In Gennesaret

I’ve lived in Texas for eight years now. Eight years. Long enough to make “y’all” a regular pronoun in my conversations. Long enough to find myself reflexively blessing the hearts of people who annoy the crap out of me. Long enough to call Jesus “sweet” as I plead his mercy over that annoyance. TEXAS, y’all. It changes you if you let it. But that phrase: “Bless his heart!” (along with the extended version, “Bless her ever-lovin’ little heart,” and the abbreviated version delivered with rolled eyes and gritted teeth, “BLESS”) . . . that sweet little Southern phrase has gradually been doing a number on me, I think. I’m well aware that it is often used as a nice-girl weapon – a way to call someone a hot mess while sounding sweet about it. But it doesn’t have to be used that way. And you know, it turns out that speaking a blessing over the heart of an irritant is a pretty fruitful daily practice. When my student continues to speak out of turn in class, interrupting my well-plan

This is me the day I was given my little face shield thing to wear at school a year ago in August. It’s quite the contraption, y’all. My voice booms in my ears when I wear it . . . light reflects on it at certain angles, making it difficult to read through occasionally . . . I was constantly afraid I was going to sneeze in the stupid thing . . . but it is certainly easier to teach in than a mask. By the end of the year, it was second nature to me. I forgot I was even wearing it sometimes (thus, again, the constant fear of sneezing in it). Nevertheless, on the last day of school, I was tempted to ceremoniously chuck the thing in the dumpster in my joy at the school year being over. We’re all getting vaccinated! Numbers are declining! Back to normal school in the fall! Woo hoo! And then here we are. I was masked up again in church last Sunday and annoyed at how little air support I could get to sing. At the play I attended that afternoon, the audience was asked to wear masks (my gi

A few weeks ago, I was back in New Jersey for a visit and drove by my old house. We lived in a neighborhood called Sturbridge Woods – so named because of the woods , appropriately enough. The developers intentionally left as many of the big, beautiful trees as possible and built the houses around them. We had very little grass: a small patch in front and a small patch in back. Most of the yard was natural wooded area. It was really beautiful, friends. Lovely shade in the summer. Lovely bird twitters in the spring. Lovely colors in the fall. The leaf clean-up every October was a pain in the butt (credit to the ex who took on the bulk of that duty). But ohhh, the beauty! I loved this house. I loved living in this house, homeschooling in this house, having friends over in this house, hosting overnight guests in this house. It was a big place to clean – and yes, I experienced some really painful moments while we resided here. But I have fond memories of our life in Sturbridge Woods on