when there's a rat in your bathroom

The past week has felt like a settling in of sorts, becoming reacquainted with the days here, falling back into old patterns. Familiarity becoming my friend as I remember a life of water filters and laundry lines and powerless nights. Even the simplest of things are done differently, like teeth-brushing. I've caught myself several times near-ready to immerse my toothbrush in water running from the tap that has who-knows-what in it. There's always an adjustment, on either side of the ocean, that has to take place.

Within the past week, I've spent countless hours with hands locked tight around my waist, or fingers combing through my hair, or contorting my arm backs and upside down so that someone can look at my watch and practice telling time (that has been all the rage recently, it seems). There have been dinners and movie nights and sweet conversations that have left me so thankful to be back here. It's hard to believe it's been over a week already. Somedays it feels like the chill of Chicago winters just left me yesterday, and other days I feel like it's been weeks since my last real shower.

Last Wednesday Maxson and I spent the morning cleaning out the classroom. We walked into a room of complete disarray-- desks piled high with papers, books falling from the shelves, chalk-dust in every crevice and corner. Madness. We sorted and organized, our papers for the burn pile growing with each desk we tackled. We removed the unnecessary papers, the random kitchen utensils (I mean, who doesn't need a spoon when they're working on math problems. Am I right?), the toys, the pairs of underwear under the chairs, and the good ole trusty rat poop. Once we finished that, I brought down the folders and the name tags and other fun school things I had packed away in my bags and now everybody has a folder, and every desk has a name tag, and nobody should be missing a pencil or an eraser tomorrow morning (I know, I even laughed writing that. But a girl can dream for a day, can't she?)

The kid's most recent project has been digging a hole for the construction that's happening on the compound. They spent a good part of last week digging a 6-foot, septic tank hole, and being that they haven't had school for the past week because of Haitian craziness holidays, they've accomplished quite a bit. Their newest endeavor has been digging around on the other end of the compound, filling the wheelbarrow with dirt, rolling it across the yard (and losing half the dirt in the process) and dumping it to build up and level out the dirt so that the next team that comes in can hopefully pour cement for the foundation of the house. More often than not, if you were to look out through the upstairs window, or walk outside at just about any moment, you will find a small handful of boys shoveling and digging away, covered head-to-toe in dirt. Or you'll see Carl -in all his energy and volume- pushing another child in the wheelbarrow that is on its way back from just being poured out. These kids are hard workers, that's for certain.

Last night I stayed awake reading before the power went out [this book is a great read, if you haven't already heard of it or read it]. Head in my hands, propped on my elbows and feet tangled in the mosquito net dangling up above my bed, I was entirely absorbed in my reading. After quite some time, I paused to check my watch and realized two things: the power was about to go out any minute now, and coming from the bathroom I suddenly became aware of the very distinctive sound of a rat pitter-pattering through the drawers of the bathroom sink. No sooner do I have this realization when the power goes out leaving me sitting in the pitch black, can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face darkness.

And all I can think is: there's a rat a mere few feet away from the foot of my bed.

Oh, and there's also this: I have to pee.

Now rats are hardly an uncommon thing here in Haiti. I've woken up to the sound of rats in the ceiling or the sound of things rustling in the kitchen more times than I can count. I'd like to tell you I wasn't fazed by it, that I grabbed my flashlight and walked into the bathroom like this was totally normal (let's get real, this is Haiti, it is fairly typical). But for whatever the reason, last night the idea of this rat in my bathroom was a little too much. Reality is that I eventually fell asleep, knees to my chest, listening to the sounds of this rat, terrified. Let's just say I've never claimed bravery as one of my strong suits.

The night was a bit of a restless one, even though the rat eventually quieted and (I'm assuming) moved onto a new adventure that didn't take place in the bathroom cupboards. Despite the sensation of oh-crap-I-really-really-have-to-pee, my half-asleep self still could not put my feet to the floor. And so I cowered in the darkness.

I do this a lot.

Usually it's not from rats though. In the dark of the night, when the single beam of a flashlight is all there is, I cower from His plans. Be it the feeling of inadequacy, fear of the unknown, a sense of defeat because the situation looks so overwhelming, or just my plain stubbornness because I currently want to do things my way and not His.. I sit in the dark. All the while, I listen the thumping of the cabinets and stare at the shadows in the room, letting the fear rush in like a flood and overtake me. I cower on the bed, clinging to the false hope that being 6 inches off the floor is going to keep me safe.

I don't want to live life hiding in fear of the rats.

There's much to be scared of when all there is is a rustling in the dark and the light beneath your feet that shows you just one more step. There are seasons where that simply doesn't feel like enough to go on. But sometimes that's all He gives. At His name, the waves still and the thunder falls silent and the darkness flees. And He is the same One who is waiting to hear the sound of His child, calling out for Him in the dark of the night. So shout it into the void, or whisper it with a hum that barely passes your lips. Because He longs to meet us here.

(Incase you're wondering how the story ends, and for fear of it sounding as though I wet the bed, allow me to clarify-- the electric eventually came on in the middle of the night and I decided to brave the bathroom where I found no signs of the rat. I'm currently taking name suggestions so that, if my dear little friend returns tonight, I can call him by name in hopes that will make him a little less intimidating).

when you're here

To be here. Where a 4-hour plane ride brings you to a place that seems like an entirely new world. Where rain hitting the roof is a deafening, beautiful sound. To be here. Where you've received more hugs and hello's than ever before. Where the car horns honk and the bodas weave between the streets and how could you have forgotten it all? To be here. Among the faces you didn't realize just how much your heart missed until you were back. To be here is good, so good.

The past few days have been a bit exhausting, but also wonderful. With last minute packing insanity, a 4:30 a.m. wake up, the last of the always-dreaded goodbyes, and being in O'hare for 6 hours due to flight delays, I felt worn out before I even left Chicago. Roaming the airport Thursday morning, I was asked by airport security, "Little girl, are you a minor traveling alone? We can escort you." I suppose my timid shyness doesn't exactly help my 5'1'' 15-year-old-looking-self seem more my age? Despite the slightly rough start, once I arrived in Florida everything went smoothly. I took my last hot shower, ate my last leafy green salad, and sent my last texts for the next few months. Bittersweet.

As the plane neared Haiti and land came into view, I couldn't keep the smile from my face. From the runway I spotted Ray's car and that chocolate-colored, 4-year-old, almost-practically-bald head poking out of the front window I knew to be Jantzee. I feel like the weight of the goodbyes always presses in hard the last week or so of being home, and it wasn't until that moment that I realized the sweet hello's that were about to take place.

The morning was spent running around town doing errands. The plane was unloaded and customs cleared all by 10:30. Being greeted by Ray and Bonnie, and Nikki and Jason, and Lovena and Jantzee at the airport was the sweetest. I can't imagine coming back to any other place without them, they're all pretty amazing. All the errand running around Cap made me feel like, in some ways, I had never left.

The afternoon was completed with Michael cuddles and picking the glitter from Carl's face and having my hair torn braided by Rodenflor and Maria and being called "Hannah" again. Pretty much the usual insanity I grew accustomed to before I left. It was exciting to see a lot of the changes that have taken place on the compound since December and to cuddle some kids again and catch up with everybody. I unpacked my things that evening, put sheets on my bed and called it a day. After a quick phone call home, I was out by 7:30. We party hard here in Haiti, what can I say?

Now the rain is pouring, the drops pelting the roof, creating a deafening roar. Children are running about the compound screaming, laughing, dancing, and fighting. There's frogs croaking and the rush of Creole words all about. And in this moment here, I'm struck by the beauty of it all.

This.. this coming back to Haiti, was never part of the plan. At least not my own plan. Sometimes the absurdity of it would hit me when I was back in Chicago; what in the world am I thinking, returning? The beauty of it all brings me to my knees; here I am, in a country I never anticipated being in, doing something I never imagined myself doing. But all along, there was One who knew the entire story. The realness of this truth has hit hard the last few days: I deserve none of this. All of this, it has been Him; ordained by Him, for Him, from Him, because of Him. He works and moves and plans our days in the most amazing ways, and I'm so thankful.

So, friends, to wrap it up in a nutshell.. being back in Haiti is sweet, so much sweeter than I anticipated. And it's pouring rain here, which is so great. And as much as I miss you all, I don't miss the snow or the below freezing temperatures of Chicago. Thank you for your prayers and your sweet encouragement and all of the support you've shown me. Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude.

when you don't feel ready

A new year dawns like the morning sun over a field, blanketed in freshly fallen snow. It's like the crisp, blank pages of an unused journal-- still smelling of paper and leather and newness, holding a world of potential hopes and dreams. Resolutions will be set by all the people and come January those goals will be set in full force… more exercising, more prayer times, more cleaning, more Bible-reading, less television, less drinking, less junk food, no more partying, no more swearing. The list of all the ways we try to prepare ourselves for the new year is endless. Bruised and broken from walking the roads of last year, we are ready to shed our skin, to start a new year with peeled backed layers and start over fresh.

This upcoming new year's pages have no spills or stains or messy parts yet. It's an unwritten book, full of possibility. And in my foolish, desperate state I hope that somehow with enough work and sweat and preparing, I can rid myself of last year's mess and ready myself for a new year. But this new start is settling upon us quickly, a mere few days away. And I'm in a panic, desperately clawing for more time because I am not ready yet.

In the Gospel of Luke is the story of Zacchaeus. With all the Sunday school stories and songs written about the "wee little man", you are more than likely quite familiar with his story. But bear with me here as I walk the pages of Luke 19 again. We find Jesus in these verses, passing through Jericho. The throngs of people surround Him and crowd about, desperate for a touch or a glimpse. He walks along the roadside with the people, and here is where we meet Zacchaeus.  Zacchaeus- the wealthy tax collector who ripped his own people off. Zaccheaus- despised by his community. Zacchaeus- the crook and the thief. Zacchaeus- whose life is in shambles. Zacchaeus- who wants to see who Jesus is. When we first meet the little man, he appears to be in a bit of a sorry state… jumping up above the heads of all the taller-than-him people (I'd assume that would be just about everyone in the crowd), running up ahead, climbing trees, hiding beneath their branches. The picture painted for us is a humorously sad one. 

I found it funny that the Bible specifically states that Zacchaeus climbed up a sycamore tree. I mean, why mention such a detail? So I looked up this sycamore tree, attempting to learn a bit more about it and what made it so special. With much thanks to google-searches and wikipedia, I learned enough about the tree to write a 5-page paper. However I discovered one thing about the sycamore tree that made me pause. One of the sycamore's most distinctive features is its density and the covering it provides for those standing beneath it. Its warped, twisty branches make the perfect hiding place for critters. And also for small, messy people-- like Zaccheaus. So now we see a man with a messy life climbing not into just any old tree… but into this sycamore tree, known for its dense, messy leaves and branches. This sycamore tree that he thinks will hide his mess and his shame, but still give him a glimpse when Jesus passes by.

And what does Jesus do? He sees past the mess. My sweet, ever-loving Jesus sees this man in his mess and calls to him, "Hurry! Come down immediately." Jesus is not deterred by the mess of the situation nor does He command Zaccheaus to clean up his sorry state. Instead He goes on to say, "Today I must stay your house." Jesus doesn't just call Zaccheaus down. Jesus wants to dwell with him. 

This little tax collector and messy-hearted sinner, what does he do? He receives Him gladly. He didn't cower behind the mess of the sycamore leaves and branches like he could've done. He didn't first attempt to clean up his heart and his life. He didn't say wait one more minute. He hurried down and received Him gladly. Yes we do see this man's heart and life changed in later verses, and what an awesome thing that is. But I love how first he hurries down and first he receives Him and first Jesus wants to dwell with him. 

And I especially love the way Jesus meets him in the mess. 

Much like the upcoming new year, Jesus stands before me. With hands outstretched, He speaks of hope and promise and fresh pages and grace. And in the distance, I stand under the shade of a sycamore tree-- wanting to see who He is, but staying far enough away to hide the mess of myself. Looking at the state of my ugliness, I tremble. I need more time to prepare. I'm not ready to walk those pages of hope and love and grace. And so I look at Him and I cower behind the thick leaves of the sycamore.

No, I am not ready for a new year. Jesus is calling and my messy heart wants to say, "Wait! Please! I can fix this first!" But really, I can't. Because I will never be 'ready enough' for anything He calls me to. I remember when my feet were not ready to leave American soil for the first time. I remember when my heart was not ready to say goodbye for 6 months and leave behind the only life I knew. I remember when I wasn't ready for special-needs and therapy and wheel chairs and feeding tubes. I remember when I wasn't ready to love a strange and unfamiliar country. I remember when I wasn't ready to be a school teacher to a classroom of 7 wild and crazy children. But I remember that He was. He has always been ready. He doesn't call us to fix the messy. He doesn't ask us to achieve a certain level of qualifications and prepared-ness. He calls out to us, asking only to be invited into the messy.

There are things, many things, about this new year that I don't feel ready for. And while I can't wait to share some of those things with you, I'm terrified to come down from the dense shadows of the sycamore tree. I'm scared to let Him into the mess of my flesh and my heart and my sin and my inadequacies. But still, He beckons, "Let Me into your mess. Let Me dwell with you…" 

Can you hear Him, calling? 

on being home

Outside my window is white snow covering the bare trees and car tops and sidewalks, illuminated by the orange glow of the street lights. Trees are decorated, gifts are wrapped, and I almost can't wrap my mind around the fact- two months has gone by, and I'm back once again. One of the oft-asked questions people are curious to know about is this "So which country do you like more, Haiti or Uganda?" It’s a question I’m finding much more difficult to answer than I anticipated. In the past 2 years, I’ve called many a place home, in love with each village or town or city for various reasons. To compare them or try to pick a favorite is like trying to compare and contrast your favorite movies or pick a favorite season; it’s nearly impossible.

I think of my love for Uganda—a passionate, fiery love that came like a flood, sweeping over me and drowning me in it. It is a head-over-heels love. From the moment I stepped off the plane, everything about the country turned me into a giggly, gooey-eyed teenager on her first date. Because I close my eyes and I can see the fog over a country of red-dirt, as the plane landed at 7 in the morning. I can smell the air and feel the warmth that sticks to my hair, see the smiling people and the laughing children and the scrap metal houses. I remember waking up my first morning in Bugiri, I can still hear the hustle and bustle of Jinja traffic up and down Main Street, I recall the crowded streets of downtown Kampala. I can hear the way the unfamiliar language sounds like music to my ears and soul, breathe the open spaces and miles of cornfields. The soles of my shoes are still coated with that red dirt, my feet and heart forever stained. Smiling, I still remember the way it feels to be in that place, everything about it beckoning me, calling out home.

When I stepped off the plane in Haiti, it wasn’t romantic the way the warm air stuck to my hair and the sun beat my shoulders. It was hot, unbearably so. I smelled the air and, yes Uganda smells like sewage and burning trash and poverty too, but this was a smell I couldn’t handle. Riding through the crowded streets days later, it felt suffocating to be in a place so squished. With small roads and so many vehicles and crazy mottos and trash littered everywhere. The language overwhelmed my ears, my head a spinning knot, trying to un-jumble all of this French and Spanish and Creole. The voodoo drums and the confusion and the darkness and the disorder of this country was hard to handle. This place, this place did not scream home. Looking back, I have to laugh at some of the first thoughts I think upon landing in Haiti on that hot Tuesday morning, “I’m so glad God is not calling me here longer than these two months.” Because this place did not have me lost in a rushing flood. This place was hard, and unfamiliar. It made me feel oh-so very out of place.

But then the weeks went by… the clouds cast shadows over the mountains, and I was left breathless. Voices sang from the church building next door, and my heart was lost in worship with these people though I knew not their language. The cement buildings still crumbled next to each other but I saw the children between them and in them, and their smiles melted my heart just a bit more. The corruption and the voodoo was dauntingly great, but the light and truth and love of my Jesus proved greater still. Sunday lunches were shared and laughter spilled from the table and strangers became dear friends. Late into the night dreams started and hopes happened and the future whispered. Kids learned my name and I learned their personalities and spelling words happened and games of basketball on the court in the afternoons and teaching phonics on the chalkboard. Slowly, slowly, -as the time passed- I found myself a little bit more and a little bit more in love with this place, seeing it in an entirely new light. And I found myself losing my heart a little bit and a little bit more until it started to whisper, “Home.” A whisper that started softly, and grew louder and louder as each day passed by.

Now a plane lands in Chicago, passing by tall city buildings and a beautiful lakefront on its way in. The air clouds at my breath, it’s unbearably chilly here, frozen solid. The train tracks click and the pre-recorded voice announces each upcoming stop as the skyline draws closer. Anxious, I know they are there, those people that I love more than anything else in this world, with arms outstretched, waiting. And I know I fit there, perfectly so. My heart flutters at the cars and the city traffic and the houses decorated with Christmas lights. I know this route home like I know the back of my hand, turning down streets that have been familiar to me all my life. And the car pulls up and suitcases are brought upstairs and I stand there, taking it all in. On the porch steps I see sticky summer days and melting popsicles, at the table I see the meals we shared and the jokes made and the birthday candles blown out. Walking up the staircase, I remember sliding down these steps on plastic snow saucers with my sisters, and I remember waiting here the many Christmas mornings where we impatiently waited for everyone to way up. In this bedroom where I now sit are the many different colors the walls have been and ways the furniture has been rearranged and dreams dreamt and tears shed and hopes whispered. I walk through this house with my footsteps sounding like the pitter-patter of a child’s feet… assuring me that, once again, I am home.

on the past two months and memories

I've been awake and wide-eyed early on this last morning I have here in Haiti. Reflecting on the past 2 months, these are some of the memories that come to mind, like snapshots taken with a camera. Not looking forward to this goodbye, but so looking forward to the sweet hello's. God has done so much in the past 2 months, and I cannot wait to come home and share the stories with you. I'm also pretty excited for a hot shower, just sayin'. 

Thank you so much for all your prayers over the past 2 months! See you tomorrow, Chicago.

A plane lands on a sticky, hot runway strip. New faces, handshakes, a ride through town. What am I doing here?

Rice fields and mountains, sunshine and wind in the pack of the pick-up with some of the dearest girls.

"Spell me! Spell me!" 

Michael cuddles.

Competitive games of Trouble with Carl. "No mercy! I gonna champion." 

Cooking in a 100-degree kitchen, laughing over the soap suds in the sink, strangers becoming dear friends.

Hope and expectation, nothing is as you imagine. Trust in One who knew the story all along. Watching it unfold in the most beautiful, incredible way.

43 bug bites. Hello, Benadryl. 

School days and spelling words and phonics. Chaotic classroom days, unmotivated students.

Bello sounding out words in class.

Receiving packages. Pieces of home.

Clear blue water and sandy beaches, a view that takes my breath away. Our God is an awesome God.

Late nights, wide-eyed with possibility and dreams and hope and the future. Hearing God whisper. 

Sunday lunches, strangers becoming sweet friends, laughter around the table.

Abel's protectiveness when walking to market. "Hannah, watch out. There's a motto coming."

Daily morning fights for the big mug.

Voodoo drums and gunshots and crazy drivers. And God's protective hand over it all.

Homesick, tired, burnt out.

Rats in the stove and on the kitchen counter. Geckos on the walls. Late night games with the flashlight.

Boiled water in the big, red tub. Bucket showers with hot water.

Not enough pasta, not enough sauce. 4 loaves and 2 fish. Thankful.

Attempted lesson planning and insecurities and doubts. His grace is sufficient. 

Christmas dinner- hot dogs and macaroni. Hershey's chocolates. Chocolate cupcakes. Presents and new clothes and toys. A lit Christmas tree. Crazy, happy, sugar-high children.

Bread and peanut butter. 

"Duck Dynasty" movie nights with Jason, Nikki, and Amy.

Spelling words… practice, practice, practice. 

Carl, my champion speller.

Hard stories, God's healing.

Hanging laundry on the line, Mayline's sweet heart coming to help me.

Sweet letters from home. Encouraging words. So blessed.

"Pre ye, pre ye…" 4 o'clock singing time.

Maxson's laughter.

Packed bags, awake into the night. Ready for family and hot showers. Not ready to say goodbye.

One last game of Trouble on the orphanage floor in the dark night.

"Domi bien, Mayline. Sleep well."

Abel's sweet letter. 

"I will not pee in the shower." 50 lines. 10-year-old boys at their finest.

Pillowcase dresses, early morning sunshine, bare feet on the court. Watching from the window.

Roosters clucking at 2 a.m, mosquitos buzzing, dogs howling. Sleep eluded. 

An early morning and the pitter patter of feet. One last mug of tea made. One last morning on the balcony. 

The promise of tomorrow, with a future entrusted into the hands that hold all things together.

on serving the God of christmas tree lights

In a country like this one, it’s very easy to lose your perspective on a lot of things, it can happen almost instantly. Surrounded by so much devastation and poverty, you can find yourself asking a lot of different questions. The one I’ve found myself wondering lately isn’t so much Where is God in the midst of all this madness? No, the doubt that has been slowly eating away at my faith has been this one: how can God care for my needs -my frivolous, petty wants- in the midst of all this? Because surely I am so insignificant, so unimportant.

Hunger is huge, poverty is huge, sickness is huge. Ask me what things I think are closest to the heart of God are and I will say: the widows and the orphans and the sick and the dying. I do not doubt for a second His love for those dears ones. Those are the things He cares most about because those are the important things, the big things. But tonight I was reminded about Who my God is, and what His heart cares so deeply about.

Our kids have a Christmas tree set up in the downstairs of the orphanage. There’s red and green paper loop chains and glittered snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and garland and jingle bells strung across the entire downstairs. And in the corner there’s a Christmas tree covered in glass ornament bulbs, lit up only because we serve a God who cares. We couldn’t find the Christmas lights; the ones we had were broken, no good. And nobody had any extras to loan us. Eventually the kids were told no lights, we're so sorry. We started to get ready for supper. And then she finds them, in a box in the storage room, beneath all the stockings. Laying there, where He knew they’d be: new, beautiful colorful Christmas lights.

I have no doubt that my God is a great, big, powerful God who does great, big, powerful things. Actually, on a day-to-day basis, it’s easier for me to believe that than to believe the opposite- that my great, big, mighty God works in the infinitely small details and whisperings of today.

It’s easy to imagine the Almighty God caring about ‘big and important’ matters in this life like famines and droughts and wars. You know, the save-the-world kinda stuff. But how much harder it is to believe His hands that hold galaxies and oceans and the highest of mountains and lowest of valleys are also the same hands that wrap themselves around my every day needs, and hurts, and fears. It’s easy to believe that my insecurities and my fears and my dreams are somehow too little for Him to take note of. It’s easy to forget that He sees the school days and laundry that gets hung on the line and children playing basketball on the court in the hot afternoon sun. It’s tempting to consider it true that He doesn’t hear the voices that sing His praises every afternoon at 4 pm and the quiet prayers murmured before schooldays and Bible study and mealtime and bedtime. But yet, He is Who He is because He cares exactly about those things.

Yes, my God is the God of the stars and the rushing rivers and mountain peeks and incredible sunsets. And the reality of that is humbling and, oh, it brings me to my knees in awe and wonder and worship. But do you know what leaves me more awestruck tonight? Remembering that He’s the God of Christmas lights and peanut butter sandwiches, the God of broken hearts and unspoken dreams, the God who sees a little girl’s tears fall to the ground when her school uniform gets ripped and holds those tears precious, the God who has counted the hairs on my head and yours, and calls us by name, the God who knows whenever a single sparrow falls to the ground. He’s the God who settles Himself right into the everyday and the ordinary. Simply because He loves us. How extraordinary is that?

As we embark on what could be the busiest time of the year -with the family gatherings and the parties and the to do lists and errands to run and cookies to bake- let’s not forget to slow down and take the time to be still. It’s easy to glimpse past it and fail to see the beauty of it: the God of Christmas lights is here among us, doing wonderful and mighty things. And He’s standing there with hands outstretched, inviting us to join Him.

on sketching schooldays

Some days, teaching a classroom of seven kids (6 of them being boys) ages 9-12 has me running around in circles, exhausted, frustrated, ready to rip my hair out and sit on the floor and sob. If there is one thing the past month of school has taught me, it would be that teachers (no matter the country, or realm of experience, or grade) deserve some of the most utmost respect for the work they do. Seriously, go encourage a teacher you know and give them a big thank you. They need to hear it, from you. Kids are kids, and they like to whine and push your buttons and procrastinate and goof around and daydream whether they live in America or Uganda, Haiti or China.

I’ve had mornings where, after the school bell rings and notebooks are closed and pencils put in their proper places, I walk upstairs and sit down at the table and feel defeat; absolute and utter defeat. The rush of thoughts is overwhelming and discouraging. The feelings of ineptitude and inadequacy roar loudly, because a skilled teacher could do this job so much better. I think of my patience that wore thinner and thinner as each minute passed and the thoughts that ran through my head when so-and-so wasn’t listening, again. I think of how love is patient and love is kind and where did my patience go this morning when the trouble-child needed it most? I think of the same concepts I have been explaining for 2 weeks now, and how no one is getting it. I think of all the spelling words and reading lessons and phonics that still need to be covered, and how will I ever explain that and how will they ever grasp it all? 

It’s easy to paint a pretty picture in your head and imagine what something may be like. It’s entirely different to see that dream into reality, and accept what is. In an ideal world, a classroom of students would listen quietly and raise their hands and be excited about learning and keep their desks neat and tidy and know where their pencils were every morning and we’d all walk out of the classroom with big smiles holding hands (and yes that was supposed to sound as corny and far-fetched as I made it sound). But the reality is kids chitter-chatter and are unmotivated, they tell jokes and shout out answers and procrastinate and whine and papers are falling out of desks and the floor hasn’t been swept and somebody is always missing their pencil every morning. Always. The puppy snaps at the end of your skirt and a radio is blaring in the next room and wait, who’s running out of the classroom now? All the while, this single thought replays in your head: what wrong is with you, that you can’t keep things orderly and under control, that you don't inspire a love for learning? What is wrong with you?

It’s wonderful to live life dreaming, always imagining what something would be like but never having to set about the reality of it. And, sure, it’s easier there, it’s cleaner there, the lines on your painting are nice and neat and orderly and there aren’t broken dreams and broken hearts in that painting. But it’s not real. No your days won’t be as you expect them to be, they never will be. There will be more splotches and blots and eraser marks on your painting than you’d like there to be. But you realize along the way, those splotches eraser marks and blotches and scribbles outside the lines make the picture what it is, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Because Maxson may shout out the answers and not listen, but you’re thankful because it means he’s learning, and wants you to know it. Abel’s consistent need for his work to be acknowledged after each and every question may grate on your nerves, but you’re thankful it means he cares about what he’s learning and wants to share it with you. Ricardo’s goofing around may drive you absolutely crazy when you’re trying to explain 2-column addition, but you’re thankful for those rough moments where his sense of humor melts your frustration and makes you smile in the midst of a hard day. Bello may not participate and whine and take twice as long to grasp concepts, but it makes it all the more sweeter when he does participate and the lesson does click for him. The reality is chaotic and messy, but it’s also beautiful beyond description.

These days and these moments are not picture perfect; our classroom is so far from it. But long ago the painting was surrendered to the Master Artist, and He’s drawing our lines and mixing our colors and painting the picture far better than we could ever imagine.