The Grass is Greener

Hello, Everyone,

When I finished my study abroad term in France during college, two of my closest friends and I decided to hike a portion of the Camino de Santiago, a network of pilgrimage trails dating back to the Middle Ages that all end in Santiago, Spain.  We chose to follow a route that took us along the coast of Northern Spain, which meant gorgeous views of both the Atlantic Ocean and the verdant green hills through which we travelled.  

Near the end of one day, after a particularly steep incline, we paused for a few minutes to look at the landscape.  Across the valley, there were a number of other hills further along the trail that were illuminated by the late afternoon light.  They were practically glowing.  I stood there transfixed, completely in awe of such splendor.  To this day, I don’t know if I’ve seen anything else in nature look more beautiful.  

And yet, as I stood there, I felt a concurrent, deep longing to be there, on those hills, in that light.  In that moment, that was all I wanted in all the world.  Nothing else mattered but being exposed to that light.  Somehow, I felt, if I could just be there, basking in that golden warmth, everything would be alright.  

As I began to imagine what that would be like, though, I remembered from previous experiences that light this intense is blinding; you can see only light surrounding you in all directions.  I began to realize that I was actually experiencing two contradictory desires.  I wanted to be in the light, but also to observe the light interact with other objects.  It was a rather frustrating paradox: seeing the way light lay on the hills made me want to be in it, but being in it would make me want to see its effects.  I could not do both simultaneously; it is impossible to see both sides of a coin at the same time.

I was reminded of these ruminations last week at church.  Over the past year or so, I have been feeling not only the rewards but also the drawbacks of living a solo life.  This in no way dominates my thoughts and it’s not a source of anxiety for me.  From what I can tell, this is a perfectly reasonable thing to consider especially given these factors: 

• I am about to move by myself to a new community yet again, leaving behind many dear friends.
• I am less than a month away from turning thirty, a milestone which prompts one to consider where she has been and where she would still like to go.
• My first very close friend had a child (my goddaughter!) this year, and I’ve seen firsthand how the deep joy of having a child has impacted her family.
• I am about to leave a job where I get to love and be loved simply and deeply by children all day long.  

Being single can be lonely sometimes, especially at church (this is a post—or several posts!—for another time), and it makes sense that I would occasionally look with a degree of longing at the lives of other people I know and consider what it might be like to be there, basking in the light of warm familial relationships.

And yet, when I was preparing to take Communion at church last week, I was given a moment of complete grace.  I sat there by myself, an empty chair on either side of me, watching as my brothers and sisters moved up to the front to take the bread and wine.  I watched as a couple who I know have been experiencing strain in their marriage nevertheless went up together, the husband touching his wife’s shoulder lightly as they broke the bread.  I watched as a child whispered something in his mother’s ear and she smiled back at him.  I watched as a family who have struggled with discipline issues with one of their children all went up, together.  

And a crazy thing began to occur.  As I looked at these people, I gradually realized they were glowing, just like those hills in Spain.  Sarah Jackson, you may be saying, you need more sleep.  You are right, of course, but that’s not what was going on.  I think I was getting a reminder of the other side of the coin.  I don’t just like to be in the light, I like to see it.  And for those few suspended moments, I didn’t want any of it for myself.  I didn’t want to be with anyone.  I didn’t want to be experiencing those things firsthand.  I just wanted to sit there and watch as life happened poignantly around me. 

These were tiny moments, unnoticeable, really, if you were in the middle of them.  No relationship issues were solved.  No life-changing words were spoken.  I’m sure none of the people involved even had the first clue that they were participating in actions I found so beautiful.  I certainly know there are many times when the small acts of love people give to me go unnoticed in the moment.  As a lifelong observer, I’ve learned that really seeing things takes time, effort, and a bit of distance.  It dawned on me last Sunday that my position right now—namely being single and without children—often provides me with that bit of distance, with those opportunities to observe and delight in moments that I would otherwise overlook because of general relational busyness.

The grass is always greener, it is said, and at times that may be true.  But every so often, we are given the chance to peek over the fence and simply enjoy the sight of a lovely yard without the distractions of having to plant or water or mow.  Every so often, we can catch a glimpse of the bigger picture precisely because we’re several paces back from it.

Have a great week,

Sarah/Mouse

Decisiooon! Decision! [Said, or preferably sung, in the style of Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof]

Hello, everyone,

One of the first things I learned when I began working at the preschool was the importance of giving children choices, especially when you’re needing them to do something they’re not wanting to do.  Consider these examples: 

• “Sophie, which cars do you want to pick up? The red ones or the black ones?”
• “Eli, you need to wear boots outside because it’s raining.  Do you want to put them on by yourself or would you like help?”
• “Allie, it’s time to have snack.  You can wash your hands and sit at the table, or you can sit on the rug until you’re ready to wash your hands and sit at the table.”

I say these kind of things all day long.  The main reason to continually give children choices is to help them feel like they have agency or control in a given situation.  Even when there is only one acceptable outcome, as in the last example, phrasing it in a way that gives a child options is empowering.  The ball is in Allie’s court, and even if she is choosing between what she considers to be two negative options, she has the power to decide which negative option is preferable to her in that moment.

In general, we all appreciate having choices.  Most of us want to be able to choose what clothes we wear, what food we eat, whom we befriend, whom we marry, whom we elect as leaders, etc.  Many people around the world have engaged in long, costly struggles to guarantee the right to determine their reality through fair elections.  Having choices is almost always a sign of privilege.  

I am so privileged that I have had more choices than I’ll ever be aware of, and so I report the following with humility and deep gratitude: I have just made the most difficult decision of my life to date.

Some of you may know that I’ve been applying for PhD programs which would begin in the fall.  My goal is to study Children’s Literature, and there were several avenues I could take to do so.  I spent the fall applying to five programs, and this spring learned that I was to choose between two very good options.  The issue is that when you’re choosing between negative options, you can ask yourself, “Which one is least bad?” and just go with the answer.  When you’re choosing between positive options, though, you have to ask yourself “Which one is most good?” partly by also asking “Which good could I most live without?”  It’s often easier for me to gear up for something negative than it is to consider missing out on something positive.  

I’ve gone back and forth for over a month now, trying to determine not only which school to choose, but how to make the decision in the first place.  There is the inevitable and glorious Pros and Cons List, the making of which is second nature to me, and I believe is always a good place to start.  

But there were two problems with relying on a pros and cons list.  The first is that there were far more pros for each program than cons; I was aware from the beginning that I was choosing between two fantastic options.  The second problem is that I could articulate which school was better for a given criterion, but it was much harder to determine which criteria were more important than others.  For example, “School A is in a location that is more appealing to me, but School B seems to have a more supportive environment within the department.”  There were so many factors to consider that I felt like I was on a seesaw, bouncing up and down depending on which factor I was considering in a given moment.

One of my friends mentioned a website called helpmydecision.com.  It has you list your options, then the various factors that will affect the decision.  You are then asked to weigh each factor on a scale of 1-10 to help distinguish which are the ones that are most meaningful.  The site then prompts you to rate each factor for each choice (School A gets a 7 for Factor 1, while School B gets a 4 for Factor 1, etc.).  When you’ve quantified everything you possibly can, you press a button and the site tells you which choice you should make based on the numbers you’ve entered.  

Of course, this is just an algorithm (or at least, I think it is—to be honest, I don’t remember exactly what an algorithm is, but I’ve heard people use the word to describe math-y, internet-y things).  And I certainly wasn’t going to base my future on that.  But I had hoped it might provide some clarity about whether I was leaning in one direction or the other.  Here were my results: 

The difference was essentially negligible! However, while this did nothing to show me which school I should attend, it was validating simply because it showed how split I was; these really were two good choices, and I really didn’t know which way to go.

So I was back on the seesaw.  At one point, a friend, in a joking attempt to be helpful, looked up the state animals for each location, and they were both the White-Tailed Deer

(though I’ve since learned that 11 of the 50 US states claim it as their state animal, which seems to diminish the value of having a state animal, in my opinion, but that’s beside the point).  I looked up the colors for each university, and they were essentially the same too.  I couldn’t even make my decision based on silly, arbitrary factors! 

In the end, the only way I could gain any headway was by talking through everything in my mind with anyone who would listen.  I cannot express how much patience I received from my family, friends, co-workers, and in some cases, even people who border on being strangers.  And ultimately, though I still felt like I was on the fence, many of these people would say, “What I hear you saying is _______.”  No one told me what my decision should be, and I knew all of them would be supportive no matter what I ended up choosing.  But I’ve learned that at times, there is so much going on in my mind and in my heart that I cannot discern any pattern or continuous direction.  I have to rely on other people to tell me what I’m telling myself.   

So what, you may ask, am I telling myself?  Where will I go in the fall?  The answer (finally!) is Ohio State University in Columbus.  I will be getting a PhD in Literature for Children and Young Adults through the Department of Teaching and Learning.  As I mentioned, there are many pros to this school, and I’d be happy to talk with you more about them if you’re interested.  However, the main draw for me was the chance to continue the textual analysis of literature for children while also considering how these texts affect real children.  I will have opportunities to nerd out about literary theory and to work with children in classrooms or other settings.  I am glad that I will be encouraged to consider the work I’ve already done as a teacher as I continue with my studies, and I am excited about the doors that this program might open in the future.  

But mostly, for just this week, I am excited to be done making the decision!  Thank you to everyone who listened to me, reflected my thoughts back to me, prayed for me, and encouraged me along this journey.  Please don’t stop!  I know I will need all the help I can get! 

Have a great week,

Sarah/Mouse

Take Up Thy Cot

Hi, Everyone,

Two nuns are walking at night in Transylvania when a vampire jumps out and begins moving toward them.  “Quick!” one nun says to the other.  “Show him your cross!”  The second sister takes a deep breath and bellows into the vampire’s face, “Get out of the way, you toothy jerk!”  This joke works best heard aloud rather than read, and in cultures where “cross” is a more regular synonym for “angry.”  I got a chuckle out of it, though.

I’ve been thinking a lot about crosses recently.  That is, perhaps, not all that surprising, since this past Friday marked the day when Christians remember Jesus’ crucifixion.  However this year, what struck me most was a comment from a documentary on Martin Luther King Jr. which I began watching recently.  The first MLK quote the filmmakers include is, “I have long since learned that being a follower of Jesus Christ means taking up the cross.”  This struck me so intensely I had to pause the film, but not because it’s such a revolutionary idea.  After all, Dr. King is drawing on centuries of Christian rhetoric—initiated by Jesus himself when he told his followers “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Matthew 16:24, NIV).  Nor was I affected by King’s words because they stirred me to some great sacrifice or noble cause.  

In fact, that was the problem.  They stirred me, but to what end?  What, I found myself asking, is my cross?  For quite some time now, I’ve craved having a cause, a fight, a destination to run toward.  I was raised with a deep sense of stewardship, and as such, I am perpetually aware that the talents, resources and circumstances I’ve been given can provide opportunities to serve other people.  What then, I keep asking myself, is my Thing?  How can I serve most fully?  How can I be of most use?  Though these questions are not new to me, they have been especially vehement recently, as I try to make vocational choices (more of that to come in another letter soon).  Whether or not this is true, it often feels like I am bumbling around from one thing to another like a bee laden with pollen but with no clue how to get back to the hive.

And so, with Dr. King’s words echoing in my conscience, I asked yet again: what burden am I made to endure?  And I suddenly thought, what if my cross is the cross of no cross?  What if my biggest struggle for now is the humbling notion that God isn’t asking me to do something exceptionally noteworthy and costly for Him?  What if I am being asked to sacrifice my sacrificial energy itself?

I recently had the opportunity to pray through the Stations of the Cross, a sequential method some Christians use to contemplate Jesus’ journey to his death through fourteen stages or “stations.”  Each station is accompanied by an image and a brief prayer pertaining to that stage.  Considering my questions regarding the cross, Station II was of especial interest to me: “Jesus bears his cross: Lord, we join you in your journey of suffering.”  I realized with shock that it did not say “Jesus bears his cross: Now go and bear yours,” but rather that we are to join Jesus in the suffering He’s already enduring.  All God asks is that we join Him, not that I find a niche market of suffering for me to endure in my own personal way.  I’m afraid my culture’s deep reverence for individualism and my own desire for uniqueness have seeped into even this corner of my faith.  

I am beginning to suspect that thinking in terms of my cross rather than Jesus’ cross is, at best, simply a form of pious navel-gazing, and at worst, downright idolatry.  While Good Friday is half of the equation, it is only half.  The cross has always been a means to an end; it has never been and never will be the final word.    

As I consider joining Jesus as he continues to bear his cross in the world, I am reminded of a frequent occurrence at my school. The children sleep on portable cots during nap time, and when they wake up, they are in charge of putting their bedding away.  The cots are relatively light, but large compared to the average three-year-old, so not all of the children can carry them by themselves.  At the beginning of the year, I would put away most of the cots while the children managed their bedding.  Over time, however, as they have gained coordination, strength and confidence, they have been able to participate more.  They love helping me carry their beds, and even though it is less efficient and more cumbersome for me to do it this way than for me to take care of it myself, I love it too.  They are perfectly aware that I am strong enough and big enough to take their cots myself, but they want to participate because they want to help and they want to be with me.  And that’s how it is with God too.  He does not need me to help Him.  I know I join Him in suffering only because of his grace in allowing me to do so.  I join Him because I want to be with Him and I know being with Him means suffering sometimes.  If the driving force isn’t relational, then my motivations reek of martyrdom. 

So what do we do?  How do we approach this call to carry crosses?  Again, I find myself seeking wisdom from my students.  While I still do help many of them carry their beds, increasingly, they are forming teams to transport the beds themselves:

chanting our teamwork song: “What’s gonna work? Teamwork!”

and then doing the “Teamwork Cheer." 

It might be difficult for me to determine what my cross is, but it is not hard to see crosses all around me: people fighting disease, relational strife, poverty, depression, loneliness and anxiety.  Perhaps if I spend less time trying to identify my one, unified, Cross-with-a-capital-C to bear, and more time responding to the varied opportunities for teamwork-style suffering that come my way, I would be closer in spirit to what Jesus and Dr. King were talking about.  After all, even Jesus’ ministry appears rather haphazard on the surface.

I realize that these questions may not be relevant for everyone.  Perhaps much of my desire to find a cross to bear comes from my own particular nature, nurture or the old familiar indeterminate combination of the two.  But for me right now, at least, I think my challenge is to look widely for chances to help others bear their crosses and to loosen my grip on any specific one.  

Unless, of course, I ever become a nun in Transylvania, in which case you’d better believe I’ll be holding onto my cross pretty tightly.

Have a good week,

Sarah/Mouse

The Antelope Don't Get This

Hello, Everyone!

Welcome back to my weekly weblog turned annual Advent reflection!  As I mentioned in my last letter (which, incidentally, I posted around this time last year), Advent is the one thing that will cause me to write, no matter how busy or overwhelmed by life I may be.  I think it’s partly because this time leading up to Christmas Day is so rich with meaning that each year, I am astounded at a different aspect of the season.  This year, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a human. 

Frankly, the past twelve months have not been the easiest for me, and there have been multiple moments when I’ve felt inundated by a veritable deluge of responsibilities, personal struggles and life decisions.  For much of this year, being a human has felt incredibly difficult.  A lot of my creative writing involves animals, and as such, I spend a fair amount of time imagining what it would be like to be an antelope, or a pelican, or a platypus.  And to be honest, as I’ve tried to figure out what my life is going to look like in the next few years, the prospect of being an antelope has occasionally sounded pretty good.  Antelope just wake up naturally, probably having gotten approximately enough sleep.  They eat some grass and maybe go to the water hole.  In the afternoon, they may run away from a cheetah or two. They might get eaten by a cheetah.  If not, they maybe eat some more grass.  It’s a relatively simple existence.  Sure, their life expectancy is a little low and basically everyone except the grass wants to eat them, but they don’t have to figure out whether to get a PhD.  Or who to spend their lives with.  Or what a head gasket does.

And yet, as I’ve wrestled with these issues and others, I’ve tried to make my motto, “the antelope don’t get this.”  Certainly, I reasoned, there are good things about being human that antelope and other animals don’t get to experience.  To remind myself, I asked some of the kids in my class “What is your favorite thing about being a human?”  There were some predictably helpful responses:

“Being a puppy.”

“Hm… pirate.”

“Playing with Santa.”

“When I do this: [demonstration of an intense jumping jack exercise].”

“Having my mom and dad.”

“Eat. Play. Sleep.”

“Holding a baby.”

One of my favorite things about working with people who are still discovering the perks of their humanity is that it reminds me of the joys of mine.  But this year, I’ve also been reminded that even the most challenging parts of being a human are gifts of sorts.  Even things like struggling to find your own unique purpose in an ever-complicating world, or figuring out how to be friends with someone when one or both of you are going through a big life change, or determining how to live through those moments when it feels like you’re doing more harm than good in the world.  Even things like losing someone you love, or gaining someone you need to learn to love.

And I promise, I don’t mean to be glib.  Calling a deeply difficult experience a “gift” doesn’t make it any easier.  Positive thinking can be helpful, but not if we’re using it to lie to ourselves.  And yet, I’ve been learning that the hardest parts of being a person are some of what distinguish us as a species.  I firmly believe that there are so many aspects of animal existence that we don’t yet understand, and it could well be that there are more social, emotional and behavioral links between humans and other creatures than we now know of.  Even so, it is safe to say that humans get to do and think and say things that the vast majority of the species on our planet never get the chance to do and think and say.  

In short, it is a profound honor to be a human.  

And that brings me back to Advent, a time spent preparing for and remembering the greatest honor ever paid to people.  Because when God decided to enter His creation, becoming not just the Maker, but the Made, he didn’t become an antelope.  Or a puppy.  He became a human.  

We are told in the first chapter of the Gospel of John that the Word of God became human flesh.  This is crazy.  In other religions, gods make humans.  Or they punish and reward them. They sometimes even marry them.  But they don’t become them.  That’s scandalous and foolish.  So why do it?  Why would a god with all power and knowledge choose to limit Himself like this?  

Richard Rhor talks about what God’s entrance into humanity means for us when he says, “Love in its mature form always creates some level of equality between giver and receiver. That may seem totally impossible with God, but that gap is exactly what is overcome by God being “personal” and is why the Christian notion of God’s great self-emptying (kenosis) in a personal Jesus is such a huge gift to our humanity. Jesus reveals that the give and take of human and divine is utterly possible precisely because he became human and personal.”

God empties Himself into the world He created, specifically into humans.  Christmas thus leads to two equally stunning revelations: If God is human, then 1.) God is in me and  2.) God is in others; I have no choice but to recognize Him in other humans.  

Recent national and world events have demonstrated that after all these millennia, we are still asking each other what it means to be human.  Who can be called human?  Who gets to be treated humanely?  What Christians believe about God’s radical, scandalous, foolish advent into the world determines the answers to these questions.  Christmas demands that we respond with what Rhor calls a mature love, an equal love.  My two favorite lines from the Christmas carol “O Holy Night” are “He appeared and the soul felt its worth,” and “Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother; And in His name all oppression shall cease.”  We can’t consider Christmas seriously without also understanding the intrinsic worth of all people.

I must conclude that my student is right: one of the best parts of being human is holding a baby because it reminds us that God allowed Himself to be held.  So as exhilarating as running from cheetahs undoubtedly is, I have to say again, “the antelope don’t get this.”  

I’m so grateful I do.

Merry Christmas and Happy Advent to those of you who celebrate this season, and to everyone, have a great year! 

Sarah/Mouse 

Hope on a Rope?

Hello Everyone,

Those of you who have been reading these letters for a few years now may have noticed something: no matter how irregularly I write, no matter how busy I am with other things in my life, there will undoubtedly be a post about Advent.  It’s my favorite time of the year: the time in the Church calendar which leads up to Christmas.  It is a time of waiting and expectation and preparation, the way engagement precedes marriage or pregnancy precedes birth.  There are many reasons I like the church I’m attending, but to be honest, one of the main reasons I was initially drawn to it was because the first time I went, they gave out Advent booklets.  I love Advent and I love booklets, so I was sold!  This last Sunday was my one year churchiversary, which meant it was also the first Sunday in Advent, so here you have it, folks: this year’s Advent letter.

On the first Sunday in Advent, the Church typically celebrates hope.  What a simple, everyday word!  And yet this week, as I was listening to the sermon, I thought to myself, “I don’t think I really have the first clue about what hope is.”  After a while, a question appeared in my mind: “What would it look like to hope wildly?”  When it comes to hoping for things, I am a very careful person.  I tend to be a “don’t count your chickens before they hatch and graduate from high school or preferably college” type of person.  I feel the impulse to hope, but I don’t want to disappoint other people or myself if they don’t work out, so my hopes are tiny and contained and measured.  So when the question about wild hopes surfaced in my thoughts, I found myself wondering if I’ve ever really been completely hopeful.  It seems risky and totally counterintuitive, but also incredibly freeing.  I also felt a bit guilty: what does my lacking or inhibited hope say about my trust in God? 

When I’m confused about something, my first reaction (because I’m cool like that) is to research.  So I turned to that Advent booklet, as well as to several Scripture passages, and to some sermons and other resources I found online.  And I realized quickly that there is a difference between the way we usually use the word “hope,” and the way it is used in the Bible.  Normally, we mean it as a rough equivalent for the word “wish,” as in “I hope you have a good day” or “I hope I get this job.”  It might be a very profound desire, but it is for something uncertain.  Biblical hope is very different.  It is based on total certainty, specifically certainty that God will fulfill his promises.  (John Piper articulates this nicely in a sermon.)  

But I was still confused.  If Biblical hope is based on certainty, then why don’t we just call it “expectation” or “confidence”?  Or is it perhaps a question of a corresponding preposition (because I’m also cool like that): “hoping for” versus “hoping in”?  When I think of “wild hopes,” am I talking about Biblical hope, and if so, how is it wild if I already know that the thing will happen?  And somehow, this all seemed wrapped up in the great paradox of Advent: the idea of waiting (and hoping) for something that Christians believe has already happened, the coming of God into our world.  I kept going around in circles which is great if you’re playing Ring Around the Rosie, but it can make you pretty disoriented.

Another disorienting aspect of the week happened on Thursday.  I found out about the death of Nelson Mandela when a parent at the preschool mentioned it to me in passing.  I felt an immediate sense of loss, and when I had my break a few minutes later, I went to the kitchen and cried quietly while I unloaded the dishwasher.  I obviously didn’t know Mandela personally, but like so many other people around the world, I felt like I did.  Perhaps this is because more than any other public figure in history, Mandela’s life story has become almost synonymous with the story of his country.  To know and love South Africa (which anyone who has talked with me for more than two and a half seconds will know I do) is to know and love Mandela.  

I once told a friend that there are three stories that elicit a tearful response from me every time I encounter them: The Gospel, Charlotte’s Web, and the recent history of South Africa.  So while I was sniffling and sorting the cutlery, I reflected briefly on Mandela’s personal history, and how it connected with South Africa’s.  I was wondering why I was so sad about the loss of a man who I had never met, and who surely deserved a rest after a full and tiring 95 years.  Perhaps it was that if Mandela’s life story has become a metaphor for South Africa’s, what happens when we extend the metaphor?  Did something of South Africa die on Thursday?  Is the country somehow “less than” today than it was a week ago?  

And then it hit me: Mandela gave the world both kinds of hope simultaneously.   

His life obviously gave the world very specific hopes: that Apartheid could crumble, that South Africa could have a functioning democracy, that people could transition between the two nonviolently.  Long before he helped realize these events, he inspired deep, dear wishes in people across the globe that they may one day happen.  But he pointed to the other kind of hope too, the belief in the coming of something not-yet-but-definite, something to do with the marriage of justice and mercy, something to do with our ability to actually and actively love each other, despite the worst in all of us.  

So does his death extinguish our hopes, whatever they are?  I didn’t want to think so.  After all, that’s the great thing about biblical hope: it may diminish, but it never dies.  Alexander Pope said, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”  And that is why I find headlines like “Mandela’s Death Leaves South Africa Without Its Moral Center” (New York Times) inaccurate at best, and offensive at worst.  Saying this implies that the hope Mandela gave us was shallow, that it was dependent on him being alive, that the good he did was about what was in him more than it was about what is in all of us.  

On the contrary, Mandela’s life, at its best, gave us glimpses of that goodness now, even after his death.  Not only an inspiring story from our history, not only a glorious reality to wait for or work toward.  Richard Rohr said “The theological virtue of hope is the patient and trustful willingness to live without closure, without resolution, and still be content and even happy because our Satisfaction is now at another level, and our Source is beyond ourselves.”  Of course, it would be lovely if Mandela could have died with the problems in South Africa and even the world neatly taken care of.  But if we are to learn anything from his life, it is to live in hope, to “live without closure,” knowing that there is a Source beyond ourselves.  

My favorite phrase that has emerged from my research on hope this week comes from a different Pope: Pope Francis as he gave his Advent address this last week.  He spoke of “the horizon of hope.”  I love the idea of hope being the looking toward a distant but real good, visible to those who would lift their gaze and look out.   

Mandela not only pointed toward that horizon, he also helped move us closer to it in very tangible ways.  It is right to mourn him, for there will never be another person like him.  But to truly honor him, we must continue to look out, beyond him, beyond ourselves, to a wild horizon that is coming and has already come.

Happy Advent, and have a good week,

Sarah/Mouse

The Whole Picture

Hello Everyone,

Last week, I had one of the most frustrating hours of work I’ve experienced since starting at the preschool, as well as one of the more important life lessons I’ve been given recently.  

A little background: I teach in the three-year-old class, which means that throughout the year, I get to watch some of the biggest transformations that happen in people.  Children can go from being quasi-verbal to being able to articulate themselves in full, complicated sentences.  They can go from having accidents multiple times a day to being able to regulate themselves without thinking about it.  They develop real friendships for the first time in their lives, and they are constantly discovering the world around them.  In a single day, they can go from being a total novice to being a total expert about a particular subject, whether it’s a spider they have found, or a story we are reading.  After all of the developments that happened over the course of last year, our new children this year feel like babies!  Most of them are at school and away from their parents for the first time, and have never been asked to do things like line up or pour their own milk, or sit quietly while their friend shares something at Circle Time.  But as I was reminded last week, they are already picking up on a lot.

My co-teacher was on her lunch break, and I was in charge of transitioning the kids from lunch time to nap time.  After lunch, we try to have several different types of “table toys” available to the kids.  These are small, manipulative toys which children can play with at the table.  This is intended to be a relatively quiet, focused time, when children can develop abilities such as sorting according to color, size, shape, or they can strengthen their memory, or their ability to understand opposites.  One of the options I’d put out for the children was a tub of colored milk jug lids which about half of the students were sorting according to color.  It was going exactly as I’d intended, and I was even hearing things like, “I’ll give you my blue one and you can give me your orange one!”  [In case you have not worked with young children, know that such expressions of cooperation are to a preschool teacher what crossing the finish line is to a marathon runner.]

I turned away briefly (yes, yes, I realize this was my mistake!) to talk with a parent who was picking up her child, and when I turned back, let’s just say I was given a chance to understand opposites.  The classroom was in complete chaos.  It was miraculous, really, how quickly all semblance of order had disintegrated.  The children who had been sorting were now throwing all of the caps into the air with wild abandon, confetti-style.  The children who had been using different table toys around the room had caught on and were throwing their toys up in the air too.  

This was annoying, especially since we needed to start getting the cots out for nap time, which we couldn’t do until the floor was clear, but this was nothing I hadn’t experienced before.  I announced that it was time to get our classroom ready for nap time, and set about trying to realize said announcement.  However, in the next twenty minutes, several things happened which thwarted my efforts:

1.) None of the children (most of whom have not yet transitioned into the phase where they follow instructions they don’t care for) actually listened to me at all.  Eventually, I was able to get a few of the more seasoned preschoolers on board, but the mess was so widespread, their efforts did not make a big dent.

2.) Several more parents came to pick up children, and though we had good interactions, it negated any progress we’d made on cleaning up.

3.) One child decided that his role in the cleaning up process was to go around and empty out each bin of toys (presumably to give the other children something to put away?  “Simba, let me explain.  When we make a mess, our mess becomes the mess that the other children have to clean up, and so we are all connected in the great Circle of Preschool Life.”).

4.) Another child, who is still getting used to the idea of being away from her parents all day, had her daily meltdown which she exhibited by following me around as though attached to me by a one-foot long tether, wailing, “Miss Sarah! Miss Sarah! I want to go HOOOOMMME!!!”  She was utterly inconsolable, and at one point, I turned to her and said, “I do too!”

5.) We found a giant spider (about two inches) right by the nap time cubbies, and I had to capture it and release it outside.  I’m not the world’s biggest spider fan in the best of circumstances (“the best of circumstances” in this case being when I am far, far away from any spiders), but this was not a welcome addition to my morning.

Eventually, of course, it all got sorted out, but needless to say, when my co-teacher came back from her break, the children were not all sleeping peacefully, and I was not in the most gracious of moods.

The next day, one of the girls who had instigated the Mardi Gras-like atmosphere asked if we could get the milk jug lids down again.  I told her we could, but only if they stayed on the table.  At this point, Annie (who for reasons none of us understand, has a Bostonian accent) piped up:

“But who will be the ped-lah?”

“Sorry, what?” I asked.

“Who will be the ped-lah?”

“The ped-lah?”  I repeated.  “The peddler?”

“Yes.”

There followed a pause that lasted for about twenty seconds as I figured out why she knew the word “peddler” and what that had to do with our table toys.  Gradually, it dawned on me.

“Annie,” I said slowly, “Are you talking about the peddler in Caps For Sale?”  Caps For Sale is currently one of our favorite picture books to read, and it involves a peddler whose hats disappear when he takes a nap under a tree.  

After looking all around him, he finally looks up and sees that a bunch of monkeys have taken the hats.  The peddler then tricks the monkeys into throwing the hats to the ground so he can recover them.

“Yes,” she said.  

“Annie,” I said.  “When you and the other children were throwing the milk jug lids into the air yesterday, were you being the monkeys from Caps For Sale?”

“Yes,” she said, as though this were as obvious as the fact that nap time is not for sleeping.

“Ah,” I said.

And with that conversation, I’d stumbled upon the rest of a picture I didn’t even know was incomplete.  I was no longer angry or frustrated about the day before.  In fact, I wished I’d known about the reenactment at the time so that I could have taken a photo!

One thing this exchange taught me, which I sincerely hope the children (or any nearby spiders) did not pick up on is that it can be quite easy to distract me when I’m upset:

Me: “I’m frustrated and angry!”

Children: “But books!”

Me: “Oh, that’s true.  Never mind!”

But a much more important lesson was that while my new knowledge wouldn’t have solved what seemed to be a perfect storm of problems the day before, it did remind me that my view is incredibly limited.  So often, I don’t remember that there is usually more to a given situation than I know, and that if I did know the whole story, I might feel completely differently about the situation.  If I don’t remember to ask questions, or look more carefully, or simply to just be patient with people as they figure themselves out, I will certainly miss out on the bigger picture.

If I don’t look up, I won’t see the monkeys in the tree.

Have a good week!

Sarah/Mouse

The Blind Leading the Blind

Hello Everyone,

I was in Union Station in Washington DC a few weeks ago, when I saw something that has stayed with me ever since.  A group of about five blind men were navigating the crowded hall, partly with the help of their canes.  But they were also holding onto each other with their free arms.  Chatting back and forth jovially, they had both the graceful ease and the remarkable efficiency of migrating geese or a first-rate basketball team.

When I was little, my mom told me about a conversation she’d had while teaching Sunday School.  The class was learning about Jesus restoring sight to a blind man, and she wanted the four- or five-year-olds in her class to understand what it felt like to be blind.  So she blindfolded them and had them move around the classroom a bit.  She asked what it was like to not be able to see.  When they concluded that they didn’t like it, she asked, “What would you do if you were blind?  How would you get around?  How would you do all of the things that you like to do?”  One boy had the solution:  “I would just take off the blindfold!”  Simple! 

If only it were.  Even at my early age, I understood the naiveté of that response.  I understood that losing my vision would be devastating for me in so many ways, both practical and aesthetic.  And though I blame the Laura Ingalls Wilder books—in which Mary wakes up one morning unable to see—for some of my childhood fear of blindness, it continues to terrify me because observing the world is one of my very favorite activities.  

And yet, a few years after my mom told me about her Sunday School lesson, I began to understand that there are many different kinds of blindness.  I was in fifth grade, and I had been trying to impress a boy I had a crush on.  I told him that I had been doing some thinking in the middle of the night (classic Sarah Jackson pick-up line) and something had reminded me of him.  He responded by singing the chorus from Billy Joel’s classic song, “The River of Dreams.”  I was embarrassed because I hadn’t heard it before and he didn’t seem to appreciate my late-night musings.  But when I finally heard the whole song, the line, “I know I’m searching for something, something so undefined, that it can only be seen by the eyes of the blind” sent shivers of profundity up my fifth grade spine.  “Blindness can actually be a strength?” I thought. I suspect it was somewhere around this time that I stopped scowling at paradoxes and started delighting in them; I was beginning to understand that the vision our eyes give us is only part of the picture.  

None of the synonyms for “blind” in my computer’s thesaurus are at all flattering: visionless, unperceptive, obtuse, unrestrained, careless of, stupid, irrational, and so on.  Both literal and figurative blindness are things we want to avoid.  But as Mr. Joel articulated, sometimes a lack of physical sight can allow people to see something beyond the tangible world around us.  

I have just finished up another (and alas, my final) summer as a student at Hollins, the University where I am earning my Masters in Children’s Literature.  

And as I reflect on my experience there and on my attempts at creative writing and scholarship, it occurs to me that the image of the blind men in Union Station might be a rather fitting way of describing my time at Hollins.   

I’m beginning to think that being a writer involves a certain kind of blindness, that none of us really sees what we’re doing.  If we did, we’d quit, in either despair, awe, or some mixture of the two.  It might seem a bit worrisome after four summers and more than four dollars in tuition to conclude that I don’t know what I’m doing.  After all, our classes have given us many tools to help us navigate our way through the murkier parts of the writing process.  And sure, our professors have given us much advice and many assignments that have provided essential experience as we leave grad school.  We are as well equipped as we could ask to be, no doubt about it.  But writing is a creative act, and so, in a sense, we are blind to every as-yet-unwritten word.  It can be scary and frustrating and lonely.  It can feel like trying to make your way through a crowded and overwhelming train station without being able to rely on your eyes.

The beauty of the Hollins campus will sustain me for the rest of my life.  

But the best part of Hollins is that it isn’t over when it’s over, that as I stumble blindly forward, I know I am joining a whole community of other blind people holding confidently onto each other.  They are fantastic writers and even more fantastic human beings.  

So keep your eyes open, folks.  There is a whole crowd of very talented writers heading to academic journals and bookstores near you!  

My friend-peers will make you think and ask good questions.  They will make you laugh and cry.  They will spellbind you with creatures and stories and lands that you’ve never dreamed of, except that maybe you have been dreaming of them your whole life without knowing it.  

And on occasion, like all good writers, they will show you something else, something undefined.  They will show you what it means to take off the blindfold.

Have a great week,

Sarah/Mouse

(Thanks to the folks whose photos I swiped!)