soul frog

Though I have taught 5-year-olds for five years; special needs adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities for a year and a half; subbed at the preschool in nearly every classroom; spent two years with toddlers and the past year with infants, not to even mention the years of Sunday school teaching and vacation Bible school leadership, I sometimes wonder how I ever became a teacher since I still do not completely know what I am doing.

Don't get me wrong. I am well aware of my creative abilities, learning how to make a wide variety of crafts and absolutely loving to do art with kids. I have also added a great many songs to my repertoire, complete with hand motions, and know that in a bind a rousing rendition of "If you're happy and you know it" can go a long way. Reading books to kids is extremely fun, especially when I really get into it and do different voices. I always hope I'm inspiring them to fall in love with books as I did when I was young. I also never grow tired of playing games with kids, no matter what their ages, and watching kid movies over and over, laughing at ridiculous and corny kid humor. But when it comes to classroom management, I seem to part company with appropriate teacher practices.

We've all seen the teacher look. It is similar to the mother look, if you were raised that way. It is usually accompanied by a hand on a hip and a shrill tone of voice. And though I've had my moments with my own children, I don't naturally act like that in a classroom. It isn't who I am. I am the teacher who does one-on-ones and gets to know the deeper thoughts of the more reflective children. I like to ask the naughty kids why it is they are choosing to break the rules, as opposed to just putting them into time-out. I want to offer counsel and prayer. I want them to express themselves without fear. This is perhaps why I work at a church-run preschool and not at some other place.

So even though we are supposed to be sharing the love of Jesus with the kids at vacation Bible school, are with them a very limited amount of time and do not want to even think about disciplinary measures since I'm not sure they would be appropriate anyway, I wondered what I was going to do to get the kids' attention, just in case they grew weary of my Bible story teaching. My set design would capture their imagination, I was quite certain, and the curriculum presented an interesting approach, complete with an introductory activity to gain their interest. But what would I do if it didn't?

Just before I walked out of the door on my way to the church that first night, I had a flash of inspiration, and remembered something I had purchased a couple of years ago at an outdoor craft fair. It is a hand-carved, wooden painted frog called a "soul frog" with a stick placed into its mouth. Its back has spikes carved into the wood. When this little frog is held by the back two legs and the stick is taken out and drawn across the spikes, a chirping sound is made that sounds just like, well, a frog--and also sort of like a cricket.

As I set the ground rules for how we all wanted to be good listeners so as not to miss the details of the story, I pulled out the frog and told the children that my pet frog could only make a sound when it was quiet. Otherwise he would get scared and have to remain silent. Every child immediately stopped talking to listen to the frog! I went on to tell them the Bible story about how we make plans that sometimes work and sometimes do not. But that God's plans are always the best.

pilgrimage

We all come to the water.

--the family of six celebrating their first year in North Carolina at Fort Bragg; mom organizing the kids while dad thinks about another organized run;

--a young couple collecting shells with their small child; the woman as bald as the man though probably unintentionally, perhaps hoping that as her hair lengthens so will her days to spend with her family;

--a gathering of generations all wearing white shirts getting ready for their family portrait on the beach; possibly remembering those who have gone before while holding tightly onto those coming up next;


We all come to the water.

--a one-armed man guiding his wife and children back to their campsite, embracing us with his cheerful disposition and even warmer smile;

--an older couple with too big of a truck and a ridiculously large trailer that does not seem too much when upon closer inspection the license plate reads: Nam '66 (with a purple heart emblem);

--a young woman with a certain glow who proudly shares with the world her good news blossoming in her protruding belly; the young man accompanying her having absolutely no idea what comes next;


We all come to the water.

--the Canadians--God bless the Canadians!-- who arrive primarily from Quebec with slightly different camping equipment, speaking their beautiful language--"Bienvenue;"

--a young man overcome with excitement for the waves, the sun, the incredible beauty of nature, breaks into song, "the seas are alive with the sound of music" and laughter can be the only response;

--the guy who looks like Jesus occupying the campsite we were hoping to have as we then realize that if we can't have it, who better to take it;


We all come to the water.

The sea oats each stand alone on the dunes, connected by deep root systems that unite and strengthen them against the fierce winds. They appear fragile, as though they could break without much force, but hold the sand in place so that the beach will continue to be a place for all to come. They withstand great adversity because though they seem to be independent of one another, they are actually created to live as a community.

"Everyone who thirsts,
Come to the waters;
And you who have no money,
Come, buy and eat.
Yes, come, buy wine and milk
Without money and without price.

Why do you spend money for what is not bread,
And your wages for what does not satisfy?
Listen diligently to Me, and eat what is good,
And let your soul delight itself in abundance."

[Isaiah 55:1-2]

almost technologically free

In the not too distant future I will be leaving this somewhat uncomfortable desk chair for a portable beach chair that I will place on the top of a sandy bluff, complete with ocean view. This will be where I drink the coffee my husband will make using the Coleman camp stove in the confines of the screen house which will be our home away from home. To sleep, we will walk carefully so as not to step on a cactus or sand bur the short distance to our tent. I will say, "Oh, let's leave the rain fly off," and he will say, "There is rain in the forecast and I don't want to have to get up in the middle of the night to put the fly on," and I will say, "I'll do it," and he will say, "Ok," and we will both know that when it rains in the middle of the night he will be the one getting up.

After reading, drinking coffee and not having to do anything, we will make our way down to the water's edge and try to determine how close to set up our beach tent so that when the tide comes in, we will not be washed away. This requires some thought because we may just read until we fall asleep and then wake suddenly to find ourselves scrambling to save our books.

We will splash in the water from time to time and walk along the shore. We will watch the little burrowing creatures hide themselves every time a wave carries them in. We will reflect sadly on how we have a difficult time seeing sand crabs as there are not nearly as many as there once were before vehicles were allowed to drive on the beach, and though there are roped off sections for nesting sea turtles, we wonder how they are able to survive as well in this place we are all trying to share.

When we first came to the Outer Banks almost 20 years ago, the island of Hatteras was less developed and the beach near the federal campground at Frisco felt more wild. For several years a man we called "the naked man," for obvious reasons, used to walk the beach as though nothing were unusual about his lack of attire. We would see women sunbathing topless and thought this was all pretty exotic for North Carolina. When the boys were small we let them run around in their birthday suits as well. Life at the beach goes at its own pace and has its own rules.

At dusk I will breathe a sigh of relief having made it through another day of being overly exposed to the sun's intense rays and will wash the layers of sun screen off my reddened, freckled self in the cold showers with the rope one pulls for the water to come down. I never even mind the brightly colored tree frogs who shower with me. It is all part of the experience.

After a dinner that always tastes better eaten outside, especially when we go to the local dock and buy something that was caught just hours before, we will then walk back up to our chairs and watch in awe at the expanse of stars that will get brighter with each passing hour. The Milky Way is even visible. We will watch shooting stars, see satellites and try to identify constellations. The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse light will shine its rhythmic pattern over the dunes as the sea oats wave in the breeze that will pick up sending the mosquitos away.

It is at times like these when there is no need for any technology more sophisticated than a bottle opener and a knife to cut the limes.

awaken

Sometimes a dream stays with me long after I am awake. My rational mind tries to remember the setting to determine whether I have traveled to the place before, and I like to take time to consider what the story line is telling me. Mostly I want to determine whether this dream has any hidden meaning of merit or whether I am just too stressed or ate something weird for dinner.

I laugh when people are asked if they dream in color as my dreams tend to rival Les Miserables for their lavish costumes, large musical numbers, expansive sets and engaging actors. At least once I used a dream to write a paper in school and was given an A for my imagination. Didn't have the heart to tell the teacher that all I had to do was go to sleep!

In my recent dream I was visiting a cathedral. In some ways it reminded me of the basilica I visited last summer in Asheville, NC, while on vacation with my friend, Tia. We were drawn to experience something that reminded us of our childhood faith tradition, and in my dream I seemed to have the same desire.

Alone in my dream, I thought I would spend some time in prayer. I became aware while touring this unknown cathedral that an opportunity to take communion and receive prayer existed as I discovered a schedule of services. Thinking this would be a nice experience, I continued my tour. I ended up in what appeared to be a convent, attached to the main sanctuary by a long hallway. There I could see nuns wearing blue habits getting ready to offer communion. A line of women formed to receive prayer. I could see a woman barely able to walk on her own holding up the line. She asked if someone would help her and as no one offered, I decided I would.

Once I had taken her down that long hallway back to the main sanctuary I saw a boy about the age of 12 sitting by himself. Where was his family? I wanted to know. He smiled and said he was with a group but because he could not walk he would wait for them to find him. I could not understand how he was going to be found since he was not at the meeting spot and could not get there on his own. He agreed to let me carry him and much to my surprise this was not difficult for me to do. He was nearly as tall as I am but carrying him was like carrying a baby.

Done with my good deeds, I want to rush back to the nuns. Running through a church does not seem to be a correct choice so I take a back door which leads to a rickety scaffolding I then have to navigate in the dark. This frightens me and I try not to look down as it now appears I am several stories in the air and attempting to run on narrow planks while holding onto the bars on each side. But I do not make it in time. Communion dishes are being washed and put away, and the nuns, in their matter-of-fact way, tell me they are sorry I missed communion and prayer but I may be able to participate in the main service if I hurry. So off I go hoping not to miss out on any more.

Before finding a seat I notice that someone had forgotten to light the candles! So somewhere I find a lighter and start lighting them. I pay no attention to the fact that the church is filling up and as I turn around I realize there is no where for me to sit or pray and I have missed communion altogether. I can't stay where I am, on the altar, because I really was not supposed to be there to begin with and yet I don't know where exactly it is that I am supposed to be. I say one of those panicked in-the-moment prayers asking why I could not spend time practicing my faith and celebrating tradition when it was my very intention to do so. I had come to take a little time out of my day to be with God. How could I have messed this up?

I then think about the woman I helped walk to her pew, the little boy I carried to find his group, and the candles that needed to be lit; all choices I knew I needed to make. Above the clatter of my unsettled thoughts, I heard a still small voice whisper, "You don't ever need to come looking for me when I am with you already."

choices

Certain words and concepts sometimes cause me to trip over them, like the countless number and types of male footwear all over my house. The word "choice" is one of these. There was a time, not so long ago, when someone would ask me, "Which one do you choose?" and life as I knew it would stop dead in its tracks. Why does this person think that it is up to me to decide? I would wonder. The choice was simple. I would choose whatever was on sale.

This method of thinking served me well over the years as the majority of my belongings were once owned by someone else. It only became problematic when people like Oprah challenge us women-in-search-of-ourselves to compile notebooks containing styles that speak to us and define us, colors that represent us, and unending ways to show the world who we really are based on our choices. And yet, my problem is not solved.

What invariably happens is what always happens: exceptions to the rule. My choice to persevere in the face of great odds becomes undone when tears welling up in my eyes let the other person know he or she has gotten to me, in spite of my best efforts to remain strong. My choice to seek out something that I truly want is circumvented as I start to realize that I don't care enough to obtain it, even though I am told repeatedly through the role models of our time that my self esteem depends upon it. The real challenge is not letting someone think less of me because I am a thrift store queen. What are the chances of something-someone-may-have-died-in holding up against brighter, shinier new things certain to offer one a far more favorable entree into polite society? I "choose" not to care. But sometimes I do anyway.

My choices have been questioned more than once and for good reason. Some of them have altered the course of my life. And yet we are told that we are free to choose. We are somehow given this idea that we are in charge of our own destinies and if we but walk through the correct door, all will fall into place and we will live happily ever after. As long as we maintain this self-possessing strength of character that allows us to know what is best for us, well, we've got it made. Truth is, most of the time I don't have a clue.

I don't know what this day holds in store for me. I have no idea whether or not I will lose my temper at my loved ones even though I would choose to only love them. I would like to choose something more exciting for dinner but with a big pot of beans in the refrigerator I can already tell you what we will be eating. I choose good health and will be running down the road with the dog in a few minutes trying to accomplish that goal, all the while knowing that conditions have limited me that have had nothing to do with my choices.

Rebellious to the core, I have always struggled with authority. But when I think there is a Spirit who knows more than I do, can guide me in ways that are far more brilliant than my very best plan, and can speak truth to my heart so that I can understand it, I am strangely relieved. I'm willing to admit the gig is up and I do not know what I am doing. It makes going into a thrift store more of a treasure hunt when I discover amazing items seemingly waiting for me that I actually really like. It makes my whole life a lot more exciting when I am led on this grand adventure by One capable of setting into motion all sorts of scenarios--some I would choose and others, not so much.

known

Years pass and memories fade. And then comes a lunch invitation with the hope of reconnecting with someone I once knew. I wonder if our friendship will take up where it left off, wherever that was. Does my friend regard me the same way that I think of her? We have each undoubtedly moved on to other friends that fulfill our needs. Can we still make room for each other?

It brings me comfort to think that I am known by someone. And yet it is a misleading notion since we are not images in frames on a wall, frozen in time. We live. We breathe. We move into our ever-changing beings, becoming at times even unrecognizable to ourselves.

Sometimes I will think back to how I first met someone and reflect on my initial impression. I retrace our shared journey on a well-worn map in my mind. Spending time at someone's home reveals more about the person than his or her favorite colors or the ability to purchase quality furnishings. There are tell-tale signs of children--toys that have not found their way back to the toy box, muddy soccer cleats by the door, clothes en route to the laundry room--or the equally apparent lack of children, quietly filling a room with the emptiness of a woman's longing to turn the office into a nursery.

A weekend trip to the beach in which each woman is encouraged to share her story can launch a friendship into an intimate place with lightning speed. An invitation into someone's deepest heartaches opens a door that does not close easily. Celebrations open all of the windows. And with each opening of space into someone's life comes the knowing that something mystical is at work, forging a relationship in a way that requires more than human will.

Given all of that, I promised myself to hold it together and wait until my friend responded to me so I would know how to respond to her. Joy spread across our faces as we exited our vehicles and walked toward each other in a restaurant parking lot. There we embraced and openly wept in each other's arms. We could have pretended that it was not that big of a deal. We are grown women, after all, and each have active lives in which we are counted on to show leadership ability and professional conduct. But we chose instead to live, for that moment, in a very sacred space.

day old popcorn

Making my way through the devotional I've been reading for the past several months has left me grateful for the experience, yet longing for more. The words of Ann Voskamp, the author of One Thousand Gifts, has spoken to me in ways I had not previously been reached. I think it has been her honesty. She writes what others are thinking but do not dare say out loud.

The point of this book are the forty lined pages at the back. Each numbered line waits for me to come up with a word or phrase representing a blessing--a reason to feel loved. Feeling loved can also have to do with what I love. Rediscovering a list I made in a journal I still have near my rocking chair (from 2005!) I am reminded of how making this sort of a list helps one become present to life and find joy in the simple things.

coffee with cream
dark chocolate
the smell of rain
the sound of waves
singing together
flute music
quiet
eating garden-ripened tomatoes
laughing so hard I can't breathe
making someone else laugh
words spelled correctly
Birkenstock sandals
Just For Redheads cosmetics
conversations that have meaning
no laundry to do
pecan pie
handmade gifts
antique toys
Thanksgiving food
campfires
a well-told story
sunscreen protection
a good pillow
the possibility of angels
Mexican food
dark beer
red wine
no cavities
the scale going down
wearing black
being alone
being included
getting published
crying in a healing way
being united with others in the Spirit
hearing the birds before dawn
mint chocolate chip ice cream

Another thing that makes me profoundly happy is day old popcorn. Most people would probably say it is stale and throw it away, but I actually enjoy the chewy, salty, buttery goodness of it. I will make popcorn when I don't really want some just to leave it for the next day. Makes no sense at all.