The Future I Like to Dream

They say that the longer I teach the more cynical I will become. And the elusive "they" may be right.
I often feel the dark tentacles of cynicism wrap themselves, closer every day. I know they creep up like shadows each time a student says a disrespectful read, hateful, spiteful, malicious thing to me, or worse, to a fellow student, an equal. Each time enemy's are made inside these walls that are most sacredly "safe". Every time I walk these halls and hear ignorance, see blindness, tolerate intolerance from this future generation. Yes. I will become cynical. Or maybe not so much cynical as just, afraid. Anne Frank said there was good in everyone. I once believed that was true. Then I became a teacher. Maybe not.

But then there is you. And you, each of you are something different altogether.

You are the future I like to dream about. You who endure hardships others find unbearable and you still show up every day looking like you jumped right off the pages of a Judy Blume novel and that, with the optimism of a toddler.

You are the future I like to dream about. When you come to me in humility, considering others better than yourself asking why you were chosen over anyone else. You who were chosen by the others.

You are the future I like to dream about. You, the one that still has the tenderness of heart to see injustice and brokenness in the world and the passion and desire to fight and protest and make this world right. That is a future my children need.

You are the future I like to dream about when in your terror you stand up and do what you never thought you could, because you have a voice to be heard, a story to be told, and a humor to laugh at. You are brave and your future, the one with you in it, makes me brave too.

You are the future I like to dream about. You with your belief that every problem can be attacked and conquered with a poem, and that every human is perfectly capable of writing one.

You with your attitude that every person and behavior can be tolerated except, of course, intolerance.

You who crush stereotypes with questions, prejudices with patience, illiteracy with fascination.

You who step outside what you're comfortable with to become uncomfortable to become better. You who are willing to try new things, new genres, new styles instead of saying it's my way or the highway. You grow, you change, you explore, and our future needs that.

You who surprise me with random acts of intelligence.
And hilarity.
And calm.

You are the future I like to dream about because, you may think you're just kids, but you're just so much more to me.

You are all so weird, and the world needs more weird. Not because we are too conforming or compliant or compromising. Not because government is too big or our art is too small, or the middle class is just too poor. The world needs weird because that is where you come from. You the creatives. The artists, the dreamers, the poets. You who can step outside of the box, no, run from the box and solve the worlds problems with a poem and a prayer. You are the ones to bring life to this world. To save us. And my kids need that future.

You are the future I like to dream about because when I look at you, I don't see kids. I see teachers and lawyers and parents and activists and journalists and politicians and world shapers, and the people that I hope will one day run my nursing home.

You are the dreamers, the poets, the problem solvers, the fighters, the laughers. You are the lights that I like to dream about. When I dream of the future

The Day's Own Trouble

Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. Matthew 6:34

“Let the day’s own trouble be enough for the day.” I can’t say how many times I’ve heard, repeated, thought this phrase in my own life.  When I’m anxious about work, or returning to work after a glorious summer.  When I start to concern myself with how my kids are going to college, or if they will have friends. When I try to plan out every second of my life.  When I simply try to plan out my children…. Let the day’s own trouble be enough for the day. What does that even mean?

What if the day’s own trouble is more than enough for the day?

That rainy Wednesday is still crystal clear in my memory.  A worst day. It was the day we learned my baby boy’s heart stopped beating.  The day’s own trouble was more than enough.  I remember the quiet room of the ultrasound.  The cold eyes of the technician. The doctor’s blank stare as she gave news that I’m sure she has given before, but never seems to get easier. I wonder if they felt it.  I wonder if they gave my boy a second thought after I left that office that day.  I wonder if they simply wanted to get me out the door so they didn’t have to wade in my grief, my trouble.  So they could move on to happier women, with better “outcomes”. I’ve wondered this often.  It bugs me. It makes me angry.  It makes me jealous when I hear of women that had compassionate nurses and gentle doctors. And at the same time, I’m so glad that many other women did not meet those cold eyes, but gentleness and sorrow. But it wasn’t their business, It was my day’s own trouble.  And it was more than enough.  

More than enough to process in my mind and heart. More than enough to decide very quickly. More than enough to pay for on a credit card instead of saving for tires for the car. More than enough for my broken heart that day.

I still remember what I thought as I got into my car that afternoon.  Through shallow breaths, “what am I going to do?” I repeated this over and over and over. I’m not sure what I thought I was planning. What do I do next? Do I call my mom? What about my kids? Should I try again? Even in this moment, when the day’s own trouble was more than enough, I couldn’t help but consider the next day, the next step, the next moment.  How in the world was I going to sludge my way out of this darkness?  How was I even going to breathe in this pit, if I was so focused on the next moment?

Even when the day’s own trouble is more than enough for the day, let it be. It seems that we are wired to think of the next day. And I’m not sure how to slow down.  It seems a survival technique for many of us, and at the same time, it crushes us. I do not know when I stopped planning, but I do know of the moments after, when I took a quiet moment, when I listened to the sorrow and allowed my God to comfort, when I stayed in that moment, I was led into the quiet presence of my savior.  It was in that moment, that he held me.

Our lives are made of moments.  It only takes a moment for everything to change. Sometimes a day is made up of a series of terrible, difficult, heartbreaking moments, that seem more than enough. But it is also in those moments, if we live them, that he finds us and holds us, and makes HImself more visible than ever before. I have learned that I can live in a moment, or lose it completely.  And if I lose it completely because of my selfish planning of the next moment, I miss out. In the case of my grief, I would have missed the Savior.  I would have missed my son. I would have missed knowing them both.  These are the moments that I will cherish forever.  Moments where my own child, too small to have gone so soon, led me to Jesus. To a deeper relationship with Him. Because of this tiny life, I was given a song to sing. And while it had a sorrowful, broken, refrain, it is a precious and beautiful and cherished song of a moment of my life.  That is why I named him Jaron, “To sing”.

Now there are new moments. New songs. New opportunities. New troubles. But the day’s own trouble is enough for the day.  And there are still those precious moments, many times in the moment of trouble when I remember my son again. And I remember my Savior. And He is enough.

Peace

John 14:27

Peace I leave with you. My peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

Words quickly fading on my arm the week of the birth.

Reminding me. Revealing me.

Don’t forget.

So I don’t live out the holy days and forget why the baby was there in the first place.

So I don’t walk away from the manger unchanged.

Peace.

For that quiet morning. Silence in the barn.

For the aftermath of the chaos.

When I’m paying off my debt.

For the aftermath of the cries

and the blood

and the struggle on the floor of the barn.

My mistakes, mismanaged life, mangled soul.

Peace

After the dysfunction, the slammed doors, the returned gifts.

After the selfish tears,

The sinful, soulless ache

The acid tongue.

The struggle on the livingroom couch

The brokenness that cannot be repaired.

Peace.

In the grief, the dysfunction, and the breaking.

Perfect peace and perfect gifts.

Good Gifts.

God Gifts.

They - We would never understand.

He said “Don’t be afraid”.

He said it was a gift.

A God gift.

Don’t be troubled with it.

Peace.

His gifts are not like ours.

Good Gifts - God gifts.

Not pretty bows and expensive bills.

Blessings and brokenness and better-ness instead.

Good Gifts.

Peace that will last.

How could we be afraid?

When we struggle, and fight, and don’t measure up.

When we are broken, bleeding, and bitter…

He redeems.

He brings peace.

Just this baby born on the floor of a barn

Placed in a dirty manger

by a teenage mother

to make a life in my darkness.

He says “Peace”.

Its quickly fading from my arm.

Don’t forget.

Lord, may my life this year and forever be a life of peace. Of gentleness.  Show me the way to be guided by the Holy Spirit and the gift of peace that Jesus left for me.  Blind me to my self, and open my eyes and heart to you. Make me an instrument of your peace this year.