I am not a teacher

I am not a teacher.

Well-meaning people would hear me say this and politely correct me by saying, "Well, of course you are," as if to say, "Don't put yourself down. You can teach as well as anyone."

If I would have majored in education, I would have been able to join my elementary education roommate as she sat on her bed cutting out laminated pictures in primary colors, taking a swig of her Teacher's scotch, and tucking herself into bed just as I was getting off work to spend the rest of the night writing another paper on my trusty Smith-Corona electric typewriter. In the early morning hours she would get out her best teacher dress, put on her teacher smile, and go play with kids. We would pass in the hall as I returned to the room realizing it was indeed morning. Time for class.

By the time I had reached the end of my sophomore year in college, I needed to declare a major. Since I had taken four years of French in high school and continued on quarter after quarter in college, I had become semi-fluent. One of my professors said my pronunciation was similar to someone who lived in "the islands." I could have chosen to major in French. I would then have become a teacher traveling to France, watching French films, eating baguettes and drinking espresso. I could have instilled in young people my love for the language. I could have retired by now.

I didn't major in French. I also didn't major in English because I didn't want to become an English teacher. I majored in journalism because it sounded more employable. I just wanted to write.

While picking up my children from preschool one day, the director asked if I had yet found a job since she knew I had been looking. When I told her I had not, she said I wouldn't have to keep looking for a job if I came and worked for her. She asked me if I had ever thought about that. I said I had and when would she like to talk. She set a time and I showed up to sign a W-2 form. No resume, no interview. She knew what she needed to know about me, which left me confused. The first year my 4-year-old and 1-year-old came to the preschool, I drove a '62 Chevy Nova that had been given to me, and later would show up with our Irish Wolfhound who would stick his head out the window inches from her face as she helped the boys out of the car without the correct stuff in their lunches and a lot of other missed details. I was the mom teachers talk about. That mom.

But then came that magical day when I would find myself in a room with 5-year-olds, listening to them making sense of life. I loved watching them discover that red paint mixed with blue paint swirls together on a big white piece of paper to transform into a whole different color. I loved reading children's books as I wrote a few in my head. At the lunch table one day one kid asked another, "What do you think is hotter, lava or the fires of hell?" The teacher I was working with that first year told me he should know because he was the devil. I thought he was wonderful.

As the years went by, I grew accustomed to the part-time seasonal schedule. It worked great for a mom and doubly great as the wife of a real teacher. When I began the job, the boys were 3, 6, and 9. After 5 years of teaching, I decided it was time to get back on-track with my job search. Five months later a woman I was working out with at Curves asked if I wanted to teach. No, has always been my answer. But she said the community college would hire me as long as I had a college degree. I would be "teaching" adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities. I told them upfront I had no experience doing that sort of thing. They said my preschool curriculum would work just fine.

So I conducted three one-hour classes a day at a group home that was a central location for other group home residents. I would have up to six students who would come in their wheelchairs or walkers and sit around a large table waiting to sing, "Jesus Loves Me." They were more interested in talking about angels and heaven than learning their alphabet, especially since their friends were dying. They somehow knew they would never become independent but would live out their days in group homes having others assist them with all of their needs. Someone told one of them that he would be able to walk in heaven. My first thought was, "He will be able to think!"

The day would come for an observation and a report to my supervisor that would have her telling me to shut the door to her office and have a seat. Not prepared for a negative report, she told me two things: 1) the correct answer was NEVER "I don't know," and 2) why was I not employing the literacy-enhancing technology?!

1. Sometimes the answer is "I don't know." Educated, intelligent people know this.

2. Employing the literacy-enhancing technology. I would need to break down this sentence. Employ must mean "use" and literacy means having to do with reading. The only technology I was aware of in my classroom was the old computer in the corner with a bowling game in which Christmas elves made rude sounds for a student able to hit the necessary keys. Ok, they got me. I had no idea what they were talking about. I DON'T KNOW was my official answer.

Turns out, the literacy-enhancing technology was a pencil grip. A PENCIL GRIP! This supervisor who would neither look at me nor speak to me went to my supervisor to say that I was not allowing my students to enhance their literacy by putting pencil grips on their pencils. There were perhaps three students who could hold pencils out of the 18 or so under my care and out of those, none were literate. They were pre-literate, thus the use of a preschool curriculum. They did not know the alphabet nor could write it or their names. There were pencil grips in the file cabinet drawer that they did use on occasion. The students could not tell the supervisor this information because some of them were non-verbal. But they would smile at me on rare occasions, and do everything they could to sit as close to me as possible, and sing Jesus Loves Me with a pure heart.

I would eventually tell my supervisor I did not want to be a teacher.

My preschool director asked me to substitute at the preschool as soon as she found out that I no longer held classes at the center. Once back in the door it felt natural and I would take another position, this time with toddlers only two days a week the first year and three the next. I spent so much time working on my arts and crafts business that the part-time teaching fit in well with the rest of my life.

Contributing to the household income became more of a need. When I was asked to work a five-day work week with a teacher who wanted me to be her assistant in the infant room, I was pleased to accept. New director, new teachers, new families and an opportunity to spend time with the youngest students at the preschool was something I looked forward to doing.

A room that was generally bursting at the seams with bouncing babies only had two or three my first year giving the teacher and I a great chance to get to know each other. She would bring her left-overs in small pyrex bowls and we would enjoy lunch and one good story after another. Though I did not look forward to the diaper part, having vowed to never change diapers again after my ten years of diaper duty at home, baby diapers were not that bad.

Maybe because we had similar views on mothering and on life, we seemed to care for these babies in similar ways. Our room was well-managed and we did our work while continuing a conversation that lasted three years. A job change for her husband signaled an end to our fun and a promotion for me.

Over coffee and lunch several times, plans were shared with my new assistant. Hopes were high. But life got tough. And then it got tougher. Words were spoken. And then they weren't. Then they were spoken to others. Words believed. Words not believed. My health failed and I lost my voice, perhaps, as my close friend pointed out, because I was not being heard.

In the midst of this, I knew I was not a teacher. I never wanted to be a teacher. Perhaps I was never meant to be a teacher. And yet, in both situations, the children and the special needs adults loved me. Regardless of any so-called complaints, either real or imagined, no one has ever said I was in any way unkind or uncaring toward the needs of the most vulnerable among us. I loved them well.

On my last day at the center I noticed some of my students looking distracted. I watched them closely as many of them were on medication for seizure disorders and seeing a student seizing and not being able to do anything to help is not a good feeling. I did not expect more than a handshake. But just before I was scheduled to leave, an employee of the center walked in with a cake. It may have even had my name on it. All I remember is one of my students sitting so close to me he was almost on my lap. He looked me in the eyes with his innocent face and slowly inched his fingers toward my hand until he daringly held it in his and cried out, "I hold Ms. Shore hand! I hold it!" The others got their wheelchairs as close to me as they could while I watched my feet to keep them from being run over.

And even though I had finally attended the workshop in which I was told I was never to allow a student to hug or kiss me, it was far too late to keep them from behaving that way now. Hugging and kissing ensued. One man had wanted to know if we could go to heaven together. I said I wanted to go with him to heaven but if it was ok, not that day. One of my students had already gone to heaven. Maybe because life was so immediate for them--so fleeting, and often so lonely, we talked about death as being together forever.

When we had eaten the cake and said our good-byes, class was over. A real teacher would have employed some literacy-enhancing technology. All I could do was run to the car so they wouldn't see me crying--because then they would be scared, and I would never want to frighten them. My special friends.

I am not a teacher.

questions that need to be asked

Is it true?
Is it necessary?
Is it kind?

These questions remind me of, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," and limit an exchange of thoughts and ideas. In an environment of information control, the potential for the dissemination of untruthful, unnecessary and unkind messages is real.

What is truth becomes a philosophical impasse beyond which it is not possible to go. The question becomes: Which version of the truth will be accepted, and by whom?

It is encouraged in our society to talk for hours about nothing, and if the truth cannot be known, prattling on about nothing of importance is at least thought to be polite. It is, however, completely unnecessary. Ideas of substance, requiring a higher level of discourse, should not have to ask for permission to prove their worth.

Asking whether or not something is kind is purely subjective. I think of the hapless souls who end up on talent shows getting negative feedback on their lack of musical ability because of all the wonderful people in their lives who decided it would be unkind to tell them the truth about their lack of talent. Kindness is being gentle with the truth, not avoiding it altogether.

What has helped me far more than those three questions have been the Four Questions asked by Byron Katie, an author who teaches a method of self-inquiry called The Work. It starts with writing down judgments or stressful thoughts toward other people and then putting these judgments, one-by-one, up against each of the questions.

Her first question is the same: Is it true? Depending on varying points of view, it is almost always up for debate.

The second question opens up the idea of truth further: Can you absolutely know it's true?

Knowing whether or not something is true takes me back to Journalism 101: Consider the Source. Is the source trustworthy? Does the source have an ulterior motive in saying something untrue about the person in question or the situation that is being questioned? Do I have any verifiable proof that what is being considered is true? How sure am I? Is it worth the leap of faith in believing it?

Third, How do you react--what happens--when you believe that thought?

If I think someone has judged me unfairly, believing it before it has been tested for accuracy will cause me to judge unfairly right back. Our belief systems are powerful, intricately formed over years of trial and error. When someone hurts me, how I will react may be a learned behavior based on being hurt in a similar way the last time. Trip the trigger in my brain and a reaction is at the ready to be played out accordingly. Deciding to believe something that is not true can be held onto as fiercely as something that took time to prove. It is up to each one of us to choose what we will do.

And finally: Who would you be without the thought?

Without the thought of having to ask whether or not something is true but instead giving that person the benefit of the doubt, would make me feel like a more compassionate person. I would tap into the empathy I am naturally gifted with as I would also consider how it makes another feel that I would want to question that person's integrity. I would let go of the question as it no longer had purpose.

Not having to consider whether or not something is absolutely true gives me a sense of peace. There is much that is unknowable. If I put my trust in God, I do not have to be in charge of knowing all the answers. I can stop the inquiry and direct my energy onto something more productive.

If I am not reacting because I am choosing not to believe the judgment against me, I will not harbor a bitter root of anger that eventually seeks its will by leading all astray toward paths of evil. I would have the opportunity to be proactive instead of reactive, choosing the way of peace instead of the devastation that results from withholding love. Though I would have no control over what someone would choose to say or not to say, I would have control over my response.

Who would I be without the thought--the stressful, painful, brokenness-that-threatens-to-cast-me-into-outer-darkness-thought--that someone has judgment against me?

I would be free.

trials and tribulations of the working life

It doesn't take much to damage someone's reputation. A few words spoken with a certain tone. A well-rehearsed look. All it really takes is an audience.

I once worked for a woman who decided to make an example of me for reasons I could not guess. At one of our regular meetings, just as she was in the middle of her presentation, she stopped, looked directly at me and said, "Are you ok?" in an alarmed sort of voice.

You can imagine what happened next.

Every single woman in that room turned to see my face turn red as I managed to stammer, "I'm fine." I had been fine, up until then.

Suddenly there was in the minds of everyone in the room a perception that something was wrong with me. Was I about to faint? Throw up? Did I need to go to the bathroom? Was I daydreaming? Writing a novel? Doodling to stay awake? Praying to be released from the hell of this meeting?

No. I was sitting in a normal way, listening to a presentation just like everyone else. Minding my own business. Not causing any trouble. But trouble has a way of finding me.

My husband has always said, "If they like you, you can burn down the restaurant and still have a job. If they don't, watch out." He may even have a story about someone who burned down a restaurant and still kept a job. I forget. He has a lot of stories.

The man who hired me for my very first job away from home, where I worked for my dad on the farm, did not like me and probably only hired me because my mother may have asked him as a favor while we were walking out of church together one Sunday. He may have decided he could put up with me since he was also getting my sister as an employee and he was far happier with her.

I knew from the start I could do nothing to please him. Everything I did was criticized. Because I kept trying, not giving into his rants, he would have to up his game.

One day he asked if I had a boyfriend. I was 16. Of course I had a boyfriend! I was so pleased he had taken an interest in my life. I was too naive to realize he had only asked so he could turn around and say that I should tell the boy to "go fly a kite!" Then because I truly was innocent, I excitedly shared with this employer my plan to go with my boyfriend to the beach to fly kites that very evening! This was not a tender moment. This was where my boss walked away, red in the face, angry that he had not yet defeated me.

On another day it was my turn to do the dishes. It was an ice cream shop and I'm not sure what all had to be washed by hand, but I knew the knives we used to cut the bananas for banana splits did.

With the boss out of the shop and probably only one or two others working the counter, I safely filled the large sink with hot water and soap and slipped the knives in to soak. Everything was going swimmingly until someone cried out, "LURCH" our nickname for our beloved boss, and we stopped eating our "mistakes" and got ready for inspection.

For reasons I will never know, Lurch immediately went over to the sink and as he was about to put his hands into the water, I ran over asking him to please stop while I tried to explain that I was in the process of . . . .  It was too late. There he was lifting a handful of knives up from out of the water. By the grace of God alone did he not cut himself on them.

You can imagine what happened next.

I was taken into the backroom and this very tall, ex-military man, would bend over as far as he could so he could look me directly in my never-been-fired-before 16-year-old-face. I would like to say I remember what he said but I am not even sure I even heard most of it. I have been blessed with somewhat of a dissociative "gift" that allows me to sometimes step outside of what is happening to me. It is built-in protection.

My reputation as a ice cream server was beyond repair. This one mistake that would have never even been a mistake if my boss had not shown up unexpectedly would now define me. If only he would have listened to me. If only he would not have put his hands in the sink. If only.

I do remember hearing that I had no potential and would probably never amount to more than a dishwasher. I'm not sure why he even would say that since my dishwashing skills nearly sent him to the hospital. It was also rather difficult for me to take him seriously since I was already one of the top students at my high school, I was second-chair flute in band, and I even had a boyfriend. In my 16-year-old mind I was doing just fine. My reputation at school would remain intact.

He threatened to fire me. In the end, he did. I was sad I wouldn't get to eat any more ice cream.

On the 4th of July weekend, the biggest weekend of the entire year for this small town ice cream shop, my sister decided to hang up her apron, leaving the shop short-staffed. It still ranks as one of the nicest things she has ever done for me!

prayer requests

There are unwritten rules about prayer requests.

1. It apparently is considered bad form to ask for prayer for yourself.

During a time of compromised health when I was not sleeping--at all--I asked for prayer to get a good night of sleep. It had seriously been like three days straight since I had slept and I had always heard hallucinations followed by death would happen next if I did not get any sleep soon. With eyes closed and heads bowed, someone in the room laughed shortly after I voiced my request. Though I took offense at the time, I prefer to pretend that the person was not paying attention to me and laughing at something else, which though offensive, is not nearly as bad.

2. A prayer request must be for someone dying or the family of the one at death's doorway.

I do not mean to sound insensitive, but I wonder what it is exactly we are praying for sometimes. Are we asking for a miraculous healing? What if the person is elderly and has been deteriorating for a long time? Is it even kind to ask that his or her life be prolonged in the midst of suffering? It makes more sense to pray for the family who is adjusting to the inevitable processes played out in front of them. But aren't we actually praying that all will find peace? Isn't the peace in question here the peace one can obtain from a relationship with the Almighty? Don't we just want everyone to be ok with whatever it is they are up against today?

3. Once the prayer request is offered, it is then your duty to give regular updates.

Well, it all depends . . . on whether or not anyone remembers what you said in the first place. Maybe they are still making jokes and not paying attention. You never know.

Updates are difficult to make if you have absolutely no medical training. I went to graduate school. I am an intelligent and educated person. And yet, when I have to attempt to explain medical procedures using actual medical terminology and sound more advanced than a preschooler, it is challenging. Once biological systems are explored, faith enters in. The patient's body is falling apart in such-and-such a way but God is the Great Physician. Healing is possible but . . . . It is not based on how much faith we have. It is based on God's plan, as He is in control and not us.

4. Prayer requests are subject to all sorts of commentary.

One of the reasons I generally do not share prayer requests of a personal nature, (because I have learned my lesson from that person who is still laughing) or about something serious is because the whole scenario can turn into something I never saw coming. My words can evoke strong emotion in someone who then feels the need to project how she would have handled it. The idea of it can cause another to remember how she felt when going through it with a loved one. It can be shocking for some. It can bring unwanted grief to an otherwise lovely sunny day.

But there is a bigger reason I often do not share my stuff and that is because there is history, stories that would explain a thing or two about life--my life. Stories that would not make sense to someone who has never walked a mile in my Birkenstocks. Stories that may be misinterpreted by someone who cannot receive the truth of some of these tales of woe because they are too hard. Stories I cannot give an adequate telling for because I will be sued and will instead need to turn them into fiction stories for children with symbolic endings that could be taken in a number of different ways. Or maybe I could team up with an independent film maker and create a movie that could become a cult classic for those who enjoy dark twisted tales of intrigue in which the main character is pitied yet loved, misunderstood but in the end everyone is holding hands having a good cathartic cry.

I cannot be responsible for any of this. If I ask you to pray--pray. Don't ask--unless you want to, and then, only if you promise to let me tell you the truth. Or at least as much truth as I think you can take.

I like the Quaker idea of "holding someone in the Light." If we can gently and compassionately do that, we will have done a beautiful thing.

a blessed day

Yesterday, before I headed to the Farmers' Curb Market where I spend most of my Saturday mornings, I prayed for God to bless my day. I then sat, waiting, next to a large hand-sewn pillow and an antique crib full of bed bunnies, expecting something wonderful to happen.

A long-time customer who has become a friend, stopped by to donate a sweater for my art. We talked about our lives, every turn of our conversation leading us to people we knew in common. Just before she left the Market, she circled back by my table to introduce me to another friend, another connection with whom I also know someone in common. Community.

A customer I did not know well stopped by for the second week in a row to inquire as to whether or not I had seen the mention of me in a beautifully-produced local magazine and I was happy to tell her I had. Though I had looked for the magazine without success, I happened to see the article posted when randomly picking up my phone. I thought about how much time I spend looking for things when sometimes all I have to do is wait for them to come to me. Serendipity.

Since we were having a rather slow day at the Market, this customer started to tell me the stories of her life and the next thing I knew she was telling me about her time as a Peace Corps volunteer in South America. I shared the stories about my sister's time in Tanzania. Returning to my table after making her rounds at the Market, she came to stand with me behind my table. Friendship.

While speaking with this new friend, another friend--a fellow artist--stopped by to cheer me on as we try to do for one another when we are out in the public marketing our wares. I never tire of those who sincerely wish for my success. I noticed the comments online as well as friends took the time to "stop by" my posts and express their joy for what I make and who I am. Encouragement.

No sooner had this new friend moved along, then did another friend show up to brighten my day and share her life with me. As she seemed to have an abundance of joy, she decided to pray with me right then and there among the plants, the baked goods, and the pillows. Hallelujah!

As I was calling it a day and packing up my art, a woman pushing a stroller stopped in front of me, picked up a bed bunny and danced it in front of her baby who smiled with delight, as the lady accompanying her made the transaction. Success.

In expectation I waited for something wonderful to happen. Yes.

A Responsorial Psalm for the Resurrection, An angel's words to Mary Magdalene

Before light dances on the dew, she has gathered her spices and fragrant oils for the journey.

Wrapping her arms around the jars, she steps carefully to avoid wayward roots in the dark.

To see him once more keeps tears from spilling out of eyes that have seen so much of life.

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

Stopping abruptly, she has no answer nor can comprehend the one sitting in the burial place.

The cold hewn stones will offer no warmth; a faint scent of myrrh is almost a memory.

Brokenness hangs heavy in this room, offering only unspoken promises and unseen hope.

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

It is to your credit you have wanted to fulfill your duty by anointing the body of your friend.

Here you will find only strips of linen, grave clothes without purpose that have come undone.

Your friend is not here, yet you are not abandoned. He has risen from the dead, his divine plan!

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

This tomb holds nothing for you; it will neither sprout vegetables nor flowers for a window sill.

Take one last look at the rock, unchanged by natural rhythms of life. Let go of the burial spices.

The stone has been rolled away. The freshness of new life rushes in. Love overcomes all!

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

Turn and walk into the garden where birds sing their early morning songs to welcome the day.

Buds burst forth in a flourish of color and the air is made sweet with their perfume.

There waits the Gardener. He knows your name. He has tended your heart from the beginning.

Go out into the garden and celebrate life! Amen.

a little bit of chocolate

Every year I try to come up with something new, something challenging to give up for Lent.

After I eliminate the idea of giving up coffee and Guinness, my coping mechanisms extraordinaire, I move on toward carbs and realize I have already greatly reduced them for health reasons. The main thing left is sugar.

I tell people that I give up chocolate, but sometimes I would pass up the chocolate pie and choose the lemon instead. Not this year. I gave up all "intentional" sugar. I say intentional because there is sugar in pretty much everything except for my coffee. And I will come clean and admit to a little maple syrup on pancakes at least once, some barbecue sauce that obviously contains high fructose corn syrup and finally, some apples and raisins cooked in sugar and butter because I could not bear to let them go to waste. I do what I can.

The funny e-cards circulating with the message: "I believe I'm getting closer to God by spending a few weeks not eating M&M's" miss the point, though they did make me remember my favorite catechism teacher, a man who was about to enter the priesthood when one day he fell in love with a woman who so captured his heart he ended up marrying her. Instead of entering the house of God, he would come home to a household full of children.

This catechism teacher would give up M&M's for Lent because he loved chocolate and those were among his favorites. Maybe because he had been taught to deny himself in a strict sense of the word, he would take the challenge one step further and place candy bowls of M&M's throughout his home, allowing himself to be reminded of the temptation each time he passed one of the bowls of brightly colored candies, there for the taking. He would then pause and thank Jesus for sacrificing himself.

I like to get rid of the temptation before Ash Wednesday if I can, but sometimes Valentine's Day, characterized by gifts of chocolate, can mess up my plans. In the back of the freezer are my stashed chocolates, if they are still there, with my sons, who did not give up chocolate, always on the lookout for something sweet since Mama is not making dessert during Lent. I also keep a large bag of chocolate chips in the freezer because they taste so much better frozen and whenever I need a little pick-me-up I can just reach into the bag for a handful of wonderfulness. During Lent I try not to open the freezer, which is difficult since that is where we keep the coffee beans, even though my husband makes the coffee most of the time; the frozen fruit with which I make my smoothies, without added sugar; and flour for baking. And yes, I did put the recommended tablespoons of sugar into the scones I made the other day, breaking both the sugar and carbs rule.

It is not about the food. The Scriptures even talk about what is considered clean and unclean, as dietary laws tend to be strict. But there is freedom in following the way, the truth, and the life. When we humble ourselves and make our pact with God for the forty plus days we are trying to give something up, he meets us where we are and strengthens our resolve. He knows me better than I know myself. I know that he knows that when I say I'm going to do something, that means I will try. He knows that most of the time I will fail. And at those times I will look up to heaven and be still and know that it is ok.

A popular idea is to do something during Lent instead of give something up, like chocolate. All good-natured teasing aside, giving up chocolate is not as easy as it may seem, especially for someone as in love with it as I am. My heart longs to do something for Lent, like provide funding for so many charitable pursuits, while my overdue bills, stacked neatly in a pile, await the next payday. I already give of myself to the youngest among us at my workplace, volunteer in several capacities at my church, and try to make the world a better place by apologizing for my wrongdoings, reaching toward mercy in the midst of judgment, and hope in the midst of despair. I seek to post pictures and quotes that will help those reading to experience a moment of peace, joy, or sense of knowing that I too have walked a rather rugged path and willingly place myself beside those who suffer and mourn.

Giving up a little bit of chocolate for about a month and a half does not get me closer to God. Seeking him everyday . . . does.