In Gennesaret

I love teaching Drama. And I love my dedicated Drama students . . . like my two senior girls who are in their fourth and fifth years with me in Drama class right now. These two took on the task of writing the play for this year’s Christmas program – and then casting and directing it. They’ve been working on this since June, and it all culminated last Tuesday night. I’m so proud of them. It was a kick sitting with them in the front pew just before the program started. “I can’t believe this is finally happening!” one of them squealed. A classmate had asked them earlier in the day what it was like to see their own play coming together on stage. “Weird – and scary,” was their consensus. (Yep! Been there.) But their excitement over the whole experience was palpable . . . and contagious. “It’s so weird . . . being here in the audience and not up there on stage,” one reflected. “It’s like, I have no control over any of it anymore.” (YES, SISTER. I feel your pain! That was one of the bigg...

In the past thirty-five years, I have lived in seven different cities in six different states. My current stint in San Antonio has been the longest: I’ve been here for eleven years. The longest before that was in New Jersey for ten. The rest of that time was in various spots in the Midwest, the region of the country where I grew up and that I most identify with. To echo a Christmas classic, it’s been a wonderful life. At least an interesting one, that’s for sure. Just in case you are not aware, New Jersey is a very different place from the Midwest. That move was quite the culture shock, friends. And Texas! Oh, y’all . . . it's a country to itself. But the dramatic cultural differences have not been a trial to me. They've actually been educational. And often entertaining. But there are other trying differences I’ve had to deal with that had more lasting impact on me. Curiously, in each place I’ve lived (at least since I’ve been a mother), I’ve somehow ended up in the . . ....

As I drug my lazy self out of bed yesterday morning after a few days of too much pie and too much time on the couch, my devotional was from the beginning of Psalm 118: Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever. That staggering proclamation about God is repeated multiple times in the Old Testament – “his love endures forever.” In Ezra, Jeremiah, both books of Chronicles, several psalms . . . in fact, every single line of Psalm 136 ends with that phrase. And of course, after pondering these passages all day, now the old Chris Tomlin song quoting the verse has been running through my head. And while humming that catchy little tune, it suddenly occurred to me how very remarkable that belief is in the context of the Old Testament. I’m no ancient history expert, but I do know a bit about the other religions in the world during the time of ancient Israel when these books were written. And I don’t think any of those peoples proclaimed their gods as loving. Like, ...

Last week, I wrote about a moment of accidental brilliance I had. This week, I write about a moment of unintentional snobbishness. As I’ve grown spiritually over the years, my prayer life has changed. When I talk to God, it’s usually very personal. Pretty casual. Always respectful, of course, but intimate, spontaneous and friendly. My team I work with at school is the same way. Our prayer times in the morning before the kids come in are very meaningful to me. I feel like Jesus is sitting there in the room with us, loving us and enjoying our chat with him. Prayers at my church are different – and I was irked by that during a recent service. My church is rather liturgical (which was a new thing for me), and this is usually evident in the prayer time. Most of the prayers are read. And to be honest, I just don’t care for that. Because for me, reading is not praying. It’s reading . Praying is a conversation, not a recitation. I wouldn’t have a conversation with friends by reading alou...

Every once in a while, I have a moment of accidental brilliance with clearly divine origins. Vocabulary is a big deal to me. I read research quite a while ago that said the biggest difference between inner city students who succeed and those who don't boils down to two things: parent involvement (duh) and a strong vocabulary. Having good words at your disposal changes not only your communication but your thinking. When you learn the word "vague", you start noticing vagueness around you and want clarification. When you know the words "irritated" and "distraught" and the subtle difference between them, you can recognize each in your friends and know better how to help them. My middle school students learn eight good vocabulary words a quarter – strong, useful, prevalent words that I think will impact their communication in positive ways if they know, understand, and use them. (That may not sound like much -- but by the end of middle school, that gives ...

As a general rule, I don't assume my dreams have any particular meaning for me unless something really smacks me in the face for some reason. That said, I've been having some weird dreams lately. Not weird as in atypical -- they're the kind of dreams I've been having all my life. Like, I'm a student in class and I don't know where to go or what I was supposed to study and I've been missing classes for weeks. Or I'm an actor in a play and I can't find my costume and I've been learning all the wrong lines -- or even doing the wrong play altogether. That kind of dream. Yesterday, it was a teacher/director scenario. I was helping in a class with a woman trying to direct a bunch of young kids in a play. And she was making me crazy because she had no idea what she was doing. She was talking way over their heads. She passed out some freaky picture (something like an ancient mosaic) to show the kids where she wanted them each standing on the stage . . . ...

  "But she could love Charles Wallace." Last week, I finished  A Wrinkle in Time  with my 8th graders and fought back tears as I read this final scene aloud in class. The protagonist Meg finally understands that the only weapon she has against IT, the evil power controlling her beloved little brother, is . . . love . Love is the one thing she has that IT doesn't have. Meg first wonders if she is expected to love IT; she is sure that IT could not withstand love, that it would "shrivel up and die" if she loved it. But she realizes that she is incapable of love that great. I don't think any of us are. We hate evil, understandably. Nevertheless, we can and should love those who are caught up in and therefore victims of evil. Like Meg's brother, who was a good kid, but prideful and unwise, who believed he was strong enough and smart enough to withstand IT's power, but was very wrong.  "She could stand there and she could love Charles Wallace." Y...