While daydreaming from a metal folding chair, I saw my grandfather praying.
I had been listening to a class discussion which revolved around the subject of Henri Nouwen’s book, In the Name of Jesus: Reflections on Christian Leadership.
But the long fingers of my memory thumbed backward through the pages of my life until my grandfather stood before me.
Friday is for throwing out a week of stale chord progressions for a good pair of jeans. It’s for playing with scales and avoiding the usual trappings of key changes.
Fridays are my Kind of Blue.
The sky had just put on a soft robe of periwinkle when I got to school. A slow breeze stirred, and I felt a promising movement in the crisp September air.
Or maybe it was my third shot of espresso.
Our daily interactions matter. As a high school teacher, I get very little personal interaction with adults. I spend most of my time with students, and even most of those encounters last for the time it takes to chew a small bite of sandwich.
I serve as the newspaper advisor at my school. It is a great opportunity to pull students into the realm of words. We live in a society which feeds on images and short bursts of texts and digital characters, so it’s satisfying to expose students to something deeper, more powerful.
This week we’ve been wrapping up our annual double issue, and things were not going very smoothly. Until today. Continue reading
“As the appearance of the rainbow in the clouds on a rainy day, so was the appearance of the surrounding radiance. Such was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord. And when I saw it, I fell on my face and heard a voice speaking.
“Then He said to me, ‘Son of man, stand on your feet that I may speak with you!'”
James went birdwatching today with his Mommy and big brother. He insisted, however, that he do his work through the wrong end of the binoculars. When I asked him about this experience over dinner, he began bouncing and giggling in his chair. Continue reading
After school I shed my professional educator garb and transformed into “Kwa-Kweenie Kwa-Kwa,” a professional wrestler with extraordinary and mysterious superpowers. I was then pit against a raging four-year-old boy with a blazing fire in his eyes.
We exchanged blows, which were switched up, from time to time, with special moves with equally special names — like “Razor-cut Pincher.” I probably shouldn’t brag when I’m battling against a pre-schooler, but I did fare rather well, I think. I simply dominated. I almost expected a blur of post-match interviews to unfold while a cheering crowd chanted my “Kwa-Kwa” with wild abandon in the background. Alas, they never showed up.
But what did show up was the inspiring spunk and spirit of a four-year-old dreamer. I was very proud of how he clung to his determination with a fierce optimism, even as “Big Kwa-Kwa Daddy” dealt with him. Continue reading