It's Not Scary; It's Normal!

"I'm scared of your house."

So this is the thanks I get for offering my beach cottage as a writing retreat to a friend (I will refrain from naming names, but her initials are Kathi Lipp.) When I e-mailed her a short (five pages, typed) list of things I thought she should know about the house (former army barracks, circa 1940), I expected that as a wordsmith, she'd know the difference between "quirky" and (whoooooo-hooo-hooo-hoooo...) "scary".

Take the kitchen, for example:

Kitchen:

1) Oven runs HOT. Set it for 50 degrees lower than normal unless you enjoy the taste of charcoal. The toaster oven burns everything to a crisp. Ditto the electric skillet. Microwave, on the other hand, takes fifteen minutes just for the little light bulb inside to go on.

2) Never use more than two plugged-in devices at the same time. If you start a third, the circuit breaker will flip and everything will stop. This means unplugging any charging cell phones if you want to use both the microwave and toaster oven.

3) The refrigerator door fell off last weekend. It generally only does this once every year or two, so we think it’s had enough excitement for 2009.

4) All food in the house has cat and/or dog fur already in it, even if you’ve just opened the can and there’s not a cat or dog in sight. There is no extra charge for this.

I suppose my cautions about the Master Bathroom might seem a little "different" to someone who hasn't gotten used to the "character" of the house over several years:

Master Bathroom:

1) Shower temperatures are OPPOSITE of what you’d expect. So if you’re freezing, turn it to the RIGHT; scalding, turn it to LEFT!

2) Scalding isn’t likely to be a problem. Water -- shower and tap -- takes 4-5 minutes to warm up. You'll hear a change in the tone of the pipes. When the water gets hot, you have exactly 90 seconds before all the hot water is gone until the next day.

3) Turn the sink on only 1/2 way -- unless you want a high pressure shower while fully clothed. (It will, of course, be a cold shower!)

4) If you hit the light switch in the bathroom the wrong way, it’ll shut off electricity in the master bedroom. You’ll have to hit the “re-set” button. This will TOTALLY mess up the Sleep Number bed, so you’ll want to remember to re-set your number preferences at night. It’ll also cause the clock to blink the wrong time (which is a helpful reminder to re-set the bed.)

5) The window falls out if it’s opened more than an inch or two. So far, it’s never broken (but there’s always a first time!)

Okay, I'll admit, when I re-read the list with a more critical eye, some parts do seem kinda scary. Doors and windows that jump out at you, a shower alternates between freezing and scalding you, and kitchen appliances that require you to defend yourself with a fire extinguisher aren't, I guess, exactly "normal."

As I make a new list -- a "Fix It" list intended to lower the number of "quirks" in the house -- I wonder how much poor treatment I willingly accept from other people, complacently telling myself, "It's not scary; it's normal!"

More importantly, how much of my own bad behavior do I excuse by saying, "I'm a bit quirky! It's just my character!"

Who am I scalding with my frustration flares? (All the while, I'm assuring myself, "They should be used to my hot-and-cold habits by now!") What relationships are turning crispy when I unexpectedly over-heat in anger? (I let myself off the hook because, after all, they should know better than to "push my buttons"!) Why do I run myself, and others, to the point of shut-down and re-set? (We don't talk much about "workaholism" these days...it's the safe, even admirable, "drug" of choice.)

As I hand my "Fix It" list to my landlord, I also need to turn over my personal "quirk" and "character" list to the Holy Spirit.

Search me [thoroughly], O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there is any wicked or hurtful way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. Psalm 139:23-24

Some of what I consider normal really is pretty scary, after all. But I know from His word and years of personal experience that God is faithful to "fix it," if I'm willing to hand over my struggles to Him.

And I am.

The alternative is to stick to my "It's normal" story and allow my so-called "quirks" to keep hurting the people I love.

Now that's scary.

He Keeps Me Mindful of P & Q

Six years ago, Daniel and I "got away from it all" to celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary with a weekend at the lovely Gold Mountain Manor in Big Bear Lake, California.

After feasting on home-made waffles and omlettes the first morning, we sat together on the porch swing. Well, we were physically together, but my mind was elsewhere. It was in Choleric over-drive, making a mental list of everything we could accomplish:

We're up early (I hate sleeping in -- such a waste of time!) so we have a good head start on the day. If we get a move on, we can get to the local zoo when it opens, hit the shops by 11:00 AM, have lunch just after noon, check out the nature center in the early afternoon, rent canoes around 3:00 PM, and then . . .

My mental hamster wheel screeched to a halt as Daniel pulled me close in an affectionate hug, heaved a sigh of utter contentment, and said, "It's so peaceful and quiet. I'd be perfectly happy just sitting right here all day long."

I froze in fear. No, make that terror. "Peaceful" and "quiet" were bad enough, but far more ominous were those three little words: all day long. After a decade-and-a-half of matrimony, I knew Daniel well enough to know that he meant what he'd said. And I didn't have to check my watch or do math on a napkin to realize that I'd just been sentenced to nine hours of "sitting right here."

The fleeting question, "I wonder if I can leave him here all day while I go..." did cross my mind. (I discarded the idea when I thought of his friends ribbing him, "So you took the little woman to a fancy B&B, and she left you to go shopping?")

I considered arguing for my plan, but he looked, well, so peaceful and so happy, I didn't have the heart. I resigned myself to my fate: a day of doing absolutely nothing.

And so we sat, in the peace and quiet of the forest. As my I-hate-it-when-my-plans-get-changed resentment ebbed, I noticed things I'd missed earlier: the blue sky, the piney air, the flitting birds. I felt my brain dial down a few notches, my shoulder tension relax a bit, my drive to "do something, anything!" dissipate.

We really did "sit right here" all day. And I lived to tell the tale! (When Daniel fell asleep, I did tip-toe back to our room for a book...) At the end of the day, I was a lot more peaceful and quiet than I'd been in months. It felt like I'd finally been able to exhale after holding my breath for a very long time.
I've come to rely on Daniel to bring balance to my otherwise hectic life. After being on the go-go-go, trying to "do it all," I need Daniel to help me get away from it all. To re-mind me that yes, I really do need peace and quiet, too.

Does Gen M Know the Sound of Silence?

My brain's been spiderwebbing on the topic of "noise" this summer. Here are a few the-dots-seem-connected-to-me quotes from what I've been reading. What connections do you see regarding Gen M and noise/silence?

From "The Multitasking Generation," by Claudia Wallis:

Some are concerned about the disappearance of mental downtime to relax and reflect. [Co-author of Generation M: Media in the Lives of 8-18 Year-olds, David] Roberts notes Stanford students "can't go the few minutes between their 10 o'clock and 11 o'clock classes without talking on their cell phones. It seems to me that there's almost a discomfort with not being stimulated--a kind of 'I can't stand the silence.'"

From Holding on to Good Ideas in a Time of Bad Ones, by Thomas Newkirk

Classrooms often seem places where everything is rushed, where teachers seem bombarded with expectations (this spelling program, that vocabulary program, a new inservice for the math program) -- so much to juggle. Time is chopped up into shorter and shorter units. Depth gives way to breadth; and time-intensive activities like writing and revising fall by the wayside. But in my experience, excellent instruction rarely feels rushed. As a learner, you feel there is time to explore, there is the tolerance of silences, there is the deliberate buildup to an activity, there is the feeling of mental space to work in. This space is harder and harder to create.

From some of my senior girls last year, when asked, "How much 'down time' do you get?" (Notice their initial interpretation of the question!)


From Noise, by Teresa Tomeo

...consider the ramifications of rarely (or never) reflecting. What if we were to become so desirous of being entertained, or so accustomed to simply responding to stimuli, that we rarely had a chance to actually think about ourselves and our direction in life? In a sense, we would become less than human. Instead of being proactive we would be merely reactive, and eventually the stimuli would dominate, stunting our growth and jeopardizing our self-identities. We would risk not knowing who we are, why we are here on earth, and where we are headed in both this life and eternity. In short, over-indulgence in noise clouds our thinking, and it is perhaps the most devastating effect of our dominant media culture. It is the reason many of us place more emphasis on the Super Bowl than on our spiritual lives. The noise is so attractive, so intoxicating, and so loud that we drown in the distraction.

From Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury:

Montag listened. Nothing. Nothing. Millie, he thought. All this country here. Listen to it! Nothing and nothing. So much silence, Millie, I wonder how you'd take it? Would you shout, “Shut up, shut up!” . . . all he wanted now [was] the long time needed to think all the things that must be thought.

One of my sophomore students explained, during class discussion, that she totally identified with the concept of saying, "Shut up, shut up!" to silence. "That's why I go on MySpace at 3:00 AM...3:15 AM...3:30 AM...just looking for someone to talk to. It's too quiet!"

Take a few minutes -- preferably of silence (!) -- to think through the implications of these selections. I'd love to hear your thoughts! Some possible questions to ponder along the way:

(1) Why is silence important?
(2) How am I modeling "down time" ?
(3) How can I intentionally reduce noise?

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary and a Cat's Diary

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary:

8:00 AM - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 AM - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 AM - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 AM - Got petted! My favorite thing!
11:30 AM - Barked at nothing! My favorite thing!
Noon - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
4:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
5:30 PM - Played ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 PM - Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
9:30 PM - Slept on the bed! My favorite thing!


Excerpts from a Cat's Diary

Day 983 of my captivity:

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I and the other inmates are forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I will eat another houseplant; I must keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me alive is my dream of escape.

I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet while he was was waking. Must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair. Must try this on their bed.

Decapitated a mouse and dropped the headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Infidels!

I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture. This time, however, they utilized a burning foamy chemical called "shampoo." Only sick minds could invent such a liquid. My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth.

There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. More importantly I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe . . . for now . . .

Parents Made ALL the Difference

Can you correctly identify who is the student and who is the first year teacher?

(Don't worry; most people can't!)

I opened my "First Two Years of Teaching" box this summer for the first time in eighteen years. A friend asked me, "So, have you found anything in there of value?"

Have I ever! Photos and letters and programs and yearbooks and so many memories!

But one of the most valuable things I've found is intangible. It's a truth I could not have known back then. I see it only now, with the distance of time, experience, and parenthood.

My first two years of teaching were magical. Sure, I experienced the normal frustrations of a newbie teacher; I actually found an apology card all the students signed the day after they were so mischievous that I left the class in tears! But as a whole, those two years are safely surrounded by a nirvana aura in my memory.

And I've always thought -- naively and arrogantly -- that I was the reason those two years were so good. I was young. Energetic. Optimistic. I filled the shelves with books, many of them my own childhood copies. I started a touring drama group. I taught them great literature, dissection, and balanced chemistry equations. I invited them over to my house where I fed them copious amounts of spaghetti while they played with my dogs and cats. I took them on long snow hikes in the mountains. The photos I'm putting into albums document all I did for and with my students.

What the photographs don't show is the real reason for "my" success as a newbie teacher.

Ask yourself: Would I trust the pony-tailed blonde on the right to teach my 7th or 8th grade child?

Me neither.

Every time I look at this photo -- which proves beyond any grandiose memory how very young and foolish I was those first two years -- I am struck by a truth that I realize only now: the parents of my students made all the difference during my first two years of teaching.

What must they have thought when they came to meet the new teacher the first day of school and saw this baby-faced blonde? Why didn't they grab their kids and run as fast as possible to a school that featured a real teacher?

Instead, they stayed, and they chose to trust me. To support me. And not just a little, not with reservations. They backed me 100% to my face and behind my back. All year long.

Those shelves full of books? My room moms asked me for a list of the titles I wanted and held fundraisers to buy them. The touring drama group? Moms and dads with vans made the touring possible (and in many cases, made up 3/4 of the audience!) The great literature? My junior high kids could handle Charles Dickens because they'd been read to all their lives! Dissection? Several families donated everything needed. Balancing chemistry equations? No parent let a student get away with whining, "This is too hard! We shouldn't be doing this in 7th grade!" The trips to my house and the mountains? Parents as chauffeurs, once again.

These parents did not support me because I had proved myself to be a good teacher. I became a good teacher because my students' parents treated me with enormous trust, unconditional respect, and active support. I had done nothing to deserve any of these; they were gifts of grace.

As I read my students' farewell letters to me, I know that I made a difference in their lives. That's the ultimate goal, the highest achievement I've ever hoped for as a teacher: the privilege of making a difference in the life of a child. But I didn't do it alone. And I couldn't have done it alone.

The parents made all the difference. For their children, "my" students. And especially for me.

The Worst of Years...Becoming the Best

The '08-'09 school year was the worst of years for me.

I taught high school seniors for the first time. I figured they'd be a lot like college freshmen, who I loved teaching in the early 90s. (They weren't!)

I taught an Advanced Placement class for the first time. The retiring teacher assured me, as she passed the metaphorical baton, that the class would be "fun." (It wasn't!)

I struggled with health problems that were supposed to be resolved prior to school starting. (They weren't!)

Unrealistic expectations. Personality conflicts. Bad attitudes. (And the students had issues, too!)

What went wrong? Who's to blame? As I try to make sense out of last year, to understand why I spent so much time feeling so incompetent, I'm reading Parker Palmer's The Courage to Teach.

I am heartened by his honesty: moving into his third decade of teaching, he admits to asking a recurring question, "Might it be possible, at my age, to find a new line of work, maybe even something I know how to do?"

I am especially encouraged by his self-reflection:

"One of my favorite essays on teaching is Jane Tompkins's 'Pedagogy of the Distressed.' . . . With wonderful candor, Tompkins says that her obsession as a teacher had not been with helping students learn what they wanted and needed to know, but rather with '(a) showing the students how smart I was; (b) showing them how knowledgeable I was; and (c) showing them how well prepared I was for class. I had been putting on a performance whose true goal was not to help the students learn but to act in such a way that they would have a good opinion of me.'

Then she asks, 'How did it come to be that our main goal as academicians turned out to be performance?' Her answer rings true for me--fear: 'Fear of being shown up for what you are: a fraud, stupid, ignorant, a clod, a told, a sap, a weakling, someone who can't cut the mustard.'

That is how it sometimes is for me. Driven by fear that my backstage ineptitude will be exposed, I strive to make my on-stage performance slicker and smoother--and in the process, make it less and less likely that my students will learn anything other than how to cover up and show off. I conceal my own heart and am unable to weave the fabric of connectedness that teaching and learning require."

So that's who's to blame? Not my old nemesis! Surly after twenty years, I couldn't have fallen victim to the same villain that takes down newbie teachers?

But the fingerprints are unmistakable. As I replay painful scenes -- "discussions" that consisted of 24 silent staring students...essays that reeked of SparkNotes...caustic barely-under-the-breath comments by brilliant students -- the common thread is obvious.

Fear. And an entire year of fear is one very long year.

Palmer explains his book's title this way: The courage to teach is the courage to keep one's heart open in those very moments when the heart is asked to hold more than it is able so that teacher and students and subject can be woven into the fabric of community that learning, and living, require.

Clearly, I lacked this kind of open-hearted courage last school year. Even now, everything within me wants to deny last year ever happened, urges me to stomp off into the next year with a scowl on my face and a no-nonsense atmosphere in my classroom.

But I believe the fear-full Mrs. G of '08-'09 can teach me to have this kind of courage next school year, as long as I'm open to learning from her. The lessons I learn from my worst year will move me forward on my journey of becoming the best teacher I can be.

Last year may have been my worst of years as a teacher, but as I reflect -- rather than run! -- it may well become my best of years as a learner.

Let Go for a Good Cause

'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' Acts 20:35b

Responding to Susy Flory's book So Long, Status Quo, my friend Kathi Lipp blogged about turning some of her "guilt gems" into cash for a good cause.

At first, I thought I was off the hook: I don’t have any jewelry of value!

But then I got to thinking: I’ve got a bunch of scrapbooking and card-making supplies that I’ve not used, am not using, and will not use. So, even as I type, I'm following Susy's and Kathi's leads and putting my stuff on eBay. $$$ will go to worthy causes (and I'm not talking about my Starbucks fund!)

Money may be scarce these days. But most of us still have stuff that can be converted into money. The hard part, of course, is letting go of stuff.

For one thing, our identities are often tied to our stuff. I like thinking of myself as the kind of woman who scraps by the hour, who makes lovely hand-made cards. Never mind that I never do either; owning the stuff allows me to keep my illusions alive! Letting go of my crafting supplies means I have to let go of the fantasy that some day I may actually find time to use them. As I say "farewell," I focus more on becoming who God created me to be rather than fretting about who I never will be.

Plus, all this stuff cost a chunk of change in the first place. I kick myself every time I think about how much I've invested/wasted. Since I can't get my money back, I do what I can: hang on to my stuff. In this economy, I battle a scarcity mentality, wanting to horde what "little" I have rather than share. As I release my grip, I trust God to provide for my needs rather than fighting petty battles over what's "mine."

Ask yourself:

1) What "guilt gems" or "illusionary identity" stuff am I hanging on to?
2) What good is it actually doing me?

If the answer to #2 is "none," pick a good cause and join us: let go!

Oh, No! The Power of a Positive No

My dear friend Kathi Lipp -- a fabulous speaker and author of The Husband Project -- recently recommended that I read William Ury's The Power of a Positive No. Kathi's always been spot-on when recommending strategies to build my ministry and books to challenge my thinking.

So, with full confidence in Kathi, and realizing that as a people-pleaser and conflict-avoider I hadn't the slightest clue what a "positive no" could possibly be, I bought the book and dove in. It turned out that Kathi was right, once again! My copy glows in the dark from all the highlighted "ah-HA!" moments, which include:

A positive "No" is rooted in a powerful "Yes."

As a Sanguine, I love being involved. So I give a knee-jerk "Yes" to anything that sounds fun, forgetting to ask how this new commitment aligns with my core values. Often, I end up making someone else's life easier while neglecting my own family: "Mrs. Smith just called and needs me to bake eight dozen brownies for the bake sale tomorrow. So, no, I can't help you with your homework!"

When I take the time to first say "Yes" to my values, the necessary "No" comes so much more naturally: "I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith. My evening is already committed to my family. If you could call me a week before the next bake sale, I'd be happy to make eight dozen brownies!"


When I believe I must have someone else's cooperation, I've become their hostage.

I've got to remember this in the classroom. I hate feeling a great lesson plan come to a sickening halt when the very students I'm counting on are having an I'm-not-participating-and-you-can't-make-me kinda day. I fluster, stall, and fizzle. As a part of my lesson planning, I need to develop a "Plan B" that allows me to move forward, with or without a particular student's cooperation.

This will free me to break out of my comfort zone, where I only do what I know "works." I can try new teaching methods that I've been avoiding out of fear -- "What if Johnny refuses to participate?!? -- such as Socratic Circles. Rather than sticking with rigid, guaranteed-to-produce-begrudging-conformity classroom activities, I'll be more willing to say, "This is something we're going to try, tweak, and try some more. We're going to learn how to do it well...together."


I give respect to other people not as a reaction to their behavior but as a reflection of who I am.

I've been telling my friends and colleagues that it's time to come up with a new word. "Respect" has lost all meaning -- adults banter it around and kids just roll their eyes. But in twenty years as an English teacher, I've never actually analyzed the word "respect"! I was struck by the definition: re- means "again" and spectare means "to look."

In other words, I don't sit back and wait for another person to "earn" my respect. I take the initiative to take a second look...and a third and fourth and fifth. I aim to "see again" from a different perspective each time in order to understand the person better. (And we can all benefit from taking another look at the word "respect"!)


"No." It's a complete sentence.

("No explanation is necessary." So, I'm not giving any examples or explanations!)


Yes! No. Yes?

After saying "No," I can't just turn and walk away, which is my typical strategy. I usually feel guilty for saying "No" in the first place, or or I say "No" because I've been pushed to the point of anger.

Instead of beating a hasty retreat, I need to stay and affirm the relationship by working toward a new "Yes" while remaining firm in my "No." I can't stop at saying "No" to a one hour trip to the store to buy tomatoes when my daughter forgot to put it on yesterday's grocery list. I need to also propose a reasonable "Yes," such as helping her find a good recipe that uses ingredients we have on hand.

What's your relationship with the word "No"? How well do you deliver a "positive no"? How are you at the "Yes! No. Yes?" sequence?

Share your thoughts and stories, and on July 5 I'll draw one name from this week's contributors to win a $10 Starbucks gift card!

He Can't Read My Mind

Over at To Love Honor and Vacuum, Sheila Gregoire asks the question "Do you often assume the worst about your husband?" and describes some of the decidedly non-rose-colored glasses we wives can wear.

Sheila offers this superb advice: ...[the] next time you find yourself getting upset with your husband, or ticked off about something, ask yourself this question: "Is he really doing something very wrong? Or am I assuming something about the situation?"

This got me thinking about one of my main struggles as a wife. When Daniel and I fell head-over-heals in love our freshman year of college, all we could see was how much we had in common. "He's the male version of me!" was my favorite brag back then. (I can't tell you how much it makes me cringe now!)

Because I naively (immaturely, foolishly, egotistically...the list could go on!) believed Daniel and I were attracted to each other due to our similarities, I also believed that our our hearts felt the same feelings, our minds thought the same thoughts.

So whenever he said something that I found hurtful or offensive, I knew that he'd said it on purpose, fully realizing the exact impact it would have one me. (After all, if I had said the same thing...!)

It's taken me years (decades, actually!) to quit "knowing" his motives, to stop erroneously believing that he naturally knows my thoughts and feelings. I'm slowly learning to -- gasp! -- ask before I let my reaction emotions run wild.

As we were planning graduation weekend a couple of months ago, Daniel commented, "My family isn't like your family." I started to react to the meaning I would have intended with such words: "My family is superior to your family because..." But when I asked, "I just heard you say that your family is somehow better than mine. Is that what you meant?" he was genuinely shocked. "No, I just meant that our families are very different." Oh. No use getting all upset over a simple observation, huh?

I wish I'd learned to ask the question, "I just heard you say ________. Is that what you meant?" much earlier. As a Sanguine, I'm hyper-sensitive to anything that remotely feels like it could possibly be criticism. I've wasted a lot of time and energy "hearing" criticism when none was intended.

Turns out, of course, Daniel isn't "the male version of me." He's my total opposite. So most of the time, he has no clue what I'm thinking or feeling. It's my responsibility to tell him. He can't read my mind...any more than I can read his!

Do you find yourself expecting others to read your mind? Thinking you've correctly interpreted others' motives? What kinds of clarifying questions do you find useful?

Share your thoughts and stories, and on July 5 I'll draw one name from this week's contributors to win a $10 Starbucks gift card!