the way i see it, #76

Sometimes, Starbucks is good for more than caffeine.

room for hope

"Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments — but all of this is transitory it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken.”          --Paulo Coelho

There are a few things that I've learned from my job thus far:

1. Carpool naps make me a better person.
2. Every student needs to be celebrated.
3. The depth of a person's story, especially their heartache, will make me cry every time.
4. There is almost nothing more necessary than hope. 

hope (noun)

a feeling of desire for something and confidence in the possibility of its fulfillment 

disappoint (verb)

to fail to fulfill the expectations or wishes of

 I went into this job knowing my tendency to over-invest, to take too much responsibility and to feel the burden of other's circumstances.  In an attempt to protect myself from the emotional weight of 50 hours of this each week, I told myself to hold loosely to hope, to not put too much hope in one particular student, to not let one good day get my hopes up for lasting transformation. Still believe,  always believe, but possibly from a distance.

hope --> expectation --> disappointment

hope --> expectation --> transformation

Disappointment and transformation are bound together, with hope at their center. Without it, neither can occur. If I seal myself off from hope in an effort to protect myself from the sting of disappointment, I am working my way fearfully through my days, afraid of the power of hope, afraid to be wrapped up in it with my 30 students, carrying their stories, hoping for them when they cannot hope for themselves. Without it, and without the potential for disappointment, I am not doing my job.

The potential for disappointment is always there. It always will be. At the end of any day, I've likely experienced it. In the sweet kid who visited D3 at every break and ate lunch with me and talked about his desire for change but ended up with a suspension by 8th period. In the girl who shared her heart with me then manipulated me minutes later. In the smart boy who refused to do his math homework. In the kids who seemed genuinely excited about progress, yet find themselves in the principal's office for something so preventable.

They say that adolescents have a limited perspective on time and responsibility. They don't see cause and effect, they don't see the end of the road. Their brains are still developing; their mindsets are short-sighted, unaware of the potential of the future. I suppose that's my job. To help them see; to help them change their own minds, to see beyond the routine of junior high and neighborhood activity and to hope for something more.

My only words for them are, over and over again, "Baby steps. I want something better for you. I believe in something better for you. We will get there." And I say it to myself, too, because despite long and hard days, despite tears of sadness and frustration, this is my job. This is my work and my ministry.  Until June by contract, and beyond. Because tangled up in hope and expectation and disappointment and possibly transformation, is love. And that's what I have for them. And it's in the disappointments I feel it most, when a new day comes and there is infinitely more room for hope.

slow down: a reflection

The last few weeks have been a showing of the chaos of life. Crazy work schedules and adjustments in community; travel and a wedding and weekends that feel like paradise; jam-packed days and nights of far too little sleep; not enough time to process and tired emotionality and excuses for all of it. 

In the midst of it, a longing to slow. 

More than a longing. 

A conviction. 

A conviction rooted in another conviction and another conviction beyond even that: 

to add to the healing of the world

to live an intentional life

to create and care and relate meticulously, authentically, intentionally

It was easy in the summer, with no job and endless time for sleeping and journaling. Life picks up speed, though, and if I'm not careful, I find myself adding to the brokenness.

Without intentionality, I find myself overlooking stories and fears and the things that make us human.

I find myself fumbling through my days: thoughtlessly relating, hastily replying, foolishly bypassing the hearts of others.

It's damaging. To me. To my relationships. To my sanity. To my faith.

And yet, I have a thousand excuses for why intentionality is too lofty a dream, some legitimate. I find myself putting off intentionality under the guise of other forms of service: my job working with at-risk youth, my independence, my Meyers-Briggs (ENFP), my church. I claim that I'll get to it later and rush off to my next highest priority.

I am learning the hard way that intentionality is a discipline, and a Jesus-oriented one at that. 

He is never not intentional. His words and His time and His every movement. 

He is meticulous in all He does and encourages me to the same. 

He challenges me to slow my way, to prioritize and invest and protect time for the people and things that matter.

More than that, to taste the sweetness of intentionality and enjoy.

dreams and futures and things like new jobs

To date, I have been in 16 hours of training for this new job that I keep talking about. We have 56 more hours until my supervisors consider me trained enough to work with thirty at-risk youth at a local (ish) junior high. We are learning about a long list of things that put them at-risk: neighborhood gang presence and peripheral involvement, bullying and the rise of the commercialized sexual exploitation of children; poverty and single-parent households, lack of support, the education system on a macro level. On and on and on. We are learning to fill up our schedules with the stories of thirty kids who might not pass their classes, that might not make friends, that might become truants, or maybe they have a dysfunctional family; maybe they have nobody to help them with their homework, to make sure they are eating well, to tell them that they are loved and valued and that their dreams matter. Thirty kids that might not have dreams at all.

You might not know--dreams are my thing. I can't imagine a better thing for me, for my heart and my strengths, than to help somebody to dream big things, God things, redemptive and new things, for their lives. I could not be more excited to set up my classroom and spend an entire school year turning ideas into reality, showing kids their value, loving them, helping them see their potential. (This is tricky--I don't really ascribe to the If you can dream it, you can do it idea, but I do believe, unwaveringly, in the power of a dream and the necessity of commitment and work and so much of yourself invested to make it "come true." More on this later.)

And yet, I'm hesitant. I know that the next 10 months promise to be difficult: Working with junior highers. (I remember junior high. I remember myself in junior high. It was awful.) Mentoring 30 kids. Meeting the goals of the program: a decrease in truancy by 100%, a marked improvement in all core subjects, finding service projects that they will invest themselves in. Doing enough. Sleeping enough. Budgeting and commuting and surviving traffic on the 5. Maintaining my life and relationships and sanity outside of this job.

Today, in the midst of reflecting on the struggles that are sure to come, the lives of at-risk youth, the disappointment and failure and shame that is wrapped up in poverty, the difficulty of adolescence, I am thankful for a story that inspires hope. Today I am particularly inspired by a little story about a boy called Lula:

Lula was a skinny kid, who looked straight out of the Third World, undernourished, filthy. He was standing by himself, and no one seemed to include him or pay him much attention...'My name is Luis, but everybody calls me Lula,' he said. I remember this a week later, when I pull up to an intersection and see him entering the crosswalk alone, his walk clumsy and self-conscious. I roll down my window and catch his attention.
'Hey, Lula.'

You would have thought that I had electrocuted him. His whole body spasms with delight to be known, to be called, to hear his name uttered out loud. For his entire trip through the crosswalk, Lula kept turning back and looking at me, smiling.

Lula didn't do well in school...When Lula first started to come to the office, shortly after I met him, he'd make a beeline to my office and just sit there. He was not much of a conversationalist. One day, when Lula passed by all the other desks and staff members to get to my office, several called him back. 'Hey, where do you think you're going?' They proceeded to explain to Lula the whole 'what are we, chopped liver?' concept, that it was rude to walk past folks without greeting them. They suggested he try it again. Lula goes to the front door, exuberant at the mere idea that folks would actually want to be greeted by him. He walks in again and in a singsongy, lilting voice, nearly approximating Gregorian Chant say, 'HELLLOOOO, EVERYYYYBOOODDY!' He would enter our office for the next five years with this exact same greeting. Lula came from a huge family, and he was attention deficient, except in our office. Everyone lavished Lula with care he didn't get otherwise.

Ten-year old Lula walks into my office one day and stands in the doorway. I wave him in. He hands me [his report card] and stands by my side, resting his elbow on my shoulder. His glee cannot be contained. I glance across the piece of paper in front of me and locate the subjects. F, F, F, F, F, F. All Fs and nothing but damn Fs. I think, Why's he so excited to show me this thing? I am frantically perusing every inch of this report card to find something, anything, for which to praise Lula. I find it.

Absences: 0. 

'Lula, nice goin', mijo, you didn't miss a day (I'm thinking, a lot a good it did ya)--you didn't miss a day."

[Father Gregory Boyle//Tattoos on the Heart]

I can't help but wonder, and maybe secretly hope, that I have a Lula on my caseload.  If interactions with my students will parallel this story. Not all of them, I'm sure, but one or two. Maybe even ten or fifteen, fingers crossed. But, I'd be happy with one. One for the hard days, to remind me of the importance of simply loving somebody. Knowing them, calling their name, lavishing them with care, celebrating their accomplishments, big or small and encouraging them on. 

A guest speaker, a former gang member, encouraged our team on Friday. I'm holding onto it, right there with Lula, as I begin this new journey. 

Make this your passion, your calling, your ministry. Nothing could be more important.

 

...and I think I just found the first quote for my classroom :)

 

roots, indefinitely

Today was the day that I was supposed to move to Boston. Boston had it's own category in my Google Calendar and I'd been planning on it for months:

August 30: Fly to Boston

August 31: Move in Day

September 1-5: Orientation

September 6: Classes begin

[Essentially: August 30, a new life begins]

It feels a bit strange to be approaching this day with an entirely new set of plans, and stranger still to feel so much contentment and joy in all of it. I expected a stronger desire to grieve the loss of this graduate school dream--a new city and open doors and every opportunity under the sun. I expected to feel suffocated by a closed door, fearful of my inability to freely pack up and change my life. But there is a strange freedom that comes from committing to put down roots. 

 

I grew up between two different homes, switching weekly, packing bags and visiting parents and whatnot. I guess I grew accustomed to movement. I thought it defined me. There may be some truth in that: I am an explorer, I am curious, I crave adventure. If I'm being honest, there is an element of escapism trapped in there. Constant movement means I never have to do the hard work of long-term relationships, vulnerability, depth, despite my desire for that type of connectedness. Of course, all of this is relative. I've been in San Diego for almost six years now and there is so much depth to my existence here. But something changes when you decide to make a place home. 

There is no threat of moving boxes or looming goodbyes. There is no need to self-protect, only the freedom to grow deeply here. To put roots into the earth (or, even better, the San Diego sand)--to nurture and learn and invest in difficult but beautiful things. And that is what this summer has been for me. An invitation to put down roots.  To make this my real life: not just college, not just my transition years, but my reality. There's a lot wrapped up in this new(ish) life.

It started with a little form required by the DMV. Change of permanent address. For the first time in my life, "permanent address" does not mean the place where my mom or my dad live. Home is San Diego, and the State of California knows it. For the first time in my life, everything is in one place. All of my clothes, all of my books, everything that makes my space mine. No more split time or doubles of everything. [This is a joy unique to a kid who had shared custody...and it's a beautiful, beautiful thing and I am celebrating.] I can hardly believe it: I am settling, in the best possible way. 

Beyond that, there are a billion little plans to make this place my home, and I am genuinely happy about all of them. Painted walls. Fire pits. The sharing of spare keys. Theodyssey. A new job. Hopes for intentional relationships that are edifying and encouraging and prayerful. Women Mondays. And on and on and on.  

Have you heard that common phrase, "I will go wherever the wind carries me." It sounds ever-so romantic, and once upon a time, my idealism would've clung to it. For now, though, the wind has calmed and roots are growing deep--indefinitely.  

[junior high diary] candy grams and valentine's day

"Monday, February 14, 2000: Happy Valentine's Day! I had the most fun in the snow. I had a snowboard lesson but I didn't like it and I think the teacher taught me the wrong thing. After lunch I rented skis and had a good time. I hope I get candy grams from other people than my friends (like maybe Justin.) I don't think he will though because I think he likes Heather. I don't like Heather. Once in my year book I said she was one of my best friends. YEAH RIGHT. She's to popular for me. I'm going to go waterskiing this weekend. It's going to be freezing. But I can't wait. For Valentine's Day my mom got me this bathing suit and I remembered that Kathleen had the same one (just bigger) and it made me sad. I miss her so much, I even started crying. I can't wait to see her. It will be so much fun. And I still need to give her her Christmas present. I miss her so much.

I only got 1 candy gram. It was from Nicole Frey. I was so disappointed because I wanted to get 1 from Justin. He is so cute! When I got to the Growing Room, Chris told me she got a candy gram from Gianni (who she likes, and he likes her) that said, "I like you." Isn't that so cute? I think it is. But ther they're only 5th graders. I mean, shouldn't I have a boyfriend before them? But I'm happy for them"

In February of 2000, I was eleven years old (actually, eleven and a half, which I'm sure I made a point to explain to anybody willing to listen...They needed an explanation as to why I was so much more mature than the average eleven year old). I'm not quite sure what the "healthy" age for crush/relationship development is, but I know that that desire was alive and well in me by 2000. Eleven years of marketing and Disney fairy tales had instilled within me an awareness of the importance of Valentine's Day, as well as a few unrealistic expectations. Sure, Justin Jones wasn't my friend, but that could all be a hoax--a complex and dramatic scheme to surprise me with an abundance of Candy Grams come 5th period. He would surprise me with his sensitivity and thoughtfulness, we would fall in love and live happily ever after. (This might explain why I don't like surprises: they only lead to disappointment. Thanks, Justin. Thanks a lot.)

Of course, there was Heather Miller. She'll reappear in many journal entries over the next year. She was the popular girl at school, way more popular than I could ever dream of being. Plus, she was blonde when being blonde decided everything. Let's be honest about that yearbook situation: wishful thinking. Maybe I thought that I could will it to be true, if I wrote it in pen. There's really no way of knowing that thought process, but Heather was never my best friend. In fact, she was the enemy of my love life, the biggest obstacle in my path to true love with JJ. More on that later.

Turns out I only got one sad and lonely Candy Gram. I should've been grateful, but I was eleven and insecure and banking on Candy Grams as the only way to find love in my life. Plus, you might remember Nicole Frey from a previous journal entry; she's the same friend who I worked on science fair projects with. Sure, she was actually a great and loving friend, but not the ideal person to spend Valentine's Day with when you're hoping for Justin Jones (hey, did I mention that he's cute? Oh ya. Ya, I did. EVERY TIME I WROTE HIS NAME).

Then there's he Growing Room. The Growing Room was the daycare that I went to until I was twelve. Yes, twelve years old. Far too old for daycare, older than any other student in the history of the center, older even than their rules technically allowed. I blamed a lot of my relational problems on this place and it was one of my main insecurities. It'll reappear many more times.

Chris and Gianni went to The Growing Room too, but of course, that was acceptable because they were still 5th graders. Fifth graders are so young and stupid about the workings of love--what do they know about Candy Grams? Me, the sixth grader, knew so much more. I deserved one. I deserved love. Unhealthy sense of entitlement much? I would've been happier for them if I hadn't been so insanely jealous. I must've acknowledged that later, when I added in a new pen color: But I'm happy for them. Just in case somebody accessed my journal, they needed to know that I was still nice enough to be excited for new love.

Relationally frustrated, "nice," shallow and surprisingly insecure. That about sums up Junior High for me.

The Growing Room (A Preview of the Next Entry): "I think 1 of the reasons Justin doesn't like me is because I go to the Growing Room and Heather doesn't. I can tell so much that he totally flirts with Heather."

"All the lives we could live, all the people we will never know, never will be, they are everywhere. That is what the world is..."

Aleksandar Hemon//The Lazarus Project 

[junior high diary] important updates

**address and phone numbers blocked out for safety reasons

"Kathleen moved. Her new address is 2140 Kingsbridge Way. Her phone # is 805-38x-xxxx and her pager is 805-38x-xxxx. I miss her so much! I can't wait until tomorrow! I am so excited about snowboarding. Justin Jones is so cute! and smart and nice. I love frozen waffles! They are so good. Today I got Winnie the Pooh Valentines and glued 2 chocolate <3s 2 each 1. It's so cute! (& tasty)."

For the sake of those anxiously awaiting this blog (Joe...), I will comment only on the necessities.

1. Kathleen was my best friend. Lest you think that I wrote her entire address, phone number and pager (A pager?! Why she had a pager, I have no idea...) simply for my own records, let me give you some insight into me. Twelve-year-old Kara had this weird obsession with people knowing how smart she was, even if it was simply my ability to memorize my best friend's contact information. 
2. Kathleen moved to Southern California right before sixth grade. I was devastated. I lost my best friend, my walk-to-school buddy, and the only person who didn't mock my frozen waffle habit. I missed her so much that I even underlined it in a different color and kept my ADD at bay for a whole 6 lines!
3. Of course, the rest of this entry is dedicated to very important updates. Yes, I loved frozen waffles. Not just Eggos that we heated up, but literally, frozen waffles. I'd take them straight from the freezer and eat 2 or 3 while watching my daily dose of Boy Meets World. I stand by twelve-year-old me's assessment: they are so good. 
4. Lastly, Winnie the Pooh Valentines. Further evidence of my Winnie the Pooh Problem, which will resurface regularly over the next two years. So cute. So tasty.