The Thing With Feathers

Criminal Minds is a seriously good show.  I got into it last summer and have been watching reruns every time they are on.  And boy are they on.  A lot.  I think it's the new Law & Order, which I'm convinced is on every hour without fail on some channel.

Tonight I watched a new (to me) episode called Mosley Lane.  It was one of those gut -wrenching episodes that makes you want to go lock your doors, hug your kids, and then go check the locks on the doors.

This episode made me think about Zeke.  One of the abducted children dies protecting a little girl who had also been kidnapped.  Zeke is such a special little guy.  He is so strong and brave- so much more than I was at his age.  He is not afraid to get out there and try something.  I think he would be the kind of kid who would have died to protect an innocent girl.

My special little guy is definitely not that little anymore.  But, he'll always be special.  I'm so thankful for the person is becoming.  

The show ended with a great quote by Emily Dickinson.  Here is the poem it comes from:

Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Don't You Love It When They Come Back?

One of my favorite things is when former students come back to see me.  I love when they come and find me during their inside recess, or come to ask me questions when they are working on a project.  I even like it when they stop me for a 30 second conversation in the hall.  

Most of the students I've taught are still at the same school with me, so I get the luxury of seeing some of them frequently.  A girl I taught last year, whom I absolutely adore, stopped by during my planning period.  She needed some help making a video for her math class.  I took 20 minutes out of my day and had a blast filming a fraction commercial with her.  It was an unexpected surprise that totally made my day.

In my short time as a teacher, I seldom find that students come back to me because they are excited about the things I taught them.  In fact, I've never had a student come back and tell me "Hey Mr. Stortz, thanks for showing me how adverbial phrases relate to dependent clauses!"  Most are rarely impressed at my knowledge of books, or my abilities with a computer.  Many do not remember the famous quotes I recite or the lessons I lay out.  They don't remember my disheveled desk, or that my lesson plans are not impeccable.

What they do remember is the way that I treated them.  The more I teach, the more I am convinced that the most valuable gift I can give to my students is not an education.  It is not motivation, success, or even inspiration.  The most valuable gift I can give to them is love and acceptance as a human being.

I like to think that my students come back because they know that I love and accept them as people. Learning flourishes in the context of love and acceptance. As soon as I stop loving, I stop teaching.

I hope they never stop coming back.

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
-Maya Angelou

 

A Game Gear Christmas (What the Heck's a Game Gear?)

1992 was the last Christmas that still had a touch of that special magic for me.  I was twelve, and although I didn't "believe," it was still a time of wonder.

We had the big Christmas at my dad's house that year.  I remember the night of Christmas Eve.  My brother and sister and I slept upstairs.  It was just one open room.  I had to duck because the ceiling was the slants of the roof.  My dad wasn't big on festive decor.  But, I remember he had colored lights on white string connected along the slopes of the ceiling like velvet ropes on a red carpet premier night.

This was the last Christmas Eve that I can remember actually having a hard time falling asleep.  I stared up at those lights for hours, my mind swirling with hope and anticipation.  The one thing consuming my twelve year old brain was a Nintendo Gameboy.  It was my heart's desire and all I wanted for Christmas.

The next morning, I got up and endured my dad's usual stalling techniques.  He was never ready to open gifts.  He had to make coffee, go to the bathroom five times, get something out of the bedroom and so on.  Finally, it was time to rip my gifts open.  I got to the one that I was sure of being a Gameboy.  As I tore in to the colorful wrapping, I noticed a cocky -looking, blue cartoon hedgehog looking up at me.  I had received a Sega Game Gear.

It was impossible to hide the disappointment on my face.  A part of me was crushed.  I looked up at my mom and I remember seeing the smile on her face melt away as she took in my reaction.  A conversation we had later would reveal how much she had wanted to get me something nice; something better than a Gameboy.  The Game Gear was in color, cost more, and my mom was convinced that it was better in every way.  It just wasn't what I had wanted.  In my childishness, I had insulted the giver.  In my immaturity, I had insulted my mom.

* * *

Game Gear Christmas stands out in my mind for many reasons.  But the most important were the lessons I began to learn about giving.  I learned that you can be thankful for something without liking it; you can appreciate the giver without loving what has been given.  There are no strings attached to true giving.  It is free and bourne out of love.  

It has taken many years with my wife to fully cement that in my mind.  Giving is really about people and not the gift.  It's about the relationship between the giver and the receiever.  Our model for this is the greatest gift that has ever been given- the gift of forgiveness through Jesus.  I don't have that Game Gear anymore.  I have something much better.  That's ultimately what I want to remember this holiday season.

The Donut

I can almost taste the sweet, gooey goodness of a warm, freshly made donut from McAllister’s Bakery.  The building’s shoddy facade and dimly lit interior were poor predictors of the blissful delicacies contained within.  The bakery was only a few blocks from the house I lived in when I was twelve.  My brother and I would walk down there on Saturday mornings to get breakfast for us and my mom and sister.  It made me feel grown -up and helpful at the same time.

I still remember pointing my chubby fingers and smudging the glass display cases as I ordered.  There was something about a donut back then.  They could melt away the troubles of a husky and  awkward pre -teen boy.  They could bring all of us together, if only for a few minutes, to enjoy something as a family.  They were able to lift our spirits, and make everything better for a little while.  It was a fond ritual that I looked forward to while we lived there.

Flash forward eighteen years.  My four year old daughter was giving me grief this morning about going to her last day of preschool this week.  The pouty lower lip, the crossed arms, the Jell-O legs.  It was all there.  A full on fit was imminent.  At the request of my wife, I did what any self -respecting parent would do.  I bribed her.

“How about we stop for a donut on the way to school?”
“A pink one?”
“Sure.”
“Yeeeeeaaaaaaaahhh!”

As she bit into a lump of lard and sugar with pink sprinkles, I saw her four year old stress and troubles fade away.  The ability of a child to live in the moment is breathtaking.  For next few moments in the car, my little girl was truly without a care in the world.


*        *        *

Donuts don’t really have that effect on me anymore.  Since I’m officially an adult, it is my business to over complicate things; to find all the “whys” instead of the “why nots.”  The panacea a fried ring of batter and sugar once had no longer has the appeal it used to.  I’m not totally sure why.

Adult me is always concerned about what’s next, whatever that may be.  It’s often hard to keep my mind on the here and now.  Maybe that’s the key to the donut experience.  It’s a place holder to anchor me to a moment of time right now.  It’s a simple reminder that, at twelve, four, or thirty years old,  life can still be lived in the fading moments right in front of my eyes.

Maybe I’ll get a donut for me the next time we stop.

Photo credit: Kevin Lawver

In My Empty Room

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As I asked our wonderful custodian to unlock my classroom, I realized it had almost been two months to the day since I had been in my room.  That doesn't sound like long, but in teacher time, it feels like a lifetime.

I stepped through the door and set my things down on my empty desk. I started to glance around the room.  Empty.  Empty walls.  Empty whiteboard. Empty counters.  Empty desks.  Empty chairs.  Just empty.

Then a very strange thing happened.  I began to be overcome with emotion.  It was almost to the point of tears.  I was not expecting that.  I looked around and I swear I could hear them.  The laughter, the questions, the chatter. . . it was almost audible.

I had two pretty amazing groups of students last year.  It was a difficult year in many ways.  The first year of teaching a new grade level always is.  But, those students made it something special.

I couldn't sit down just yet.  I had to walk around, and look and touch.  I had to relive the old before I could begin the new.  I let my fingers lightly drag across the desktops.  I glanced out the window.  I didn't stifle the memories.  I let them flood back naturally and unencumbered.  I paced the room for fifteen minutes before I took a deep breath and finally sat down at my desk.  It was time to move on.

*     *     *
Today is a blank slate, much like the current state of my room.  I have no expectations.  I have no list.  I have no agenda.  I simply want to be here.  I want to feel the space.  I want to look at it with fresh eyes and an open mind.  I want to causally leaf through the pages of possibilities and not limit my thinking.  I want to see this room for what is possible instead of simply what is.  It's empty now, but it won't be for long.

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