandfather would say if he knew that it was a test score, that he had little influence over that now defines who is and isn't a great educator. That it isn't about the relationship you build, the compassion you give, or the reputation you have built in the community, but a score. One score. One score, determines the worth of a teacher. Would he have advised me to "kill and drill" my students? Or would he have advised me to carry on the way I was teaching? Would he still have been considered an outstanding educator?

I was faulted for blurring the lines between professional and personal life. I was faulted for being too involved. But, this past weekend, when our family experienced a sudden emergency, it was the families that I blurred this line with, that came to my rescue. These are the people I trusted with my children when I had no one to help me. These are the people that brought us hot meals, that are praying for our son's recovery. These are the people that pulled strings and asked for favors to make sure some other issues were taken care of. I am glad that I blurred the lines and took a chance to get to know these families. I am glad that I can call them friends outside of a classroom.  These are the people that have become part of my family. And I have a sneaky suspicion that my great grandfather would tell me, this is how a supportive community works, regardless of one's role!

Good-bye Robin

 

 Two days ago on Monday, August 11, a beloved actor and comedian was found hanging in his house. The coroner's report "death by asphyxiation."  The man who had brought so much laughter into our lives had been plagued with mental illness, and after fighting what could have been a life long diagnosis, Robin lost his battle. By evening, Robin's death was on every channel and overtook the social networks. Yesterday, I opened my Facebook page to see that this had only increased, and I found myself frustrated. Don't get me wrong,the loss of this man is an atrocity for the film world, for his many fans, and most importantly, for his family. But, I found myself wondering, why are we making such a big deal out of it?

    In spite of his fame, Robin was no different that the other 107 people, who according to statistics committed suicide on the same day. No different than the woman found in her car, the man in his apartment, the man in the carry-out, or the man found in his shop. His family is left reeling like others left behind, wondering what they could have done differently.They have now joined a new culture, the group of over 4.8 billion suicide survivors (based on statistics of the number of survivors between 1987-2011).

    The reports say Robin was found hanging from a belt, but on his wrist were superficial cuts, and the knife lay near by. I know these superficial cuts, I bear their faded scars.I have been to the point Robin found himself that morning. I have been to the point that no other option made sense. Luckily, I was able to slowly climb out of its grasps. Luckily, like the estimated 987, 950 who unsuccessfully attempt suicide each year,  I did not succeed. It is shocking to know that every 27 seconds, another person feels this is their only option, and unsuccessfully attempts to end their life. It is shocking to think that we can be so blind to over look so much pain, ignore it, or play it off as nothing.

 I still struggle to keep my depression under control. I have no choice but to pop a few happy pills each day in order to help me through the day. Some may argue and say I do have a choice. I could pray harder, exercise more, find things that make me happy, or just push on (trust me, I have heard it all). They would never say this to the cancer patient, the heart patient, or someone with diabetes. It goes to show how far we have yet to go in understanding. My brain does not produce a chemical needed to keep things on an even keel. It is a medical condition, not a choice. The choice lies in what role I allow it to play in my life, although sometimes, even that feels out of my control. The choice lies in whether I seek assistance and find support to help keep me in check.

   Not only do I understand the pain Robin faced, but I understand the pain that his family and friends are dealing with. Suicide has reared its ugly head in my family way too many times. I have seen the continual devastation and pain it causes. I pray that for Robin,'s family and the families of the others who died on Monday, that people set aside their judgement, reach out to them, and support those who  left behind.

   It is my hope that shock of Robin's death and the sudden surge of  interest in recognizing mental illness does not fade.It is my hope that Robin's death will not overshadow the other 107 who died on Monday, the other 755 who will commit suicide this week, the other 39, 517 who will succeed at suicide this year. Instead I hope that it brings a deeper awareness and understanding of mental illness. I hope it challenges us to check in on others, take a minute to listen, and take a minute to care. I hope,that we, as a society, do not let this interest fade once the shock wears off, but instead we use it as the springboard to spend more time researching, educating ourselves and others to the facts, not the myths of this terrible disease.  I hope that each of us can reach out to those who are battling depression and other mental illness, that we can reach out to those left behind. It is time to set aside our stereotypes, prejudices, and ignorance and learn about the disease that is the third leading cause of death in youth and the tenth leading cause of death in our nation.

    Good-bye, Robin. You were one of the greats! I pray that you have found the peace you searched desperately for in your life. I pray that your legacy lives on, not on the screen or in the thought of lost talent, but in the research and awareness of mental illness.


(Statistics from the American Association of Suicidology, based current data of 2011)

Trusting Him and Letting Go

     I stood in the sanctuary this morning with tears rolling down my face as I sung, well maybe blubbered out the words, "Step by step, You lead me, and I will follow You all of my days. Oh God, You are my God, and I will follow you..." I remember the first time that I heard this song, as a seventeen-year-old new believer, sitting in a Lutheran service. I remember the words speak to me. Following God is what I wanted with my life, nothing more and nothing less. It seems that since then, my walk with Him has taken many turns, climbed many hills, and trudged through many forsaken and barren lands. Through this, the only thing that has remained constant, His love for me. Not my desire to always put Him first, but His unfailing love and ever open arms.

     Today, standing in the sanctuary, my tears readily fell as my arms were outstretched to Him. I meant the words I uttered. For the first time in a long time, I knew that I was where He wanted me to be, and together we were about to embark on an amazing journey. For seventeen years, I have taught children. I started with preschool, went to kindergarten, then to special ed. where I have taught every grade, except kindergarten! I believe it is probably a good estimate to say in the last 17 years, more than 300 students have passed through my classroom. At first, that didn't sound like many, but then I began to think. After my first two years of teaching, the most students I had at one time was 16 due to location or because of special education laws. Many of these children, I have loved like my own. Some I have "raised" in my classroom due to somehow being their teacher for multiple years... One in particular, I got in first grade and had him every year until he was a sophomore.

    Some stop by my house, to grab a quick bite or a can of soda, some email asking for tutoring, or just to ask me to come to their football games to support them. I have received graduation announcements, shown pictures of their children, and been asked if they could crash on the couch. I have bought coats, shoes, clothes, food, school supplies, personal hygiene supplies, and so much more. I have learned family names, been invited to family functions,and been supported by these wonderful families when my oldest child died. These families, were there for me when I couldn't be there for them. To me, teaching was never my job nor my profession; it was my passion, my life; but even more, it was my mission. This is what God had called me to do. He didn't call me just to teach, but to work with children and share His love for each of them: to teach them, love them, and to guide them.

     Now, God has opened a door, not just for me, but for my family, and we are very excited. At first, I thought I could manage both jobs, but in reality I have felt that my time in a classroom was soon coming to an end. I knew I was being lead in a different direction. This week, due to unforeseen circumstances (well, at least unforeseen by me), I knew it was time to let go. Last week, I resigned from teaching knowing that if I ever step return to a classroom, it will be as a volunteer, and eventually, maybe as a sub. This decision was difficult for me, but yet, I have been given a peace that surpasses my rationale.

     Leaving my job plummets our family well below our current mean and style of living. For that matter, it leaves us living below what society calls the "poverty level." It leaves us without health insurance, dental, or vision insurance. This, in itself, is going to require us to shift our thought process and learn to depend on God more than ever. But you see, financially, we may be broke and eating ramen noodles for a bit, but spiritually, we are beyond rich. I know that God will reward our obedience as long as we keep our eyes focused on Him. I know that for the next nine months, I have been given the most amazing gifts--the gift of being a mom. For the first time in my chldren's lives, I will be able to volunteer at their schools, have a lunch date with them, help them. The gift of being able to serve others. For this short time, I will be more readily available to help my aunt as she battles cancer. For the first time, in a long time, I may even try to cook meals. You are right, no need to get carried away.

       I will miss some of my amazing colleagues, Opening Day (which was really more about seeing past colleagues than anything else), and giving my boss a hard time. I will miss my students' faces and the feeling of watching them succeed. I will even miss writing IEP's, believe it or not. (No worries, I won't miss testing, or evaluations). I will miss the daily interactions with students that aren't in my classroom but have come to know. I will miss the smell of school supplies, the shiny floors of a freshly redone hallway.

        This morning in the sanctuary, surrounded by my church family, I found myself singing my prayer, praise, and promise..."step by step You lead me, and I will follow you with all of my heart!"