Merry Christmas from Me to You!

I cannot possibly reach each one of you with a Christmas card (an American tradition), but I will happily share with you my greatest joy and the thing I am most proud of; my family.  Here is a small peek into our lives and our year in the form of pictures.

Merry Christmas and Happiest of New Years!!

Sincerely,

Vonda

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IdYLG2-4ooc&feature=share

The Tear Jar

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I find myself tonight in the median of two unrelated, cataclysmic events.  The sort that grabs your face, stares you in the eyes, and forces you to think differently than you had before. 

The first happened a week ago Tuesday.

I have a nephew.  He is that rare sort of man that is born with integrity, a strong sense of duty, and an inner core of courage.  He is the stuff of heroes.  This sounds like the crowing of a proud auntie.  I am not embellishing here.  Adam is one of the nicest kids I have ever had the privilege to know.  He is all I say he is and then some.  If you meet him someday you will be the better for it.

Adam followed in his grandfather’s steps and enlisted with the National Guard shortly before his high school graduation last May.  Five days after graduation, he was activated and in August was on a plane headed to Afghanistan to detonate explosives. 

I was honored to attend his send-off.  The civic center was filled with family members trying to be brave and succeeding mostly, with a few failing miserably.  The governor milled about the expansive room before the ceremony began, shaking hands and expressing his gratitude. 

A great sense of patriotism filled my chest as I felt the genuine gratitude for the service of these men and women who, like Adam, were heading into the unknown.  There were last minute hugs and promises for prayers and then we were separated.  Eleven men rounded out Adam’s squad and joined him in a hostile land on a dangerous mission.  Three of them came home this week.  One badly burned, but alive, and two who paid the ultimate price.  Sergeant 1st Class Darren Linde, a father of four, and Specialist Tyler Orgaard.  The younger soldier, Tyler, was Adam’s bunk mate. 

The details of that terrible day are not germane here.  The end result is the same with or without them.  Some died and some were spared.  Those alive are trying to grieve and keep moving forward.  But it is so very difficult.  I have spoken with Adam’s mother, my sister-in-law, a couple of times since then.  She and I try to make sense of it.  It is impossible.  I am sure so much the harder for those who are there still trying to carry out their orders and wrap their brains around the fact that of eleven men, three are no longer with them.

The second event happened Friday.  You already know what I am about to share.  Twenty precious children were gunned down in their classrooms.  Twenty babies rushed out the door first thing that morning – just like all the other mornings of their short academic careers -- and got onto buses or into cars with one mitten missing and no time to brush their teeth or eat a decent breakfast.  Snarled hair and half-zipped Dora backpacks left in a rush of flurried lateness… an ordinary morning that would end with all of heaven and earth weeping. 

The second grade teacher in my school stepped into my room moments after my students left for music in the afternoon.  She delivered the news that I had been insulated from all day.  I get no Facebook at school, no cell service, and no time to surf the web.  My fellow Americans had been grieving all day and I had no idea.  Her words left me chilled and shocked.  I was imagining the scenario from two vantage points; as a mother and as a teacher. 

My very skin reacted to the news.  Reeling and sickened I finished the day.  My semi-annual evaluation with the elementary principal was scheduled while my students were in music.  I sat down in his office in shock, my mind in disarray as I tried vainly to focus on his words.  I had to ask him several times to repeat himself.  Suddenly things like a good evaluation seemed pathetically unimportant.  My mind was in Connecticut, picturing babies in their last moments of life.  I could not comprehend any of it. I could not seem to stop myself from imagining the sheer terror that their last moments of life held for them.

Adam’s mother called me that night.  She knew it had to have been a hard day for me.  She also wanted to share details of the two very difficult funerals she had attended for the men in Adam’s squad.  We talked of school babies and the empty arms of mothers and fathers.  Our voices were choked and our emotions raw.  Her own arms ache for the son that is serving his country in a barren land far away, who is trying to process his own grief, who carries ninety pounds of gear on his back, and who vainly tries to sleep on the cold ground with no blanket for warmth.  She will not get to wrap him in her arms for several months yet.  That day will come for her.  I fully believe that and cling to that hope.  It will not for twenty sets of parents from Sandy Hook Elementary.

I saw an image on Facebook after that conversation.  It haunts me yet.  The parents of Specialist Orgaard are seated in folding chairs at the graveside.  They are bundled against the cold, but the frozen prairie surrounding them is desolate and snow covered.  In the photo, their shoulders are stooped and their heads bowed as they reach out to receive the folded flag offered them that had moments before covered the casket of their twenty-year-old son.  It is a stark image of parents who will never hold their son again; the flag an unacceptable substitute for living, breathing flesh and blood.

As that image worked its way into my heart and soul, I lost my composure.  The tears that I had held in check all afternoon and evening now refused to stay bottled up any longer.  The grief of a parent must surely be the most painful of all emotional suffering.  My children all live.  They are home now for the holidays.  Their bedrooms are filled again with grown up bodies and luggage and I am filled with gratitude that we are all together.  I am unable to identify with the loss of a child.  But the waves of torment and grief that surely washed over those parents on Friday as day turned to night and the world prepared for sleep, had to have felt like a torturous nightmare from which there is no awakening.  Empty beds and empty arms.  The missing mitten now found and held against faces and sobbed into with cries from places so deep that even sound hides.  The primal scream of a parent whose child has been ripped from their protective arms.

I hope they had people around them to hold them and scream with them.

The question from mankind now directed toward its Creator is one word in length… “Why?!    God, how could you let this happen?  Where WERE you?  Why innocent life?  Are you really that far removed from your creation?” 

A DJ on my favorite Christian radio station helped put this into perspective for me as I drove home from school on Friday in a fog of mental exhaustion and sadness.  He reminded me of a scripture I had completely forgotten. It is poignant and deeply moving.  The Psalmist David wrote this in his book, “You have collected all my tears in your bottle.  You have recorded each one in your book.” Psalms 56:8, (NLT).  Did you know that God is so broken by our heartache that he actually keeps record of every tear of sorrow that falls from our eyes?  I am staggered by that kind of empathetic love. 

Where was God, you ask? 

God was crying with us, from places so deep that even sound hides.  It is the devastating side effect of sin entering God’s perfect world.  Illness, both of the body and mind, were never a part of God’s original blueprint. 

Someday He will set everything right.  Until then…

We hold our babies just a little bit closer and bless the days that are mundane and riddled with frustration and we cannot find both mittens.   

Above all, we remember that Christmas is coming!  I do not mean merely the date of December 25^th.  I refer instead to the event that triggered a world celebration.  No other person born has the entire world celebrating in unison. 

Christmas is really a story of the Birth of Hope.  God became a helpless baby and grew up to defeat Evil and Death through his death and resurrection. 

So do not despair. 

Cry, yes.  Mourn and weep and ask the hard questions.  Be angry if you must.  God is not intimidated by our pain.  But allow the light of Hope, dim now but still flickering, to warm and strengthen you.

God’s Jar of Tears is much fuller than it was before Friday. 

I think a few of his are in there too...

Of Muddy Footprints and Letting Go

It is messy business, this teaching path.  Mothers ought not become teachers.  Really they shouldn’t.  The two worlds are destined to collide and create Black Holes now and then.  I suffer from Mother Syndrome. It is quite painful, and I am told there is no cure.  I am doomed.

He came to me several weeks into the school year, a foster child with big eyes and a bruised heart.  The first week or so he tried so hard to be the defiant toughie.  Always angling for the laugh from classmates, always trying just a little too hard to fit in. 

I waited.

…Waited for his need to feel my love and acceptance outweigh his need to not stand out glaringly as the new kid.  It took about three weeks.  His little heart was so tired of feeling emotional pain and loneliness, and eventually… slowly and ever so gradually… he needed the assurances of his teacher to help ease his grief. 

I was ready.

The little homemade, construction paper cards began to show up on my desk at odd moments.  Eventually he began to walk over, hesitantly at first, to tell some inconsequential little first grade bit of trivia just so he could have my attention for a brief moment.  Then it became a frequent ritual.  He was basking in the unconditional acceptance of a female mother figure; a poor substitute at best, but enough salve to help heal his trampled soul.

Those big eyes would bore into my being.  So serious his little face was at all times.

I was shoving corrected papers into cubbies twenty minutes before the morning bell when the second grade teacher, a darling little dark-headed thing, walked over with coffee cup in hand.  “Did you hear?” she asked without preamble.  I have perfected the deer-in-the-headlights over my fifty years.  It came unbidden now.  “Hear what?”  I asked without stopping my chore.  “This is your student’s last day.”  My hands dropped to my side.  “Whaaaaaat??!”  I am so eloquent at times.  “Yeah, I just heard.  He and his brother are going to a new foster home tomorrow.  Today is their last day.” 

My stomach dropped to my toes like a bad carnival ride.  Ok, foster kids change foster homes for a variety of reasons.  I get that.  But I would have made today special somehow had I known.  I would have planned.  I would have tried to bring some sort of pathetic closure to his short stay at our school and my classroom. 

I wanted to drop my head and shed a few tears, but bus kids were waddling in in their winter gear like the Michelin Man and the clock was steaming towards the twenty after mark.  I didn’t have the luxury of self-pity or reflection. 

Stay professional, Mrs. Dahl.

Miss Cutie Patootie was still standing in front of me and she or I, I do not remember which, suggested we try to throw some sort of party together for the end of the day.  Next thing I know, I am literally running up the stairs and down the hall, dodging high school boys the size of small refrigerators, on my way to the cafeteria and our sweet cook.  I screeched to a halt in front of her, nearly running into the school maintenance man, and breathlessly told her of my dilemma.  Did she possibly have anything on hand, anything at all, we could use for a small going-away bash for our youngster?  She never hesitated.  In the blink of an eye, she invited me into the storage room and loaded me down with candy bars and bags of chips (what would Michelle Obama think of THAT?) and asked what else we might need.  This is why I love teaching in a small school.  We are family.

I spent the day trying to be reassuring without creating unnecessary drama.  I asked him now and then, how he was doing, and if he was excited?  Nervous?  He was incredibly stoic but I caught him willing himself to not cry a time or two.  It was nearly imperceptible, but I am a mother.  I know the signs.

I gave him warm hugs whenever he came near me and he brought me homemade, construction paper cards.  He appeared to be doing incredibly well.  He kept asking me if he should clean out his tub of belongings and get ready to go.  I said no.  Better to wait for the end of the day.

It was a difficult day for me.  I cannot bear to see children suffer.  In spite of his stoicism, he was suffering.  Change is hard for anyone; especially so when you are only in the first grade and have very few years of living under your belt.

Finally I had just one hour left with him and I told him he could get his things together and prepare to leave.  I watched him pull things out of his tub and carefully look them over, one by one.  I think in some odd way, that small plastic tub had been a symbol of permanence to him.  As long as his things were gathered alongside the markers and extra pencils of his classmates, he felt he had a place to call his own.  He was one of us and he could prove it.  Just look, he had a spot on the shelf like everyone else.

As he tossed markers and crayons into a plastic bag, he kept finding little scraps of paper that he had started to draw on or had never bothered to take home.  One by one he brought these over to me.  “I think you should have this,” he would say and would hold it out to me with that stone face and those big brown eyes.  “I would be honored to keep it,” I said each time.

We had his party after PE and sang, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”  The children were enthralled with their treats and thought our boy was a superstar for the act of leaving that had caused such a grand celebration.

Five minutes before the bell rang and his things were packed and sitting by the door.  His coat was on. He was ready.  His face never crumbled, even though my heart was in splinters on the floor of my soul.  I wanted to say so much.  Somehow I knew I would never see this precious child again on the face of this Earth.  Barring death, this is goodbye in its most cruel finality. 

It was now time to let him go, both literally and figuratively.  I pulled him into my embrace, but his little body did not melt into my arms.  He was stiff and unemotional.  I whispered goodbye into his black hair and assured him that I would never forget him.  I had given him my picture.  I hoped he would not forget me either. 

No tears and no drama, but I noticed that as he reached into his cubby one last time to check for any forgotten papers, his hand trembled.  Then he walked out the door for the last time, and never once looked back.

It is nasty business, this caring too much.  I do not know how to tamp it down or feel less than I do.  This precious, priceless child walked into the garden of my heart, his bare feet making footprints in the soft, loose soil.  For the briefest of moments, we shared a sunny day and heard birds singing and watched butterflies alight on the flowers that bloom there. 

And then he left.  Not by choice, but by mandate and I watched with helpless sorrow as his retreating muddy footprints grew distant on my horizon.

He was not the first to go and he will not be the last.  Did he take a bit of my sunny garden with him to remember me by?  I cannot know. 

I visited a friend recently in Georgia and minutes before I had to leave for the airport, she dug up a bit of rosemary from her garden and wrapped it in a wet paper towel and shoved it into a plastic bag for me.  That fragrant, delicious herb sits in an indigo pot on my windowsill.  I snip a bit of it here and there to add to my cooking.  I love that plant and I love the story that goes with it.  It is a part of a precious person and a sweet reminder of her sunny generosity.

I hope and pray that wherever my boy’s path takes him in this rough and tumble world, he will take a transplanted bit of Mrs. Dahl’s garden with him.

Be safe, Dear One.  Be happy.  And above all, let Sunshine fill your life and your own garden.  Do not let bitterness and self-pity cast shadows on your path.  Rise above and be all you are destined to be.  I am rooting from afar.

And the footprints left behind? 

I will rake around them for they will always be a sweet reminder of you…

Are You Afraid of the Dark??

It was a dark and stormy night. 

Tree branches hanging low against the outer walls scraped the windows like giant claws trying to rip open the wall and gain access to the interior.  The low moan of the wind, first nearly imperceptible, then screaming and angry added tension to the already spooked huddled group.  The only light in the oppressive room came from the occasional flash of lightning that blinded from the tiny window, creating evil shadows that danced on the gray walls.  Would this night and its infernal blackness never end?  Where was daybreak and the relief that would dispel the gloom?  The human mind can only endure so much horror and tension before it breaks and imagines things that are not there.  Such was the scene before my weary eyes.  It was a nightmare from which there would be no awakening.  We were plunged into blackness, and with it, deep despair…

Okay, OKAY, it wasn’t quite that bad.  Here’s what REALLY happened…

As this overcast day began, I was quite certain that my principal would be popping in during some portion of my reading block for an evaluation.  There were the usual rumors and stirrings of teachers in the workroom reporting that he was on the prowl and actively visiting classrooms.  To that end, I carefully prepared for the day and felt confident in my lesson plans.  Bring it on, Mr. Principal!

The children arrived and we began our day in the usual fashion.  I had just taken my first steps into the reading block (with an eye on the door for The Man), when suddenly the room was plunged into blackness.  All activity in the room ceased.  Please remember that my classroom is in the basement of our ancient school building.  I affectionately refer to my room as The Dungeon for a reason.  I have two very small windows in my room, but one is filled with a window air conditioner, so any natural light that happens to stumble into my kingdom is pathetic at best.  On a brilliantly sunny day, we get a tiny patch to enjoy (it sounds like a prison cell), and when it is dark and overcast, I am thankful for bright artificial lighting.  So when the lights go out… it is pretty darn dark down there.  The hallway beyond our door has no window whatsoever.  It is REALLY dark out there.

I was aware that all eyes were on me to guide them into a non-panic mode.  I was silent for the first few moments waiting to see if it was a blip on the grid that would immediately correct itself.  No lights reappeared…. still dark…. still dark…. “OKAY, children,” I said warmly, “it’s fine.  We’ll just keep going with our day.”  I knew it was coming and yet I did not invite it.  “I’m scared,” a small voice trembled.  Time to get proactive, Mrs. Dahl.  “Everyone come here,” I urged.  I knew they needed to feel another human being at that moment, and so I had them gather in a small circle.  I reassured quietly, but firmly, and told them that we would do reading time the best that we could, using the paltry light from the window to read by.  I knew the act of familiar routine would help dissolve their fears.  With my reassurances ringing in their quaking ears, they moved to grab their reading baskets. 

Just then my tardy principal appeared like an apparition at the darkened door.  He looked a little frazzled, I thought.  He commanded me to keep going instructionally and I smiled inwardly.  That was exactly what we were doing.  He nodded once, then was swallowed by the blackness of the hall as he left to “reassure” other teachers and classrooms of nervous students. 

The same trembling voice that had admitted fear of the dark now had a new and even larger dilemma.  “Mrs. Dahl,” came the tortured voice.  “I really have to go to the bathroom.”  A pause.  “… and I’m afraid to go by myself.”  This was quite an admission as this overwrought child was of the male variety and asking your female teacher to accompany you the to bathroom is unthinkable when you are an all-grown-up first grade boy.  “I’ll stand in the hall just outside the door,” I assured him. He did his business, grateful for my presence, and we continued our day.

Gathering my charges in a circle by the light-bearing window, we lay on our stomachs and popcorn-read our story out of our reading textbooks.  I had each child take the hand of the person on either side of them before we began.  “Remember, boys and girls, if you start to feel afraid, there is another person close enough to touch right beside you.  We are all here together and we are fine.”  They smiled and exhaled with relief.  I thought we should have a Reading in the Dark party, so I dug cheese puffs out of the closet and we read and munched and got orange splotches on our textbooks from our cheesy fingers.  I began to hear giggles and knew we had turned an emotional corner.  Fear had given way to adventure.

Mr. Calm appeared again with a flashlight in hand and handed it to me “just in case anyone needed to use the bathroom.”  Great timing. 

We were well past the ninety-minute mark of our Egyptian Plague.  Obviously flashlights had been delivered all around for the blackened hallway was now filled with beams of moving light as adventurous kids moved to the bathrooms en mass.  It was like a spelunking party out there.

I decided to forge ahead and administer a short quiz.  I was reading the first question to them when suddenly the fluorescent fixtures buzzed back to life.  It was a little blinding and a lot surprising.  “Darn,” one disappointed cherub exclaimed.  I was surprised.  ‘You LIKE the dark?”  “Yeah!” they all cheered.  A pint-sized problem-solver suggested we turn the lights back off.  I arched an eyebrow.  “Wait… you want it to be dark again??”  I was incredulous.  Another cheer.  I nodded and little Sally Sue ran to the wall switch.

And so, with the power back on and our reintroduction into the 21^st century, we sat on the floor and took our reading quiz in the dark.  These kids kill me.  And I love it with all of my middle-aged heart.

We had ourselves an adventure today.

And next year, I am requisitioning miner’s hats…

Full of Thanks (and turkey)

thankful |ˈTHaNGkfəl|

adjective

pleased and relieved: [ with clause ] : they were thankful that the war was finally over | [ with infinitive ] : I was very thankful to be alive.

• expressing gratitude and relief: an earnest and thankful prayer.

This day is nearly done.  My contribution to today’s feast, homemade crescent rolls and an artery-clogging bacon and broccoli salad, were easily prepared.  Our oldest, Trevor, is home for the long weekend and we have already enjoyed rare extended fellowship around our farmhouse table.  Someone else got to clean house for the gathering; I had only to show up bearing my edible gifts.  I loved today.  It was restful and full of sweet tradition.  It was my favorite sort of day. 

The only aching sigh of my heart was the two empty places at the table where Ryan and Cody should have been.  Letting go of adult children is both wonderful and terrible.  My wise mother always claimed that each stage of parenting is fun and unique.  She was right, of course.  I love the freedom of my rapidly emptying nest, but the echo of my own voice in a large and still house is a diligent reminder that my children are infrequent visitors in their own home.  I can only gently remind them that their home is always ready to receive them for however long or short they can visit.

I thought about that yesterday as my eyes swept my classroom and took in the chaos left in the wake of The Day Before a Holiday.  A three-day school week means that I could never expect to get in a full week of the reading basal.  I used the time (wisely, I feel), to go back and reinforce concepts that were a bit hurried before.  We played contraction bingo and practiced identifying plural nouns.  I am feeling better about their mastery of those important concepts.  Filling their little minds with all the required knowledge is such a hurried, sloppy affair sometimes.  If I could single handedly revolutionize the educational field, I would slow down instruction to a more rational pace.  But I digress….

I set about scraping paint off the table from our clay pot turkeys and picking orphaned crayons off the littered floor.  As school days go, it had been a little nutso.  I had forgotten that our PE time had been adjusted to be at the very end of the day, just before the bell rang.  While they ran their little hearts out in the gym, I frantically tried to organize their Thanksgiving crafts and graded papers so that they could just grab coats and backpacks and rush out the door to a four-day weekend.

In spite of the sudden blood pressure spike, I felt a hint of smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.  I was a little giddy as I thought about the coming break. Truthfully, I have not felt this way in three years.  As I searched the closet for plastic shopping bags to send paper chains home in, I realized that I had turned a momentous corner in my career and life.  It hit me like the crest of an emotional wave.  It was back.  My balance was returning and it felt incredible good.

When my charges were gone and the room suddenly quiet, I set about packing up to leave.  There was a time when I would have backed a United Van Lines moving truck to the door in order to transport half my classroom to my house so that I could keep working and get stuff done from the comfort of home.  Yesterday I had surprisingly little to take with me.  Oh, I’ve got projects, all right.  But I am learning to prioritize and not set the bar impossibly high (a major shortcoming).  I am learning to ask the imperative question, “What needs to be done TODAY?” and then leave the rest for another time.  Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks after all…

I am even surprisingly excited to decorate the house for Christmas on the day after Thanksgiving – a strict tradition in the Dahl house.  Last year I was downright grumpy about it.  My children were alarmed.  They kept trying to find “the thing” that would ignite my Christmas spirit, which is normally legendary.  I felt nothing but drudgery and duty as I wiped dust off plastic tubs and haphazardly tossed ornaments onto trees.  “Who cares about any of this?”  I kept thinking moodily. I was still trying to figure out how to be a teacher, I was in the middle of a graduate-level online course, and I had to somehow muddle through the holidays.  Last Christmas was horrible and I hated feeling so unlike myself.  My poor Hannah must have pondered how to strike out on her own at the tender age of fourteen. 

But this year feels completely different.  I am more ME.  Even this stupid blog is prime example.  I was amazed to realize a few days ago that last year at this time, I had twice as many posts as I do this year.  It averaged out to something like two a week.  OK, where did I eek out that kind of time on top of all else?   I have no clue.  I have determined that I will write when time and topic allow it.  I will not stress about it in between. 

So on this day of thankfulness, I am thankful for all of the clichéd things, like the rest of America, but I have a few items on my list that are unique to me.  If you have any interest in my list, read on…

I am thankful for Sam’s Club French Roast coffee beans.

I am thankful for milk chocolate and caramel – preferably together. These go great with the aforementioned French Roast coffee.

I am thankful for stretch jeans, which dovetails with the previous items.

I am thankful that my sons, Ryan and Cody, are being loved, fed, and nurtured in other homes tonight.

I am thankful that I am excited about Christmas again.

I am thankful for my church family that welcomes other cultures and is a safe haven for the saint and the sinner alike.

I am exceedingly grateful for friends that deepen my joy and make me laugh.

I am thankful for the unspeakable privilege of bringing four children into this world and for watching them write their own stories.  My heart beats with every breath they take. 

I am thankful for the man that shares my life and thinks I hung the moon. 

I am thankful that the second half of my life looks as interesting as the first half was.

I am thankful that I am gainfully employed.

I am thankful for sunsets so breathtaking I am forced to stop and stare.

I am thankful for lip gloss.

I am thankful for parents and aunts and uncles and cousins.

I am thankful for my siblings – the only other people on the face of the earth who get my jokes about our growing up years.

I am thankful for the teachers in my life who took an interest in me and made me feel intelligent, capable, and funny.  I hope I successfully pay that forward.

I am thankful for irises in my flowerbeds that make a splashy showing every summer.

I am thankful that when I shared the story of the very first Thanksgiving with my first graders, they had zero concept of that brand of hardship.  Even the poorest among them has food and shelter enough to grow and thrive.

I am thankful for the treadmill awaiting me that will help me atone for the overindulgences of today's dinner.  Holy cow, I am still stuffed!

I think I am most thankful for perspective enough to understand that I have it pretty darn good.  See, here’s the thing about gratitude and thankfulness.  If you hold your list of Things I Am Thankful For up against someone else’s list… a friend, a neighbor, a coworker, or a relative… then you don’t get it yet.  You are comparing your life with a life that will never be yours.  If you think owning something you don’t have, or meeting someone you don’t know, or becoming something you’re not is your path to happiness, then you need to hear this from me… you will never be happy, for true happiness is never circumstance driven.  Joy is the legitimate child of Contentment.  Contentment is the factory where Joy and Happiness are manufactured.  And here is the important part of this little sermon… contentment is a CHOICE. 

People are unnecessarily unhappy.  It drives bad decision-making, ends good relationships, and slides into despondency.  It is a preventable ailment.

So today, I do not place conditions on my gratitude.  I am thankful.  There is nothing more to add.  I am blessed, yes.  Unbelievably and immeasurably blessed.  But if it were all stripped away, I hope I would say the same.  For there will always be irises in the spring and sunsets that breathe the promise of another day. 

This is my “earnest and thankful prayer.” 

I am content...

The Magic Tree House: A Battleground State

We already had the presidential election, in case you had not heard.  It’s over.  The president for the next four years has been decided.  If you missed it, too bad for you.  The winner?  You’ll have to read to the end of this post for that groundbreaking news.

It began this way; the high school history teacher, a young redhead with the last name of Gandy, found his way to my dungeon last Friday morning with a fistful of paper ballots.  Would I please have my students participate in the school wide election?  Of course!  I love civics and love any opportunity to pull my children into that realm of conversation.  I cautioned him, however, that my children would be certain that their class election would indeed decide the next president… literally.  They will be astounded and outraged if the general election produces a different result than they come up with.  He smiled as if he didn’t really believe me in his Irish soul.  Really, Mr. Gandy.  You should never doubt a first grade teacher.

The ballots had only two voting opportunities on them; the U.S. presidential vote and our state senator candidates, Rick Berg (Republican), and Heidi Heitkamp (Democrat).  I knew I had the perfect children’s book to go with it.  Now, if I could only locate it before the bell rang.  Where was it, wheeeerrrre was it??  Aha!  Unbelievably, it was exactly where I thought it should be.  I may or may not have mentioned previously that I am not the most organized person in the world.  Occasionally the Mary Poppins gods smile upon me.

I marshaled the Darlings through morning pledge, book sticker charts, snack, and then into reading block.  I shared with the children the exciting news that WE were going to get to vote in the presidential election!  They cheered; for what, they were not entirely certain, but it sounded like fun to their six-year-old brains. 

Their base of knowledge on this topic is almost entirely molded by the amount of interest expressed in their individual homes.  If mom and dad do not talk politics in front of the kids, then the kids are a tad clueless.  We do discuss politics SOME in first grade.  But let’s face it; they are still trying to wrap their brains around the fact that the elementary principal and the school superintendant have no real powers outside of the school building.  To a first grader, being sent to the principal’s office is akin to being sent to the depths of the sea to face King Neptune.  Thinking large about who runs the country (and what’s a COUNTRY?  Is it as big as Wing, Mrs. Dahl?), is more than a little mind-blowing. 

I was smiling as I finished my triumphantly-located-perfect-for-the-occasion book, Grace For President by Kelly DiPucchio, a darling tale of a little girl who is shocked to discover that there has never been a female U.S president (I am a little amazed by that myself).  With the encouragement of her teacher, an election is declared and Grace is pitted against the school cool guy.  I won’t spoil the ending of that one yet either.  If you have primary-age children, read it and discuss it, even after the election. 

The Darlings loved the book and were rooting for Grace clear to the end.  Now it was time to vote!  I set up a polling booth, using one of their Saxon math folders – the kind covered with basic math information to be used as a quick reference resource.  We use them when we test so that the temptation to glance at other’s work is kept to a minimum.  I emphasized that voting is a private act and no one has the right to interfere or know how a person has voted.

Back to the election.

I played the part of U.N. observer (“Has anyone tried to influence your vote?  Are you indeed, a U.S citizen?“) I pulled name sticks out of the tin and ceremoniously had them come to our polling booth with a marker in hand.  All eyes watched each other seriously weigh options and then settle upon their choice for either president or senator.  To my surprise, poor Heidi got precious few votes.  I guess my book on “Women Can Do It As Well As Men” didn’t carry much weight.  No wonder we still keep electing men.  So with serious faces, Crayola markers in hand, and addition facts to twenty staring them in the face, they carefully marked their choices.

When all had casts their votes, I wrote the nominee names on the board and then we got to practice our tallying skills.  Eight ballots cast and eight tally marks on the official election whiteboard.  The major networks will share the results with a bit more sophistication, but the result will be the same.  By the end of the night, we will know who is our president.

As I broke my own rule and watched neon yellow markers fill in circles, I tried to mentally determine which children might come from conservative families and which ones from more liberal-leaning families.  I know, I know… voting should be a private act.  But I am the UN, remember?  I can make my own rules.

I laughed inwardly as child after child voted for Obama and then went on to vote for the Republican nominee for senator.  Did they hear the name Rick Berg at home or on television for roughly eight thousand times, and the name stuck?  Do they naturally gravitate to a man, as society at large does?  Do they just really like the name Rick?  I have no clue.  But one thing is obvious.  The Magic Tree House in not a blue state and not a red state.  We are unashamedly purple. 

Here is the tragic reality that will occur today during one of the most important presidential elections of our nation’s history.  My six-year-old students voted with as much information and knowledge about the candidates and issues as many a voting-age American.  It truly grieves me how little effort goes into making these monumental decisions.  Not all are so ill informed, of course (thankfully!), but the numbers that are, are just far too high for my comfort.

So who do my first graders think they single-handedly placed into the Oval Office?  Obama was the clear victor.  Of course, the incumbent always has momentum on his side.  It is easier to keep with a known quantity than risk someone even worse, at least that is what history has borne out. 

And so today, the 6^th of November, 2012, we get to gather at our local polling place and place a private vote for those that we feel will do the very best job for our towns, our states, and our country.  Are my Darlings the New Hampshire and Iowa of elementary politics?  Will their votes be prophetic for the rest of the country?  We should know in mere hours. 

The thing I love most about the aforementioned book, Grace for President, is that the deciding vote (yes, of course, for our heroine Grace!) was cast by a boy who surprised the school by bucking the trend and voting against the pack.  When asked why he did it, he responds that he felt Grace was the best person for the job.  Ask yourself the same question today as you pull the lever or fill in the circle or punch the computer keys.  Who will lead with true wisdom and preserve our beautiful nation?  Will we be better or worse off in four years as a result of your vote?  You must make that choice and vote with conscience, understanding the weight of your decision.  It is a high honor to live in a democracy.  Please do not disgrace it with crass indifference.

In the meantime, I have a class of first graders who will discuss today’s events over milk and granola bars, confident they have voted intelligently; a microcosm of coffee shops and gathering spots everywhere.  We will track results and discuss events until the closing bell. 

God bless America!

Mrs. Dahl Earns Her Iron Butt Biker Badge

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Our friendship sent up its first tenuous shoots through a tangle of hardship.

My neighbor just to the west of our farm had a catastrophic motorcycle accident in July of 2011.  She went for a run after her shift as an ICU nurse ended, which she often did, and hit a deer so hard, she literally cut the thing in two.  Margo went airborne and landed hard in the ditch, breaking bones, collapsing her lungs, and suffering traumatic brain injury.  She lay broken and bloody in the hospital, her three children worried sick and precious few people to lean on. 

Margo’s prognosis was grim.  There was such pressure on her brain from swelling that her children were told she would never work as an ICU nurse again.  Her team of doctors were certain rehabilitation would take anywhere from six months to a year.  No one dared venture a guess as to whether she would ever truly regain her full health and mental abilities.

But they underestimated my neighbor.  She is tough and she is determined.  She is a fighter in its fullest sense.  If she sets her mind to do something, then she will find a way to get it done.  She never once considered accepting the doctor’s predictions as certainty.  She fought to come back with every ounce of willpower she possessed, and if you know Margo at all, you know that is considerable.

As the summer weeks and months melted into autumn, she did the unthinkable and was released from the hospital after only four weeks.  And then she began the arduous task of regaining her strength.  She had multiple setbacks and nearly started over at times.  But not once did she give up.  Unbelievably, she was back to work in the ICU after only two months. 

Margo is beautiful, she is stubborn and strong, and she is a complete inspiration to me.  Her brilliant smile is matched only by her warm personality.  I am a complete fan and am honored to know her. 

I do not know if I possess her brand of strength.  I hope I never have to find out, but I suspect my future will demand that my mettle be tested eventually.  I recoil at the thought of suffering or sorrow.  But then I remember Margo and my spirit is quieted, for she has blazed a trail before me and calls back to me still far behind on life’s path that I can indeed face hardship bravely for she has already slain those dragons and she knows I can too.

One night in August of this year she called late to see if she could run over and use our printer.  Technological gremlins were at work in her computer.  Yes, of course.  Come right over.  As she found her web site and printed off forms, she excitedly described her upcoming motorcycle trip.  It was called the Iron Butt Challenge, aptly named because it demands a thousand grueling miles of riding in a 24-hour time span.

Typical Margo was brave enough to be the only woman going on this run.  Her big, tough biker buddies worried that she would be unable to keep pace.  She never once doubted herself.  I love her courage.  She’s got moxie by the pickup load.

As she described her imminent adventure, the wheels of Mrs. Dahl’s brain were going on their own motorcycle run.  I just had to ask.  I did.  She beamed.  Yes, of course!  I gathered supplies for her and thanked her profusely.

Then I set about praying for her safe journey and safe arrival back home.  She is tough, yes, but even heroic, careful Biker Babes have accidents and cut deer in half. 

When she returned, exhausted but exhilarated, having visited seventeen states and the District of Columbia, she had indeed fulfilled my wishes and delivered to me a half-a-dozen small zip top baggies of soil from points along her journey.  We had Margo and her equally amazing daughter, Fate, over for dinner.  They came bearing dirt –- the best sort of hostess gift, if you ask me.

I got the giggles listening to Margo share her stories of being questioned, teased, and even aided by her biker buddies, big, tough guys with names like Wrong Way, and Tiny (a giant).  At first they thought she had truly suffered permanent brain damage when she insisted she take the time to fish out her metal spoon for digging and shove samples of common soil into her saddlebags.  But they eventually caught on to the spirit of the thing and soon were reminding her to get her dirt before climbing back on their bikes and even playing lookout at places like the Vietnam Wall.  Tiny prevented her from being foolish when she wanted to do a little digging at the Pentagon.  Apparently, you don’t say no to Tiny.

She told of gathering soil at the base of the craziest section of their journey, a stretch of road called Tail of the Dragon near Knoxville - a twisty, curvy stretch of road with 318 curves in eleven short miles, a right of passage for the true biking disciple.  

Margo has become a generous donor even since then.  She also gathered samples for me from Deadwood, South Dakota, the outlaw town where Wild Bill Hickok was shot.  She even remembered me when on the trip of a lifetime to Lambeau Field to watch her precious Packers.  

As I stare at these remarkable symbols of people who are willing to do strange things for a strange teacher, I am touched and honored by their acts of thoughtfulness.  I am a shameless saleswoman; I freely admit that.  If you are silly enough to brag about traveling, I will ask for a “wee favor.”  I cannot really explain the amazing effect my simple requests has had on my neighbors, friends, community members, and even complete strangers. 

It is not uncommon to walk into my classroom in the morning and find a plastic bag of dirt on my desk marked with the name of location from some state or another.  I may not discover until a much later time who so graciously thought of us while vacationing in some fabulous spot. 

It has escalated from there. 

I recently was handed an entire bag of goodies from Vermont, complete with real maple syrup, which my angels thought tasted like heaven itself.  Such good-hearted people, these donors are.  They are singled out of security lines in airports to have their “contraband” tested for drugs and/or explosives, they make annoyed spouses wait while they kneel on beaches and alongside highways, they travel with plastic bags and metal spoons for digging and they are a little sick, just like the teacher they do these odd things for.

I just returned from a long weekend in the Deep South.  Several very dear, lifelong friends also turned the Big 5-0 this year.  We decided we would celebrate our mutual milestone with a trip to Charleston, South Carolina.  I packed way too many clothes, enough junk jewelry to supply a flea market, and a fistful of plastic bags.  I love to collect sand because I can touch first grade fingers to its dampness and tell them they are feeling the very moisture of the ocean.  My landlocked Darlings are captivated by anything to do with the ocean.

As my travelling companions and I strolled the boardwalk in Charleston, I noticed a ladder leaning against the sea wall.  There was no opening in the railing to get to the bit of beach in front of us, but climbing over a railing was not beneath this quasi-hippie with the stealth of a cat.  “Rules are for sissies!” I shouted to my friends and proceeded to take off any extraneous clothing that might impede my Bear Grylls-like moves.  I quickly climbed over the metal railing and descended the ladder onto damp sand.  Grabbing one of the multitude of broken shells littering the beach, I quickly scooped sand into my baggie, added a few shells for good measure and climbed back up the ladder to my waiting friends and discarded clothing.

Just as my head popped over the railing, a couple who were standing directly in front of me were startled at my sudden appearance seemingly out of nowhere.  People were not supposed to be on that section of beach, after all.  “Hi!”  I grinned at my welcoming party.  As I dropped the goods into my bag and redressed myself, I chatted amiably with this couple as though we knew one another, ignoring their confused and silent faces.  Upon further inquiry, I learned they are from England.  England!  I just had to ask….  By the end of the conversation, not only had they promised to send soil from their English garden (“You don’t mean ordinary dirt??  I say, extraordinary…”), they had also agreed to Skype with my students and tell them what England is like.  I have not heard from them yet.  Is it possible they were just trying to escape the clutches of a pushy Yank who is shameless enough to solicit from complete strangers??  Nah…. 

I have ideas for expanding this little project of mine.  I recently wrote a grant and have yet to hear the results, but I would love to make this something the entire school could benefit from, and create an interactive website for students everywhere to complement it.  I get a little woozy thinking about adding more burden to my already exhausting life, but small steps for now.  As long as people are willing to share in the fun of participating, I will run with it.  If they will take a few moments to aide in the learning of geography for a small group of prairie-bound first graders, then I will gladly, shamelessly, whole-heartedly continue to ask even strangers for “just an ounce or two from your destination.”  I am still waiting to see if the garbage man comes through with soil from his trip to the Ukraine. 

And so…

If you travel to places my students have never been (which is anywhere outside a three-state region), and you are so inclined, we would be honored for you to send us a small sampling of the sand or soil from your locale.  A picture to accompany it would be icing on the cake.

Will I eventually have samples from all continents and countries?

Hey, I’ve earned an Iron Butt biker badge.  I can do anything…