What the world needs now is truth-tellers. Shamelessly spreading the word- that the new normal is flawed, imperfect living done in the real world. Transparent style.
What the world needs now is empathy. Compassion spreaders intent on understanding people and their complicated stories. Covering the world with a blanket of caring kindness. So that compassion is more prevalent than indifference. So that warmth and sincerity become the standard method of interpersonal dealings.
What the world needs now is authenticity. Genuine, honest discussion free of stereotypes, labels and subjectivity. We are all different, that is a given. But isn’t it high time we started treating each other with heartfelt concern and respectful consideration? People matter- all of us.
What the world needs now is brokenness. People willing to let go of pride. Freed to embrace humility. To embrace Gratitude. Grace. Love.
People freed so as to have faith in Hope. To have faith in something bigger than themselves.
What the world needs now is the purest example of that Faith come to Life.
We need a saviour. Salvation through the daily dying to self and living to Life. Putting away that which encumbers and clinging to that which enables. Resisting all those things which drag us down.
Choosing joy over despair. Choosing truth over lies. Choosing life over death.
Choosing to live the best life we were meant to live. Living each and every moment, but not concerning ourselves with the details. Just concerning ourselves with the living.
What the world needs now is an alternative to what is driving us into these caverns of despair. We need an option that is unconventional. Something bigger and better than we’ve been offered in the past.
And we might not find what we’ve been searching for in a book. Or in a classroom. Or in a church, a speaker or a platform. Or in charisma and personality. It might be hard to find.
Or it just might be right under our noses.
Because none of those things I’ve listed above are permanent. Are fixtures. These things are fluid structures at best. Books will fail. Classrooms will fail. Churches will undoubtedly fail, as will the vivid personalities associated with such. People will fail.
We must find that Elusive Something in an Other-Worldy place. Because the here and now isn’t all it was cracked up to be.
The answer begins with a whisper. Is heard softly through that still small Voice that speaks to the deepest, darkest places of the soul. That Voice which reminds us- we were purposed and destined to being when He breathed us to life. When He Spoke and the earth shuddered.
For we are loved.
We are so deeply loved.
And we are exactly whom we were meant to be- frail, fragile, imperfect people. Damaged, but not destroyed. Beautiful, in spite of imperfection and flaws. Designed with a soul that craves for more. We are never full, but we are not empty. For we are just as the Father intended, complete with all our failings. And so utterly loved. Wholly and entirely, with every fiber of being.
I can feel the stress creeping up my back. Into my shoulders. Down my spine.
Everywhere I turn, I hear what seem to be hundreds of little voices calling me. Calling me to ‘come!’ and ‘look!’ To intervene and facilitate. To watch and guide. Happy Voices. Tattling voices. Whining voices. Crying voices. Pleading voices. Voices. Calling me in various cadences of sound. Until all the voices fade into one and I hear instead a distinct ringing in my ears.
“Mrs. Gaaaarrrrrrddddd!”
I feel that taut muscle system pulling in the back of my neck and shoulder. And I rotate my neck, hoping to alleviate the strain. I am probably doing damage there in ways that would make a chiropractor cringe.
Nonetheless. Muscle relaxation, cartwheels and games of tag. It is what we teachers do. To survive and enjoy that sweet half an hour stretch known to children as Big Recess. And known to teachers as: ‘The Slowest Half Hour of the Day Which Has Been Designated Specifically for Outdoor Bedlam’.
Or, in the handbook: it’s known as Lunch Duty. And it can go one of two ways. Smooth. Or utter chaos.
I start walking over to the new tether-ball set-up, as there is a crowd of students gathered. Tether ball stations for a K-2 playground. “Seemed like a great idea at the time, said no teacher ever.” And it has already proved to be that expected source of contention that was anticipated, that is: contention over whose turn will be next and whether or not everyone is getting a fair shot. And the very real dilemma that one kid has already received two bonks in the head worthy of a pretty good concussion. It is a hot spot of entertainment for one and all. Love that I am the guinea pig teacher who gets to try it all out first! And as I left this huddle of fun only five minutes prior (to investigate such worthy matters as bodies in backpacks and ‘who wasn’t playing with whom’), I know that it is time to make my dreaded return. To the tether-ball game and the twenty or so children lined up waiting for a turn.
Time is up just now for the two whacking the ball into oblivion.
I trundle over.
“Time to shift,” I holler. “Who’s up next?”
The two already in play start to contend. One yells at me, “But we haven’t won yet!!”
“Sorry guys, there are a lot of kids waiting for a turn. So, you’ll have to end your game and move to the back of the line.”
“What.the.FRIG,” comes the angry retort. Then, the stomping begins, and Little Tether-Ball Player starts to storm off.
What the FRIG sounds to me like a string of swear words, seeing as I am dealing with innocent Primary-aged students.
I can feel blood boiling, along with that tight shoulder spasm.
I can almost sense a blood vessel about to burst. You could pump a bike tire with this pressure.
“So-and-so, you follow me please. Over to the wall.”
So-and-so walks off in the other direction.
“So-and-so,” I repeat again, in as calm but insistent a voice as I can muster, “Follow me over to the wall.”
So-and-so follows. But reluctantly.
I have exactly ten seconds to talk myself down from this potential heart attack I can feel coming on. I am ready to explode or spontaneously combust.
I arrive at the wall and I realize. I have a choice to make. I can issue stern reprimands for disrespect to a teacher, which will be followed up on once said child arrives inside. Or. I can choose another route.
Another way.
When we see children as precious souls. As little people with big stories. We then make a choice to understand the ‘why’s’ of their behaviors. Thus allowing us to get below the surface of the ‘what’s’ of the circumstances in their lives. So as to uncover the truth. Their truth.
For every child has a truth that is their very own. And we do a disservice to them as human beings when we don’t listen closely enough. For the rest of the story.
Big breath.
Calm voice.
Heart connection.
And I make a choice of compassion and understanding over frustration and anger.
We both win. That Tether-Ball Champ and I. And know it as true as the sky is blue. As true as there are not enough words to justly tell a story. Truth- a child’s truth. I can see it shining in his eyes.
Blues turn to pinks and greys as we arrive home at dusk to four brave soldiers. The Fearless Foursome, courageously holding down the fort. Waiting the seasoned warriors’ return. Valiantly. And awaiting the report from the front lines. Ready to move into position upon the signal. Ready to pull things together to make the plan work. Whatever it took.
Ready.
It was a day of the unexpected. The unplanned, uninvited kind of unexpected. And thank the Good Lord we don’t know what lies ahead.
Our hearts would fail us.
We’re not always ready for surprises. And sometimes we just want to avoid them. We want to stop and lie face to the ground. Just because we can. Because we think we have to. Because it’s too hard.
Life is hard.
In the real world, where the big people work and play. We whom call ourselves adults. Here, it is our job to just keep going. We do this. Because we have to. We.have.to. That’s the way it’s meant to be. And we make ourselves move. Forward, step by careful step. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s hard. Even if it is so very hard. Because we’re the strong ones. The wise ones. We’re the adults. And adults are supposed to be responsible. Mature. Capable. Able to look after things. And capable of keeping things moving along. Because inwardly we intuit that moving is progress. And progress is good. At least that’s what it appears to be. On the surface.
Or so we’ve been told.
Do you remember what it was like to be five years old? Foot-loose and fancy-free? Remember when you were able to put your tiny shoe down and stomp it real hard? And say ‘no’ just because? Remember when you could lay on the floor kicking and screaming? Crying simply because it was your party and you could cry if you want to?
Remember what it felt like to be someone else’s responsibility? Back when we were untamed? Uninhibited? Living in the make-believe world of childhood?
A place of seemingly limitless opportunity.
And even as adults, sometimes we want to do this. Let it all go. For freedom’s sake. We want the liberty that accompanies release of responsibility. That sets us free from obligation. From the chains of duty and commitment. It just seems greener on the flip side, that side that lies directly opposite of adulthood.
Because life is hard.
And someone has to hold it all together.
But then again. There is a reason we hold. We are called to uphold. There’s a reason. It’s because we know. WE KNOW: that to hold is to embrace meaning. To have a higher purpose. To deliberately choose something even though it be hard. Because we can do hard things. Through Him. By Him. And for Him.
We can.
And when we do, when we embrace life and all its glory. It’s trials and painful difficulties- and we lean in hard to that which pushes us the most. And we move into the pain. Into the turmoil. And we don’t recoil. It is then that we are freed from those obligations that enslave us. That we are released from our chains. It is then that we are given wings to fly.
Given wings that hold us as we soar.
Isaiah 41: 30-31
“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall. But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
I was dreading it. One more obligation. One more thing to do. And although I believe the mantra ‘we can do hard things’, there are times when I just want an easy thing. One.easy.thing. Amidst all the hard things in life. All those things that pull me eight ways to Sunday.
And as I sat there thinking self-defeating thoughts, mentally beating myself up again for all my inadequacies and inabilities. God just lifted it. The cloud. He lifted it. Physically- as if before my very eyes. As if a torrent of rain had been falling and quite by sudden, a sunburst had appeared. For the storm was over. And I knew.
God doesn’t call us into a spirit of fear. Of guilt. Of hopelessness.
He calls us to empowerment. To love and capability. And He isn’t standing over us shouting out orders, reminding us again and again of all our failings. Of all the ways in which we haven’t added up.
And He isn’t trying to dream up more hard things for me to do.
He’s there to do the hard things for me.
He is there to ease the load. Lighten the weight. He is there to take me as I am, where I am. As is. And love me all the more for my weakness.
And He’s there to do more. So much more. Than I could ever begin to imagine.
Ten evidences that I have ‘parented’ in the last twenty-four hours…
10.) Although I picked both daughters up late for Birthday Party # 1 (let’s just say…I am use to seeing the cell phone out and panicked looks on my children’s faces) and then dropped one daughter off at the wrong entrance for Birthday Party #2 (causing her to miss one hour and fifteen minutes of said party and scoring a slice of pizza the size of a garlic finger for My Bad…), I did remember to retrieve both and bring them home at the end of the day. (Dirty looks abound…)
9.) Although I was responsible for Latter Daughter not getting supper at said b-day bash, I did dodge the mosquitoes and frigid Island June weather to buy milkshakes all around from the Dairy Royale. (Score! And I’m back in.)
8.) Although I remembered the edible art supplies for my daughter’s L.A. landscape project made from common grocery items(think: mouldy bread covered in jam, then sprinkled with hardened brown sugar rocks that are better suited for a construction site project…), I forgot to plan an essential trip to Foodland for the main ingredients. (Back in the red…)
7.) But due to eaves-dropping on a convo’ between two colleagues re. a trip to the corner grocery store, I managed to pass my grocery list to one Sweetheart who offered to pick up the finishing touches to said project so that my daughter could eek a passing mark out of this project.
6.) But, because everyone was hungry and we had not time to stop for a burger, I gave the groceries to my children to eat. Which they proceeded to devour with concerning ferocity. And maybe I might have eaten a little too. (So long!, art project. So long!, passing marks…)
5.) Since I am awesome at smoothing things over, I promised Daughter of the Art Genius that I would get the art supplies even if that meant I would leave at recess to go purchase the necessities…pleading with said Daughter to state my case to her lovely teacher (Rehearse: “Busy weekend, no time, stressed to the max” And again…!)
4.) Didn’t have time to go to the store. Met teacher in the hall instead. Panicked. Told her I ate the homework.
3.) Made an emergency trip to Foodland. Bought the groceries. Roundtrip: exactly 4.37 minutes.
2.)Then had a brainwave of creativity. Saw broccoli on sale. Thought it might be useful. Purchased a pretty sad looking pair of stocks. Hoped daughter might think in terms of environmental restoration and use them as filler.
1.) Dropped off the bag only to have teacher ask, “What’s the broccoli for? Am I suppose to look after this until the end of the day?” At which point I realized she thought I had also bought our supper. I guess it would be a plausible theory. So, we ended up eating it anyway…in a stir-fry. At which point my daughter asked, “Is this broccoli from my ART Project?
And so I say. Here’s the proof. I parented much, baby. I did. And I got the broccoli to prove it.
Mine eyes have seen the glory. And it kind of looks like the splendid months of July and August. Let me be the teacher to say it out loud: summer can’t come fast enough. And not just for the hot, sunny weather, Netflix and Freezies.
You know how all you parents out there can’t wait until you can stop packing kid lunches that simultaneously ‘contain and avoid’ any and all toxins, allergens, vegetables, peel-able fruit that children won’t eat (such as oranges and apples), along with any and all generally gross, yucky kid-hating stuff?
Like flakes-of-ham sandwiches? Akin to it’s sister- food group, ‘cat food’?
You know how you detest the nightly signing of fourteen different pieces of paper (not-including your kid’s homework agendas) and how you all loathe bi-weekly paying in installments for end-of-the-year field trips? The latter of which has dipped into your retirement savings, forcing you to consider whether or not you might also need to pick up a second job? You know how your child’s jean collection is now down to one good pair (which is still shredded beyond any means of repair in key areas like the knees, bum and crotch)? And you know how you are all just desperately praying that the duct tape holding your kid’s backpacks together won’t let go until your child’s report card is safely in your hands?
Don’t get me started on indoor sneakers.
You know what I’m talking about. About how we parents are holding out hope that we won’t lose our last thread of sanity to some June-madness/end-of-school function or poorly devised make-work project conniving-ly scheduled for the last month of the school calendar?
I feel your pain. And then some.
Because I am teacher and I am losing my marbles at an alarming rate these days. These crazy, fun-filled last days of the school year. Aren’t they bliss? The world likes to refer to it as the month of June, but we all in the school-system (kids and teachers alike) know it is really called ‘the countdown to holidays’. A time of the year when the finish line is deceivingly close, yet still far enough away to warrant in-class work and out of class assignments. And we teachers/students know this month of June countdown is solely a figment of our imagination fooling us into believing we have made it to the end when we still have one whole month left. But then again, you do what you have to do to get by.
And then some.
If that feeling of exasperation and frustration we all feel as parents were a number. Multiply that number by twenty to the power of 45 and that kind of would sum up where a teacher’s mental status is right about now. In other words. Certifiable and ready for the looney bin, if you are like myself and find even math at this time of the year too hard to grasp.
I found myself the other day trying to add up change that I owed a fellow co-worker, and this little exercise in mathematics cut ten minutes into my lunch break because I could not, I tell you, figure out even the simplest of math equations- using a pen and paper and the original receipt, no less. That’s how bad it is.
My.brain.is.fried.
And we teachers are barely holding on to that dwindling reserve of common sense and good judgment we are getting paid to exhibit. Let alone, our ability to perform and function in an educational, institutional environment as normal, adult-like figures. I find myself yawning at the drop of a hat. Speechless, and then slurring my words together at any given moment. Unable to read the words in a book correctly, so much so that my avid Kindergarten readers are now correcting me. On simple words like ‘the’, nonetheless. I am forgetful. Absent-minded. I spill things. I fall up the steps. I forget meetings. I am late for meetings. I am still late for school.
I have even killed the classroom plants. Twice.
In my view, the month of June calls for drastic emergency measures to be taken in the form of extended recess and end of the day games, such as ‘duck-duck-goose’. Or at the very least. It calls for a few good books and a picnic blanket on which to rest while whittling the afternoon away reading a great book. Or the sale flyer. I am open minded and ready for suggestions. But please just let it be an outside activity. Because an outdoor education is severely under-rated. And I can’t think of a better time than June to examine the results of which.
And in closing, homework in June should be just a suggestion. If you are bored, it is raining, you already filed you toenails and all your bikes have flat tires, you can then justify and endure the forty-five painful minutes it takes to complete the Easy Reader sent home on worms to read with your child. Not that I don’t love reading. Because you all know I do. But let’s get real. And believe me when I say this, as I am being completely transparent here: I am sadly guilty of assigning nightly homework for my child and then not even cracking open the masking tape holding that reading bag together. It just didn’t get done. We were too busy playing.
So cut me some slack, and I most certainly will return the favor. Back ‘atcha.
What I won’t miss: the insanely late nights and wicked early mornings. The long meetings and crazy hectic schedule. Eating while standing close to the door as I simultaneously supervise and try to keep from choking on my apple. Trying to find ways to bribe children into eating the food their parent’s packed for them. Trying to bribe my own child to eat the food her father packed her, and not my own hastily packed lunch which I am eating in front of her, on the fly. And I won’t miss telling children for the umpteenth time to either pull their fingers out of the nose, out of their pants or out of their friend’s sandwich.
But then again, there are a few things I will miss. The hugs. The smiles. The precious voices and laughter. And the hilariously funny things I get to hear each and every day from the mouths of the students I see and teach. Kid humor. There’s nothing like it.
I’m really gonna miss the kids.
So, bring on the July heat-wave. The beach strolls and the sand in my hair. And bring on the super-reasonable passes to the local Fun Park. And then, let the games begin.
Can’t wait to see all my favorite kids at the pool. All 200 of them.
We were born for this. This journey, this life adventure. This journey on which we travel in and out of days and weeks and months and years. In and out of seasons. We were born for this quest. Were born for the highs and lows, the twists and turns. The bends. The forks in the road. Were born for travelling up hill and down. We were born for the good times and the bad times.
We were born for the ride.
And it is a ride. At times a roller-coaster. At times a meander. And at more times than I would like to admit: a tedious crawl- face to the ground.
I’ve always liked to think that my exciting, real life is going to happen sometime soon. Like maybe today. Or tomorrow. Or sometime in the not-so-far-away future. Because this business of crawling: of living in reality. Of working 9-5, of making meals, of chauffeuring, of settling spats amongst children. Of living the daily grind. This business is for the birds, really. And it cannot possibly be what I was born for.
I was born for more.
And the real life I am so desperately waiting for looks more like this: quiet mornings sipping coffee. Uninterrupted writing time. Long, invigorating walks. Deep, meaningful conversations. Face-time with my spouse. My head stuck in a good book. Exotic travel. Rewarding humanitarian work. Service to country and fellow human beings: brothers and sisters both here and abroad.
And to cap it all off, maybe just a little more time to follow my dreams. In other words, time to pursue what I have always believed I was born for: something more.
Something more than crawling.
And there are times I wonder, “Why this?” Why the noise and confusion and chaos and trouble and hurt and heartache and pain and sacrifice? It wasn’t part of the dream.
Or was it?
To be sure, life is a ride. A ride full of fearful unknowns and weary treks as much as it is a ride full of adventure. And so it is that I will hold to the belief that I was born for the trip in its entirety. And although the ride is not what I always envisioned the real journey to look like-this stuff of everyday living slows my travelling down. It is this- the stuff of everyday living that has truly taught me the most. About self. About others. And about God. About life.
I was born for this. Was born for mothering. For teaching. For service. I was born to live this life that I am living now.
I was born to these callings. Was born for such a time as this, for such a time as now. For such a time as are a mother’s hours: 24/7, 365 days a year. And added to that, I was born for teaching five days a week, from 9-4. Was born for such a time as even more than those boxed-in hours. For late nights at the computer and early mornings, my hands busy folding laundry.
I was born for this. For these crazy moments spent slogging away.
But I was also born for this: I was born to be that friendly, cheerful face by the classroom doors- greeting children of all ages with a welcoming smile. A warm hug. An inquiring question. A thoughtful comment or two. Was born to hold chubby little hands, to look intently into blue-eyed baby faces. To hear sweet and innocent stories. To hear stories not so simple, of lives more complicated than my own. To hear stories told that bring me to my knees, that haunt me in my waking hours. Stories that propel me to advocate for change.
I was born for this too. For opening up milk cartons. Cutting yogurt packages into a slit at the top. Passing out pizza slices. Issuing band-aids. Umpteen-dozen band-aids each and every day. I was born to look at ‘owies’- with a professional’s eye.
Was born to read books- piles and piles of glorious books. To read them with expression, passion and joie de vivre! To saturate the room with them. To buy them by the dozen! To relish children’s laughter as I read favorites again and again.
I was born for even this.
I was born to find joy in everyday pleasures. To find joy in the mundane, the ordinary. Joy. In reciting the alphabet, counting to twenty and playing with play-doh. In watching the weather and growing bean plants and using scented markers. In playing with puppets and using brand-new crayons. In practicing piano. In bouncing balls.
I was born for all this.
Was born to fight for the underdog, to defend the rights of the under-privileged. To hear the hard stories and not turn away. To look into hearts and ask difficult questions. To put a face to the data.
I was born for this. What joy!
I was born to do hard things. To make tough calls. To follow through. To see a story through to its ending. To never give up.
To always hope. To always protect. To always believe.
I was born for this. For all of this.
I was born to not go down quietly. To be a loud voice, if need be. To shout it from the roof-tops or whisper it in the quiet of a room. I was born for even this.
I was born to be a builder of blocks, a builder of lives. A mender of hearts- a champion of dreams.
I was born to be a mother. Was born to teach. To be the teacher and the learner. To make room in my heart. Always enough room for one more. And true. It has not always been the easiest space I’ve ever inhabited, nor has it always been the most pleasant. It is exhausting work- all of it. But these acts of service have been the most rewarding of my journey thus far. The most worthwhile. Because the joy I have found in giving and receiving love, in knowing and in learning about people and the world we live in. In understanding the stories connected to the lives. This privilege. It is unmatched in nearly any other act of service I have ever done. And these acts of unconditional love in service to the four precious children I have borne as well as the caring and compassion I freely give to the children I have found room for in my heart. Whom I teach inside classroom walls. Whom teach me that life is more. So much more. These lives, these stories are what make the ride worthwhile.
It’s about the people. It’s about humanity. And it’s about the children.
Because I was born for much, not the least of which- to nurture, love and care. I was born to do the grueling work of care-giving as much as I was born to inspire, challenge and motivate. And above all, I was born to give back. For in my life I have been given much. And so much is required.
I was born for this, this life I am living. I was born for all of it.
Was born to this calling. Was born for such a time as this, for such a time as now.
For such a time as five days a week, from 9-4. And then, for such a time as even more than boxed-in hours. For late nights and early mornings.
I was born for this.
I was born to be that friendly, cheerful face- to greet those precious children of all ages with a welcoming smile. A warm hug. An inquiring question. A thoughtful comment or two.
Was born to hold chubby little hands, to look intently into blue-eyed baby faces. To hear their sweet and innocent stories. To hear stories not so simple, of lives more complicated than my own. To hear stories told that bring me to my knees. That haunt me in my waking hours. That propel me to advocate for change.
I was born for this. For opening up milk cartons. Cutting yogurt packages into a slit at the top. Passing out pizza slices. Issuing band-aids. Umpteen-dozen band-aids each and every day.
I was born to look at ‘owies’- with a professional’s eye.
Was born to read books- piles and piles of glorious books. To read them with expression, passion and joie de vivre! To saturate the room with them. To buy them by the dozen! To relish children’s laughter as I read favorites again and again.
I was born for this.
I was born to find joy in everyday pleasures. To find joy in the mundane, the ordinary. Joy. In reciting the alphabet, counting to twenty and playing with play-doh. In watching the weather and growing bean plants and using scented markers. In playing with puppets and using brand-new crayons.
Joy!
I was born for this.
Was born to fight for the underdog, to defend the rights of the under-privileged. To hear the stories and not turn away. To look into hearts and ask the difficult questions.
I was born for this.
I was born to do hard things. To make tough calls. To follow through. To see a story through to its ending. To never give up.
To always hope. To always protect. To always believe.
I was born for this.
I was born to not go down quietly. To be a loud voice, if need be. To shout it from the roof-tops or whisper it in the quiet of a room. I was born for this.
I was born to be a builder of blocks, a builder of lives. A mender of hearts- a champion of dreams.
I was born for this.
I was born to teach. To be the teacher. And true. It has not always been the easiest space I’ve ever inhabited, nor has it always been the most pleasant. For teaching is hard work. And it is a tremendous responsibility. A sacrifice. But teaching has been one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. Because the joy I have found in giving and receiving, in knowing and in learning. In understanding the stories of people’s lives. Young and old alike. This honor is virtually unmatched in nearly any other act of service I have ever done, apart from being a mother to my four precious children. But then again. Once a mother, always a mother. I am mother always. Whether I be mother at home or at school. During hours or after hours. On week days or on the week-ends. A mothers work is never done. Much like a teacher’s.
And I was born to be both.
Because I was born to nurture, love and care. Was born to inspire. To challenge and motivate. To teach and mother.
She walks the shoulder of the road, feet slapping pavement every once in a while. Light shining all around. Air fresh and clean with the on-again-off-again afternoon showers. And in the bushes, a rustling of some kind of small creature. A bird? A mouse? The fragrance of fresh-mown grass hangs in the air like a delicate cloud. Sweet and pungent. And she thinks to herself that sometimes one is fearful of the unknown. Of the ‘what next’? For we want to know what lies around the bend. What twists and turns are waiting for us up ahead.
But then she remembers. We are called to simply do the next right thing. One foot in front of the other. Steady and sure.
Because in this life, one can never truly see what lies in wait around the bend. Our eyes don’t work like that. They see what presents itself directly before us. And past the twists and turns, we are blissfully unaware of what lies ahead. And isn’t that the comfort? That comfort of one step at a time. Nothing more and nothing less. Knowing that we are only asked to what we are able. And we are only able to do what can be done right now. And sometimes knowing that what must be done is not always as important as doing it. Doing something. And doing it with surety and conviction. Knowing that God only leads us to places that He’s already been to first. He knows the way. And our job is to put foot in front of foot. And follow the path that we are on.
There are students at my school that sing to the teachers as we come in the school. This is what they sing: “Welcome to Blooooomfield!!!! Have a nice day! And I cannot help but think that these students have a really great way of looking at life…and a great perspective. And they remind me each and every morning that a great life starts with a great day. Not a perfect day…just a day that has potential to be awesome. And all because of perspective.
Sometimes I just need to remember how to have a beautiful day. That great days happen when I…
*smile often and lavishly
*think before I speak
*laugh as much as is possible
*make lemonade out of those lemons!
* make the best of things…
*treat myself to something every day…little luxuries make life special
*dream a little. On second thought..nah! Dream a lot!
*pray continuously
*kiss those special ‘somebodies’
*hug a child
*allow myself to be challenged
*push myself outside your comfort zone
*relax
*sleep
*read
*and remember: this is not just another day…it’s NOW. There will never be another NOW exactly like this one, again.
So. have a nice day! And make the most of NOW. Don’t be one bit surprised if you have a beautiful day because of it.
