Where's Waldo??

One rarely plans to be eyewitness to history.  It is the dumb luck of being at the right (or wrong) place at precisely the right time.  It is the naval recruit at Pearl Harbor.  The parade goer who just wanted a glimpse of a young president on that fateful day in Texas.  It is those standing on the ground underneath the Hindenburg, the young rebels chipping away at the Berlin Wall, or the pedestrian in Manhattan on September 11^th.

It is the flashpoint of starting any old ordinary day and then finding your life forever altered in one unforeseen swoop of events.  It may be wonderful or it may be the beginnings of a nightmare.

Seven days ago I witnessed the beginning of a nightmare.

One event led to another to bring about my cataclysmic brush with destiny.  I’ll start with “why.” 

My mother, one Ardyce Miller-Templeman, (hyphenated not because she is a raging feminist, but because she remarried after the my father’s death), decided she should be ordained as a licensed minister at the tender age of seventy-one.  She is a superhero to me.  She might as well be running around in tights with a cape flapping buoyantly behind her.  She was a tad embarrassed over the age thing.  She felt it was sort of like being the oldest mother in attendance on your child’s first day of Kindergarten (oh wait, that was me on Hannah’s first day…).  I assured her that I was THRILLED that she punched Old Age in the eye and gave her a bloody nose.  Why shouldn’t people do whatever it is they want to do, at whatever age they want to do it?  When I hear the hated words, “…but I’m too old now,” I want to vomit.  Always wanted to get your teeth straightened out? Do it!!  Career switch when you are near retirement?  Go for it!  I say take your last breath with no regrets in the trunk of life. 

Back to mom.  She has been doing the coursework and going through the required internships and interviews for a couple of years now.  The ceremony of ordination is merely a culmination of all that hard work.  It is symbolic.  But it is a very big deal.  There was simply no way I was going to miss it.  There is your “why” piece of my puzzle.

OK, the “where.”  My mother lives in the beautiful state of Colorado.  I love Colorado, I truly do.  It is breathtakingly beautiful.  Its weather is temperate.  It is cowboys and rugged adventure.  It is home to my entire extended family.  If my children and husband are my breath, then my bigger family, my soul.  I love each one dearly and tenderly. 

The city of Colorado Springs was chosen for the host of this year’s district assembly and ordination service.  It was an incredibly convenient stroke of luck for me as my sister and a brother both live with their families in that very city.  Brother Ron graciously invited us to stay at his palatial home, even though it was empty for part of our stay.  We happily accepted and enjoyed the luxury and comfort of his beautiful house.  Opening the front door on our first morning at Hotel Miller, I caught my breath at the sight of Pike’s Peak directly in front of us.  Love, love, love, Colorado Springs…

“When”… we arrived on June 21^st, 2012.

Why, Where, and When, are out of the way.  Let’s turn our attention to “What.”

If I have to spell out the “What” after these hard-to-miss clues and you are an

American citizen, then you either just woke from a yearlong coma, are hung over, or live in a bomb shelter.  The “What” is the worst wildfire in Colorado Springs’ history.  I’ll save more for that later.

Here’s my story:

The day after mom’s ordination service, which was beautiful and heavy with meaning, my sister suggested we pack a picnic lunch and “head for the hills” to chillax near the Garden of the Gods, a Colorado Springs landmark and favorite tourist destination.  Sounded like a stellar plan, so we packed chicken salad sandwiches, watermelon, chips, and bottles of water.  Oh, and it was hot.  The day I mean, not the lunch.  When I say hot, I do not mean warm or nearly uncomfortable.  No, I mean HOT, as in 105 degrees, blisteringly, sweltering hot.  Burn your retinas hot.  It was hot.  Did I mention it was really hot?  Hot…

We had not gotten more than ten minutes or so from the house when all of a sudden the car’s air conditioner said, “I’m done.”  Immediately after which my sister said she had lost all power steering and that the engine was overheating.  Uh oh. 

Being the Nascar-worthy driver she is, she was able to pull over immediately into a parking lot.  We called the guys who had piled into “the guy” vehicle (I’m sure they were singing at top-voice volume to oldies and giggling just like we were).  They spun around on a dime and our gallant rescuers pulled up beside us.  “I’ll bet it’s a belt,” I predicted as they popped the hood.  Within moments Dr. Auto Mechanic (my husband) was pulling out shredded pieces of serpentine belt.  I smiled smugly.

As we waited for them to purchase a new one and round up the proper tools, we girls sipped ice water from the tiny coffee shack sitting in the parking lot.  As the very nice attendant handed us our water, he mentioned casually, “Have you seen the fire?”  Fire?  He pointed ahead and to the right.  “Started about two hours ago.”  Well, paint me yeller and call me chicken...  Sure enough, there was indeed evidence of fire off in the hills.  Hot windy day, lack of rain and winter snowpack had left the brush ripe for tinder…  conditions were perfect for a wildfire.  No, this can’t be good.  But the column of smoke in front of us was fairly small, so we weren’t too alarmed yet.  We were sure firefighters were already fighting the good fight and would soon have it under control.  We found a tiny patch of shade under an immature tree and tried vainly to prevent our melting into puddles of sweat.  Our daughters sought shelter in a Walgreens.  Kim and I took advantage of the relative quiet to do some catching up.

In short order, the guys were back and we were on our way again, my niece Lauren in the back seat playing DJ with her iPod, and “the girl car” was rockin’ once more.  My brother, Ron, broke into our Karaoke Heaven to text to us some 411 on the fire.  It had indeed started just when our ice water savior had said it had and had consumed 150 acres.  My farmer brain went into action trying to visualize that amount of land.  One hundred and fifty acres would be roughly a fourth of our farm.  Well, that didn’t seem too catastrophic.  Field fires happen in my neck of the woods every summer.  Even our tiny rural fire departments are able to manage those.  Should be a piece of cake for these city-slicker firefighters.

We wove our way into the Red Rocks Park, parked and carried our yummy lunch to a picnic table.  Wow, it was hot!  A pretty poor excuse for shade here as well.  We were considerably closer to the fire now and had a front row seat to its condition.  It was growing at an alarming rate.  We finished our food and while the rest tried to prevent their brains from boiling in its own fluid, my sister and brother and I climbed a cliff to get a better view of the fire.  The fire had an official name now.  Whoever it is that has the dubious honor of naming such monsters had unimaginatively dubbed it the Waldo Canyon Fire.  Even an untrained fire-namer like myself could have come up with THAT.

We climbed high enough (not an easy feat in flip flops) to see over the ridge that partially obstructed our view.  Garden of the Gods rose majestically to our hard right and Waldo roared just left of it.  At times the smoke shifted just enough that we could even see bright orange flames licking at the brush.  I snapped about 10,000 pictures (I was born for digital photography), and we made our way back down the cliff without breaking anything of a human bone nature.  I did manage to brush my thumb against a cactus and pulled a few souvenirs out as a result.  Thankfully that was the extent of my flip-flop-wearing, cliff-climbing injuries.

It was obvious that this thing was nowhere near containment.  We were watching it spread uncontrollably before our very eyes.  The local news was reporting that evacuations had begun and roads were being closed.  Time to get out of Dodge.

As we climbed back into our Gender Mobiles, my brother and sister and I looked at each other with the same genius thought, “Let’s get closer to the fire!!”  No one has ever accused us of being smart enough to take the prudent path.  There were some in the Donner Party who chose to return back to home base rather than run to danger (sissies), and climbed into the Safe Mobile.  The rest of us headed the wrong direction back into the path of the fire to see what we could see until either we could go no further or someone told us we had to turn around.  Holy cow, I love adventure!!  Our one mistake was taking our mother along.  Drat that life giving, care taking instinct!  We should have forced her into the Safety Mobile, much like securing a seat on one of the Titanic’s lifeboats. 

As we drove along HWY 24, we were awed and dumbstruck by how the situation had grown somber.  There were emergency vehicles and personnel literally everywhere.  We passed multiple staging areas where fleets of utility trucks or other services were clustered and waiting for directions.  We were now witnessing earnest evacuations.  Cars and vans filled with worried faces and precious belongings streamed in the opposite direction.  We were swimming against a current of fear and panic. 

My camera could barely catch a breath.  With window down, I tried to capture as much of the moment as my obstructed view could manage.  We were fairly far up the mountain when my brother’s next text made me laugh.  His car was carrying our mother.  The text read, “Captain Dangerous thinks we should turn around.”  Well, that was that.  We may be middle-aged adults, but mom still rules the roost.

We found a turn-around spot and pulled over next to an ambulance.  There were others also lining the shoulder of the road – rubberneckers like us – gazing in awe and disbelief at a force so powerful minute mankind could only slay it with the help of an army of hundreds and overhead planes with bellies full of red poison.  My sister asked my daughter to take our picture with the belching black cloud as our backdrop.  A motorist smart enough to be speeding AWAY from the madness honked and gave us the finger.  “We deserved it,” I said matter-of-factly.  That poor man was probably a fresh evacuee and here we stood all googley-eyed like it was some treasure hunt.  Not that I need to justify my actions to our obscene gesture friend or you, for that matter, but for the record, the photo was for the record.  Our goal was not to have a salacious moment at the expense of others, but to record history.  There were many who grabbed cameras after the bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Historians are glad they did. 

My brother called me to a second story window before retiring for the night.  “Look to the right,” was all he said.  I was shocked and a little spooked to see bright red flames lapping at the hillside not far from the spot where we stood.  It was surreal.  Of course I grabbed my ever-present camera, but chose to not post the photos on Facebook.  My sister-in-law, Mel, was away visiting her mother in Vermont and I did not want to give her unnecessary anxiety more than she must have surely already had.  The pictures were left on my computer, saved for another time.

We awoke to the ominous news on that Sunday morning that the firefighting heroes had achieved zero containment.  It was too big.  The conditions were too dry.  The wind was too strong and erratic.  The Monster was gaining strength and power.  The status of the Waldo Canyon Fire had changed.  Strategic control was being handed over to a national team that would spearhead all firefighting efforts.  And just like that, Colorado’s wildfires became the number one firefighting priority in the nation.

I snapped a shot before leaving the parking lot of church that morning.  The sky to the west was completely filled with smoke.  Some at church reported waking to ash on their lawn, others were already displaced individuals whose fate was yet to be written.  It was a somber day of gathering in the safe shelter of common faith.

The winds pushed east throughout the day, causing smoky haze to settle heavily on the city, like snow on those same majestic Rockies.  Its acrid smell filled our noses and stung eyes and caused breathing difficulties for many.  The brilliant afternoon sun struggled to shine through the amber curtain.

Monday found a shift in the wind, which cleared the city of smoke, but only intensified the out-of-control fire.  We listened with sinking hearts as more and more outlying areas were being forced to evacuate.  Instructions for leaving homes were posted in all the local media outlets.  The “Five P’s” were stressed:  people, photos, prescriptions, pets, and personal records.  Grab and go.  That was the urgent message. 

Temperatures soared into the 100’s for the umpteenth consecutive day.  I had graduate coursework due and spent the morning pounding away at my laptop.  We met up with my sister and her family for an early supper and a stroll through Manitou Springs, an area that had been originally evacuated and then allowed to be reinhabited.  The night felt delightfully cool, even though the thermometer in the car read 98 degrees.  It’s always about perspective, isn’t it?

We walked through the beautiful, if not touristy, main street of Manitou Springs and enjoyed popping into quaint shops and munching on funnel cakes.  I did not realize that there was an actual “spring” and was amazed at the fizzy nature of its famous waters.  Ever the teacher, I filled a water bottle with the stuff for my students to taste come fall.  As we made our way back to the car, there was a sudden flurry of activity.  Looking in the direction of the excitement, we learned the reason for it.  The fire had jumped the ridge and was now within just a few miles of the town.  It had happened so suddenly that even the local shop owners were snapping pictures.  It seemed there was no place to go to get away from the madness.

We left the next morning.  I climbed into our van with a heavy heart.  The people I love were left to deal with this mess.  I was headed home to clear skies and green foliage.  They were still living a nightmare.  I had no idea as we drove north, away from pieces of my heart, that their nightmare was very soon going to intensify and become a living hell. 

We stopped for a quick lunch with our son, Ryan, a dental student in Denver, and then to Greeley, Colorado for the night with another sibling, Kevin, and his darling family.  Shellie, my sweet sister-in-law, grew up in Colorado Springs.  She had lived only in that city until they accepted a call to pastor a church in Greeley.  She loves her home, her new city, and her church, but her heart will always beat for the Springs. 

While preparing our dinner that night, she had local coverage streaming live through her mobile device.  I heard her gasp, her hand involuntarily flying to her mouth.  Tears streamed down her face and she ran suddenly to her bedroom, sobbing the entire way.  My brother, tears filling his own eyes, said quietly, “The Flying W ranch has just burned to the ground.  Our first home is probably next.”  “Go to your wife,” I urged him.  I stood next to the speaker and listened to the choked voices of the local newscaster as they apologized for being so unprofessional, but mourned aloud the loss of such a beloved Colorado Spring landmark.  It took them several minutes to gain composure.  Their grief was palpable.

In the few hours since we had left that city, the fire had turned its steely, red eyes onto residential neighborhoods and set its sights for the Air Force Academy, Garden of the Gods, and other beloved, well-known places.  My brain refused to absorb the breadth of such catastrophe.  The evacuation numbers now stood at 32,000 and hundreds of homes were threatened.  Dear God, it’s so hot.  Where will all those people go?

The Beast was unquenchable.  It would not be satiated until it had gorged itself on 346 residential homes, and drank the blood of two innocent people.  Finally, it staggered back in a drunken stupor and headed back toward the hills, leaving sorrow, homelessness, and lives forever altered in its terrible wake.

I later saw aerial images of the destroyed neighborhoods and felt my stomach drop.  It was easy to make out roads that led into subdivisions and cul-de-sacs, but I struggled to make sense of what my eyes were seeing beyond that.  You would expect to find some structures partially burned, with timbers still hanging or possibly a wall here and there left standing.  There was nothing, save for giant piles of ash.  Pile after pile of pure ash.  Ghostly, haunting images seared into memory.

As we pulled onto the final stretch of road that would lead us to our beautiful home and farm, I found myself seeing the familiar with new eyes.  I was so grateful for blue skies with no smoke, and lush green grass.  It looked like Eden to me.  I gulped in the serenity and said another prayer for those in chaos.

I was there when it started.  I am not happy about that.  But for whatever reason, I was eyewitness to an event that will be part of Colorado history books for many years to come.  Why?  I have no answers.  It was the dumb luck of being in the right (or wrong) place at precisely the right time.  Or was it?  In the life of a follower of Christ, nothing is happenstance.  If there was a divine purpose, I do not know it yet, nor may I ever.  But I was there.  It is not my home.  There is no connection to me other than cradling my loved ones.  And yet… I am forever altered by it.  I cannot fully understand the difficult road ahead for those I left behind.

God help us all…

Dire warning on the highway

    

 

The first ominous sign of things to come

We watch it grow and gain momentum at an alarming rate

The majestic Garden of the Gods looked a peaceful haven during our picnic

The sun trying to penetrate the smoky haze

A family photo belies the fire burning just behind us

Manitou Springs in the shadow of the Waldo Canyon fire

Father's Day and the Three Stooges

Today is Father’s Day.  My own father passed away seventeen years ago.  I miss him.  The father of my children, my husband of twenty-nine years (tomorrow is our anniversary), is the object of my celebratory mood today.  Four children is a whale-of-a-lot of kids to clothe, feed, love, attend sporting events and concerts for, and meet every other imaginable need.  He has done it all with uncomplaining steadfastness. 

You should know that when it comes to celebrations, I am Party Central.  I feel that the common day should be an excuse for uncommon festivities.  An actual holiday?? Holy cow – look out!!  Mr. Dahl, however, is the polar opposite.  There are no extraordinary days on his calendar.  Each day is just that – a day.  Oh, he takes me out for my birthday, and chooses sweet gifts for Christmas, but he does these things because he knows they are important to me.  When it comes to reciprocating for his special days, all he ever wants is to NOT have a big deal made over him.  He is so not into splashy extravagance.

So when I asked him what he would like for Father’s Day, I knew before he responded what his answer would be.  Nothing.  Zero.  Nada.  A big goose egg… I don’t know why I continue to ask year after year.

The kids ask me (as they do every year), “What does dad want for Father’s Day (or birthday, or Christmas)?”  Well, I’ll be dogged if I know.  I can read his thoughts from fifty paces, but I have no clue as what little gadget or trinket might be meaningful to him.  I have come to the conclusion that he is truly the most contented man I have ever known.  He does not feel he wants or needs anything of a material nature.  His favorite line used to be, “I could new socks or underwear.”  OK, then socks and underwear it is.  But he hoards them like the Great Tribulation is imminent, so when the point came that he could barely close his dresser drawers due to multiple unopened packages of J.C. Penney socks and underwear, we said “enough already,” and went back to the drawing board. 

Whatever my husband lacks in gift list-making skills, I more than make up for.  I generally hand my loved ones a scroll with a wide range of price options and say, “I have clustered them according to priority and circled my top three choices for your convenience.”  Gift giving for mom is easier than falling off a ladder, but dad… well, dad provides a stiff challenge.

Two major events occurred this weekend that were the Transit of Venus of Father’s Day good fortune.  The first was an invitation from John’s sister to join them for a Father’s day cookout at their house.  The second was the arrival in the daily mail of the work schedule for the Wing Theater.  Guess which family got the luck of the draw for Father’s Day weekend??

Now, to my city folk readers, you may be a tad confused about what it means to “work the theater.”  If you have never visited the northern prairie of America, then I need to provide a few very important foundational facts here.  North Dakota is a big state in landmass.  We possess over 70,000 square miles AND YET, we are the third LEAST populated state in the nation, with just under 700,000 in total population.  To break those numbers down for the average layman:  Big state -- lots of empty acres.  What this means in terms of “things to do on a Saturday night,” is… the average farmer has to get in the ‘ole Ford pickup and drive ‘fer a spell to get anywhere.   

Small towns have made stabs at keeping entertainment local.  Most every little settlement has a bar, this is a given.  Beyond liquid entertainment, a few towns have successfully (or not) tried to provide local fun.  Many try to keep the doors open to bowling alleys.  In years past, roller rinks were quite popular.  Somehow, my little enclave of Wing has managed to keep its theater going, despite declining population.  There are a few solid reasons for this “success” story. 

For one thing, the décor hasn’t been updated since (and this is just a wild stab in the dark based on the orange color theme) sometime in the mid-70’s.  Industrial low-pile carpet lines the top half of the sidewalls (for acoustic purposes, I am sure).  Dotted along these carpet-lined walls are bare, orange light bulbs sticking out for dim lighting when the overhead lights go out at the beginning of the movie.  Big city THEE-aters have fancy lighting on the plushly carpeted steps.  We moved ours up – a concept that will catch on everywhere, I have no doubt.  It also helps with bug-infestation as the outer doors are generally propped open for the duration of a summer movie due to the smoking of the popcorn popper.

Another reason the Wing Theater keeps its Hollywood head above water, is that there are no paid employees.  Generally, a list is drawn up at the beginning of the movie “season” (April through October), and is comprised of local families that take turns running the theater for their given weekend.  Running the theater means that you unlock the doors and prop them open with the official door-propping rock that has probably been on the stoop since the Civil War.  You then get the popcorn popper heating up (it takes a few minutes), open the record-keeping notebook up where is recorded the beginning and ending ticket numbers AND the winners of the free ticket draw, then sell tickets and concessions for the duration of the movie.  When the movie ends, there is cleanup to be done, and this is really the worst part of the effort.  Sticky, spilled soda and popcorn are not a good clean-up combination.  The redeeming feature of the theater is, it still possesses the hardwood floors from when it was also the town gymnasium, which makes clean-up infinitely easier.

I am mistaken.  There is one paid employee.  The theater association hires a projectionist every season.  This is a rather plum job for the lucky high school kid that lands it every year.  There are almost no job opportunities in our fair town, so to find one is awesome, PLUS there is little actual work involved, PLUS you get to watch the movie and eat concessions for free every weekend all summer long.  Win, win, and win!!

When the volunteer list first arrived in our mailbox, I was a little disappointed that we were scheduled for Father’s Day weekend.  But John wasn’t.  No sir.  He is so incredibly unconcerned about those sorts of things.  He is happy to take his turn and it matters little what days that happens on.  OK, if he’s cool with it, I guess I am too.  The movie for our weekend?  The Three Stooges.  As one Facebook “friend” put it, “Yeah, but what’s the movie??” 

So the day was set in stone – church in the morning, complete with hot brunch and the movie, “Courageous” (which I highly recommend for every male on the face of the earth), a cookout for the entire Dahl extended family at my sister and brother-in-law’s house, then off to the theater for the evening. 

So here’s how the responsibilities were divided:  John always mans the popper (I don’t know why, it is just how it is), Hannah took over working the fountain drink machine and taking concession money, and me?  I am the face of ticket sales.  Yes, that’s right.  When they come in off the street, I am the one to greet them, hand out tickets, take their money, make small talk, and this year, wish the guys “Happy Father’s Day.”  It is serious and important work.  It also gave me the opportunity to see my Little Darlings from the school year as they filtered through the door.  My, oh my, how they have grown!  Smiling tanned faces would pop up at the window and well, I just had to come around the corner and exclaim over their shooting up like corn in the field and give a quick hug.  I had not realized how much I miss them!

All went well in the Sales Department on the first night of the movie.  But then I watched it.  The movie, I mean.  Have you seen this movie?  Holy cow, it is TERRIBLE.  I never was a huge Three Stooges fan anyway, and I am not crazy about slapstick humor by and large, but this one…. Well, there are just no words.  Easily in the top three of worst movies I have ever seen.  Easily!! 

On Night Two, it was a crisis of conscience to take the poor suckers’ money.  I wanted to say, “Just head over to the concessions window, buy some popcorn and go back home.  If you hurry you can catch Ice Road Truckers on the History Channel.”  But I didn’t.  I kept my mouth shut and smiled and encouraged them to “enjoy the show!”  I really did not want to get transferred to the Housekeeping Department.  I like Sales.  I’d like to stay, thank you very much. 

Good thing too.  I saw on the official Wing Theater Facebook page that this weekend broke the record for seasonal ticket AND concession sales.  Apparently there are more Three Stooges fans than I had realized and slapstick makes them really hungry and thirsty.  Hooray!  The Wing Theater survives for a while longer!!

So Happy Father’s Day to the man who made me a mother and has faithfully shared this parenting journey with me.  I love it that you are content with the gifts of shared family time and sharing the box office of a dusty little theater in the middle of nowhere on Father’s Day.  It says buckets about the sort of man you are and how you are able to celebrate the Uncommon Day in a common fashion.  Life is pleasant and easy because you make it those things for your family every day.

I love you, John Dahl.  Happy Father’s Day…

I love the false-front buildings in this town -- so frontier!!

The Redeemer

(Please be forewarned that this post is unashamedly spiritual.  I make no apology.)

I love the Discovery Channel -- interesting shows and interesting topics.  Hubby had the kitchen television on one night last week and the show featured ships on the Bering Sea in the dead of winter.  Deadly Seas the show is called.  I was half-watching, half-interested, until the story of an old battered ship began to be told.  Suddenly I was absorbed.  I set my oven mitts down and plunked my body into a chair at the island. 

This ship is a salvage ship.  Its mission is not to salvage gold or treasure on the floor of the ocean.  No, its mission is to salvage other ships.  As the name of the show indicates, making a living off the Bering Sea is dangerous, potentially fatal business.  Many ships every year find themselves in trouble and sink or become stranded on some desolate island or shoal.  The boat’s owners would like these stranded vessels recovered, of course. 

This is where our hero ship comes into play. 

The name of the ship is The Redeemer.  It is not a very pretty ship.  It is a big, creaking vessel with rusty spots on its hull.  But it gets the job done and delivers stranded vessels back to grateful owners.

The captain of The Redeemer is a story within the story.  In short, unemotional bursts he told the story of being in high school and already working on the ships of the Bering Sea.  He told of having the bad fortune of being on a ship with his brother the night their vessel sank into the depths of the frigid waters.  The ship sank keel-first and, unbelievably, the only survivors that terrible night were this man and his brother.  As the ship disappeared into liquid blackness they found a chunk of something floating in the water and climbed onto it.  They were in the water seven nightmarish hours until help arrived.  They both lived to tell the tale and return to the sea in spite of its callous treatment of them.

The irony and parallels to my spiritual beliefs were obvious.  I do not know what you believe about God or things of a spiritual nature.  You are free to believe whatever it is you like or believe to be true.  I hope whatever it is that anchors your soul brings you deep joy and, ultimately, eternal life.

This is what I believe…

I believe that there is a God (just one), who created the heavens and the earth in seven literal days and nights.  Many theologians question that and science outright dismisses it, but the book of Genesis says seven days, so that is where I land with it all.  My God is all-powerful.  If he set his mind to create an entire universe in a week, then I believe he could and did do it.  He is not bound by the laws of nature, (countless bible examples and stories affirm this), nor is he limited by time and space.  I believe he SPOKE our world, and the orbs that spin around us, into being.  I believe he is the personification of creative artist.  He is also scientist, engineer, and comedian. 

I believe that this fresh, new, breathtakingly beautiful Earth was filled with animals and exotic creatures.  But God’s crowning achievement – his encore and piece de resistance – was the creation of Man.  Genesis says that God himself, “breathed into man the breath of life.”  Think about that for a moment and let that sink into your brain.  The very breath of God brought a man made of simple clay to life.  Suddenly that man has blood pulsing through his veins, causing his heart to pump and his brain to crackle to life and synapses to fire and his senses to come alive.  And God, the Creator, watched it all and said right out loud, “it is good.”  In modern vernacular, he might have said, “…now that ROCKS!” 

I also believe that the world God created and filled with good things had an enemy who had a vendetta against God (we know this enemy as Satan).  He was one of the good guys originally.  He was beautiful to look at and in charge of the music of Heaven, but he got a little too big for his britches and decided he wanted God’s job.  God said, “sorry, but that job is taken” and showed The Devil the door.  We do not know how many eons ago this all occurred, but we do know from Scripture that there has been bad blood between the two ever since.

Now Satan saw his perfect opportunity to wreak some havoc on God’s Masterpiece, and so he appeared to the very first man and woman, Adam and Eve, and convinced them to blatantly oppose God, which they did (and it didn’t take much convincing, I am sad to say).  And just like that, Satan is a player in God’s perfect world.  Now he’s got some power and authority to do some damage in this New World.

So now God has a problem.  A perfect world and perfect people, who are no longer perfect.   Hmmm… what to do, what to do…Sin has occurred and a penalty must be paid.  You may think it unfair or petty of God to dwell on such minor things.  I certainly cannot explain it all.  I am finite and limited, just like you.  But here is how I understand it and how my small brain can wrap around it. 

I really love the movie, National Treasure.  You know the one.  Nicholas Cage comes from a long line of treasure hunters who seek the Grand Daddy of all treasures, which is a compilation of treasures collected down through history.  He finds it, (it wouldn’t be much of a movie if he hadn’t), and there is a line after the discovery that is pertinent here.  Nicholas Cage’s character says to the FBI agent who has been hunting him down, “I would really love to not go to jail.”  To which the FBI agent replies, “SOMEBODY has to go to jail.”  Laws had been broken, penalties had to be paid.  This is how true justice works.  To ignore laws and their penalties is to give Chaos free reign.

And that helps me understand God’s nature.  He is NOT a “god of justice.”  No, that is too ambivalent.  It allows for whims and moods where justice is concerned.  No indeed.  God does not simply dispense justice, God IS justice.  It is so woven into his nature, that he is incapable of turning a blind eye to sin and transgression.

It sounds incredibly harsh, doesn’t it?  I agree.  I would be disconsolate if I felt that God’s nature began and ended with justice.  God is indeed justice.  But God is also Love.  Real love.  Not sappy, conditional, sentimental love, but true love.  The gold standard of love.  The genuine article.

So God sees his new creation (man) messing up right out of the gate.  Here’s the part that make me smile…

God already had a plan. 

Justice demanded action and atonement.  Love said, “I’ll find a way…” 

God knew it would require a perfect sacrifice.  There was just one that fulfilled all the requirements.  One perfect, dearly loved sacrifice.  God’s very own Son, Jesus Christ. 

“For God so loved the world, that he gave His One and Only Son, Jesus Christ, to be the Savior of the World, that whoever believes in Him will not perish, but have everlasting life.”  John 3:16

Jesus came to God’s Earth as a baby, grew up in a normal, natural fashion, turned his Father’s world on its ear with his teachings and miracles, then was crucified in a barbaric way.  When Jesus’ blood drained from his perfect body (perfect meaning without sin), and his perfect soul left that body, God and Satan both knew that Justice had been served.  The price had been paid.  Sin was atoned for.  Satan was livid.  God was heartbroken, but satisfied.

This is where it all pertains to you and me.

Because God loves us so extravagantly, he sent The Redeemer to salvage stranded, broken, shipwrecked mankind.  No one cares more than the owner.  There is no price too great or sacrifice too large for The One who created each vessel.  Recovery at all costs.

And so, dear friend…

I may or may not know you personally.  This blog reaches people in countries and continents to which I have never been.  I do not know your plight or what personal struggles you face today.  But I do know that God sees you, with your fading hopes and battle with the sea.  You may be fighting to stay afloat and keep your head above frigid waters.  Like the captain of The Redeemer, you are clinging to some flimsy piece of refuse with just enough buoyancy to keep you afloat for a while longer.  You can feel your energy slipping away, and with it, any hope of rescue. 

But there is a vessel chugging your way, with the name Redeemer painted on its beautiful side.  It brings with it Hope and Salvation.  You must only wait for its arrival and then warmth and safety will be yours again.

My bible says that all we must do to claim these priceless treasures is to BELIEVE… believe that Jesus Christ is truly God’s very own son, and believe that He died for you.  Believe that his sacrifice paid the price for your sins once and for all.  Believe, then own up to your shortcomings, failures, and sins.  Confess these things to your Rescuer.  He will freely forgive.

Believing is maybe the easy part, for then we must take ourselves off of that rocky shoal and follow Christ, wherever He may lead us.  But this I promise, to do so brings an everlasting joy that is unparalleled.  He will guide you safely through all the dangerous, choppy waters of this perilous journey we are on and into the snug harbor of Everlasting Life.

This is what I believe… 

I believe it because The Redeemer rescued me.  I was stranded and broken.  But my Creator loved me enough to come for me.  Through Deadly Seas and perilous elements He sought me out.

I will follow Him anywhere…

Young Patriots

I do not have statistics to back me up.  I have nothing to go on but a guess and a hope.  I HOPE most elementary classes begin their day with the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.  That is how we begin our day in the Magic Tree House.  Hang up coats, turn in homework, catch up on the local gossip, show off their latest Happy Meal toy, throw the wrapper in the garbage for the snack they ate on the bus that was supposed to be saved for snack time, look at the daily job chart, and then stand at attention for the Pledge to the flag.  Our goal is to get in the Pledge before the intercom crackles to life with daily announcements.  We usually make it.

There is a protocol that must occur when saying the pledge.  Have you ever done a little looking around when reciting the Pledge in a public place?  Take note sometime of who is totally zoned into it and who is mumbling the words while picking dirt out of their fingernails.  I guarantee the over-sixty crowd will be eyes forward, heart-in-it, standing at attention and focused on the flag.  Many of those younger will be mouthing the words because they somehow know they should, or it is a necessary hurdle before the game can start. 

This is something I hope to instill within my students.  I get them very early in their academic careers.  Maybe I have a shot.  Americans have become tremendously apologetic about our wealth and standing in the world.  We even are sliding towards the misguided notion that within our own borders all Americans should share equally.  Those that are the most motivated to go out and grab the brass ring are now expected to share their wealth with those not equally motivated.  This is alarming to me.  When I was a child, this philosophy’s given name was called socialism.  It is wrapped in a different coat now, but it is the same ugly baby.  I am not saying patriotism is dead.  I AM saying it has taken a sucker punch to the gut.

When I was very young, three years old or so, my mother went to work.  Nobody explained why to me.  It was still fairly unusual for mothers to do so there in the mid-sixties.  Only the decade before it had been nearly unheard of, but in my early years, some women did indeed hit the job market.  Maybe my father needed her help in the private elementary school where he was the administrator.  Maybe they needed the money.  Maybe she simply wanted to be a part of the early bubblings of the Feminist Movement (this I doubt).  I do not know.  I just know I was now was rousted early and bundled off to spend my days with my grandparents at 702 January Lane. 

I adored Grandma and Grandpa Miller.  I could not have been happier.  They adored me as well and I was content to spend my days basking in their attention and love.  My grandparents lived directly across the street from the Ferguson Middle School, a sprawling brick edifice on the outskirts of downtown St. Louis.  Every morning at precisely the same time (I do not know what time that was as I was only three and could not read a clock yet.  I only know it came after Romper Room and before Captain Kangaroo), my grandmother would call me to the front window and together we would watch the flag being raised in front of the school.  Then as it flapped in the Missouri breeze, we would place our hands over our hearts and say the Pledge of Allegiance. 

The first time Grandma had me follow this odd and unfamiliar ritual, it felt uncomfortable and strange.  The words made no sense and were difficult for my little tongue.  But after following the same procedure daily and listening to her quavery voice and seeing her undistracted cateye-glasses gaze, I began to learn the words haltingly, and then confidently.  Before long, I was calling HER to the front window and leading the charge, like a Boy Scout at summer camp.  My gentle grandmother taught me how to stand at attention and keep my gaze on that beautiful flag; the red stripes symbolic for valor, and the white stripes a symbol of purity and innocence.  It represented freedom, and to her, it represented her son’s tour of duty in Korea during the Korean War.  A war that thankfully deposited him back to her without harm.

I was so proud on my first day of kindergarten when the teacher brought us to attention to learn the Pledge, and I already knew every single word.  I whipped my hand over my heart, stood at perfect attention, and gustily lead that pledge word-perfect.  Grandma had taught me well. 

I have made it a personal challenge to do the same for my first graders.  We do indeed say the Pledge daily.  I also demand complete attention and single focus while doing so.  There will be no jabbing of elbows or reclining against their chairs while expressing this appreciation for our country, our military personnel, and our Founding Fathers’ sacrifice. 

About February, I added the component of singing the National Anthem after the Pledge everyday.  Folks, this was truly a stretch for this alto.  As you may or may not know, our National Anthem was written for the vocal range of a Lark.  Had I been consulted about which patriotic number we should adopt as a nation, I probably would have chosen something written by the Commodores. 

I digress…

My poor Little Darlings were not quite sure what to do with this new addition to the morning ritual.  The words and musical score aren’t exactly Top 40 sing-able.  Listening to their teacher try to nail those notes at 8:25 a.m. after only seven cups of coffee was laughable.  But I forged ahead daily regardless, and after a week or so, they were hesitantly chiming in bravely.  Our wing of the building was built in the ‘30’s and is not in any sense sound proof.  It must have sounded hilarious to hear nine straining cherub voices and one Orangutan oddball voice trying to do justice to our national song.

I smiled near the end of the year at the gusto that was applied to this iconic tune.  One lad in particular sang it with such fervor that it sounded as though he were singing it to Francis Scott Key himself.  Little hand pressed hard over his heart pumping true red, white, and blue blood, eyes fixed on our classroom flag, and mouth wide open in patriotic passion.  These kids had the tune and words down cold.  Do they get the meaning behind it yet?  We’ll see…

I am an unashamedly patriotic American.  On this Memorial Day weekend, I place my hand over my heart and fervently declare my allegiance to my country, the freedoms she affords me, and most importantly, the brave men and women who purchased those freedoms with their service and very lives.

I love you, America.  Thank you for being so good to me.  I will forevermore pledge you my allegiance.  I hope to plant the warm seed of patriotism within the soul of my young charges.   

I will begin with the Pledge.   

You must do the rest…

Ferguson Middle School

Graduation Mayberry Style

There are some who will read this post and will feel this familiar scene brought to the forefront of remembrance.  Some of you will have no basis of familiarity.  You may think, “how quaint” or you might lean more towards “how redneck!”  It is for both of ends of the spectrum that I write this.  For the under thirty crowd, Mayberry is a fictitious, idyllic town from the old television series, The Andy Griffith Show.

Last Friday night was our high school’s commencement ceremony.  Eight young adults wobbled down a freshly papered centered aisle to the stage, grinning, nervous, and trying to keep that darn tassel out of their mouths.  No, I did not mean to say six hundred, or even sixty.  I did indeed purposefully type the lonely digit “six.”  This year’s class was fairly average-sized for our rural school.

Son #3 tells the story of a freshman year encounter where he was asked the inevitable question of how many were in his graduating class.  His uninhibited reply was “four.”  Without blinking an eye, his co-conversationalist said, “Oh, that’s not a bad sized class.”  Knowing what this individual was thinking, Cody quickly corrected him.  “No, I don’t mean four HUNDRED.  I mean four.  That’s it, just four.”  The other party was flabbergasted, as the story goes. 

To further those fun Class of 2010 facts (you never know when this trivia might come in handy); the class was comprised of two boys and two girls (prom could have been a double date), and for the senior class photo shoot, they were all able to go in one car.  Also, there were awards-aplenty to go around.  Not only was our son, Cody, Valedictorian, he was also numbers 76-100 in class rankings.  Holy cow, that sounds impressive on a college application!

Back to this year. 

You may be wondering how long a class of eight (or four) could possibly take to go through the ritual ceremonies of graduation.  You might be surprised.  We can stretch that sucker out like a TV evangelist pleading for money.  Handing out diplomas takes no time at all.  We would barely have time to warm our folding chairs if that is all we did.  So we have a few closely held traditions that make up the other fifty-seven and a half minutes of the program.

I will share a few of them here:

One of the most cherished is the reading of the class history.  I mean a literal reading of the class history, kindergarten through twelfth grade.  This annual rite recites the names of the kids that began kindergarten in our school and lists the classmates that came and went down through the years.  There are always one or two original band members that spent their entire academic careers in the same group.  This is part of the beauty of a small K-12 school.  We are more extended family than mere strangers coincidently lumped into a classroom.  You can often see heads nodding during this time and hear whispered, “Oh, I had forgotten about him.  That’s right, he WAS here in the fourth grade...”  The class history is just that.  It reminds us of who we are and where we came from.

Another tradition, and my personal favorite, is the honoring of the parents.  The class chooses an appropriate song, usually something about wind beneath wings or love, or undying support, and one by one, the seniors pluck a flower from a vase and head down into the audience to acknowledge his or her parents.  The mother is generally handed the flower and usually gets a hug too.  Depending on whether the graduate is male or female will predetermine what happens next.  The graduating female has usually begun to cry on the first note of the song, which sends rivers of water down her mother’s face as well.  She and her mother will hug warmly, smearing sloppy tears and mascara all over one another, then giggle at what saps they each are.  “Daddy” will get an equally warm, teary hug, and doggonit if he doesn’t have a little moisture in his eyes as well.

Now if the senior is a male, things will run a little differently here.  He will clomp over to the vase and grab the flower like it’s the playground bully and he’s gotta’ show it just who is in charge around here.  He will then stomp noisily down the stage steps, holding the poor flower parallel to the ground, praying to God that his mother won’t make a gushy embarrassment of things.  When he locates his parents, he’ll shove the already-drooping flower into his mother’s hand, and may or may not give her a quick yer-alright-fer-a-gurl hug.  Now the next few moments are crucial in Macho World.  Should he hug his dad or not?  He can’t really decide until he’s in the moment.  Will the entire world that is stuffed into a sweaty gymnasium think he’s a Nancy if he gives ‘ol dad a coupla slaps on the back??  Some risk their masculine ranking and give the hug.  Others decide it is just simply not worth it.  Usually a handshake is called for in such cases.  This is considered an acceptable (and in some cases) preferable show of affection. 

As a parent who has watched three sons graduate from this high school, there is nothing that softens my mother’s heart more that watching my boy grab that flower and head towards his father and I with that “aw shucks” look on his face.  Three times I have melted into my son’s arms and been overwhelmed with that simple gesture.  For it is more than a flower and more than a ritual.  It is the symbolism of a child beginning to understand that parenting is a monumental task and that all that we do as parents is borne out of this unquenchable love we have for our offspring. 

They cannot really understand all of that yet.  No, of course they cannot.  Not until they are parents themselves.  We all know that.  But is it a first step towards that awareness.  It is a beautiful moment ripe with meaning.  It is the unspoken knowing by all parties that they are no longer children, but adults ready to leave you.  And for the record, my sons always hugged their dad too. 

The third anticipated ritual is the “Senior at a Glance” picture montage.  Well, there are twenty-five extra minutes to kill, so let’s drag out the old photo albums.  You can do that when there are only a handful of seniors, after all.  While the graduate’s favorite song plays, a power point slide show features each graduate from infancy through their senior year.  There are the usual baby shots and some edgy youth may throw in the potty training shot for giggles (and gets them).  And, of course, there are Christmases and favorite vacations.  And when it is over, we have a better idea of who these kids are and where they came from.  Sometimes the parents are divorced and the shots are painful reminders of a painful time.  Occasionally, a deceased parent is flashed on the screen and then the tears really flow as we grieve anew communally.

When Son #2 graduated, the mother of a classmate who had been killed in a car accident arrived at the graduation ceremony.   We were thrilled to see her and saddened to remember that her sweet baby should have been standing there proudly along with the rest.  This poor woman had lost her husband as well on that day and her son had been severely injured.  It had been a shock to our small community that left us all reeling.  To our wonderment, at a given spot in the program, this mother walked unsteadily to the podium that night and addressed the graduates. 

This mother, whose world had collapsed in a single day, with soft voice but strong resolve, looked at the classmates of her daughter and told them that the same year her daughter had died, she had made a decision to do something for the class of 2007.  She had taken a portion of her death benefits and had invested them wisely.  It had been accruing money all of those years.  Her daughter was only in the fourth grade on that horrible day.  “And now, I want you to have it,” she told a shocked line of seniors.  “Use it to further your education, or better yourself in some way.”  She had kept it a secret all of those years.  Each senior received several thousand dollars, the amount depending on the number of years that senior had attended school with her daughter. 

I gasped as I heard her words and saw the stunned looks on the faces of those rugged boys.  I heard my gasp echoed all around me.  Tears stung my eyes as I realized what this money signified.  She could not help her daughter with college, but she could help those that had known her.  It was such a poignant moment that I am filled with emotion even after all these years.  Such generosity borne out of such devastating sorrow is philanthropy that is forever seared into memory. 

Ryan is in dental school now.  Her generosity made a positive difference in his life.

And, as in any graduation ceremony, there are also scholarships announced, and speeches given; you know… the usual stuff.  Afterward, the graduates form a line, outside if the weather permits, and the entire community walks by and shakes each hand and offers warm congratulations.  Then the individual parties begin and these are just as utterly charming.

The really forward-thinking graduates claim the lunchroom as their territory.  The other possible choices in town for gatherings are the Senior Center and the town theater building. 

Now I know you are trying to picture a theater that can double as a reception hall.  You are thinking all wrong, my friend.  This is not a slanted-floor, surround sound, fixed theater seat building.  Well, we do have surround sound, I guess.  Surround sound for us means when Granny sitting on the back church pew can’t hear a line, her grandson shouts it into her hearing aid, and thus the back 4 rows get to hear it again. 

No, this is the OLD gymnasium, with original hard wood floor and stage still intact.  The chairs stack and the church benches in the back are shoved to the side walls.  The downside to this building is, there is no real kitchen, so all hot food must come in electric roasters.  But I have used this building for a graduation myself, and you make do.  Everyone understands your challenges. 

On mild spring nights, such as this year was, Main Street is alive with party goers headed to their destinations.  Usually, nearly everyone is invited to nearly every party, so you choose where you will begin and then make your rounds.  By the time you have hit the last one on the roster, you are so loaded with roast beef, butter cream frosting, and pink punch, you are nearly comatose.  This year I had the culinary pleasures of Philipino dishes and the best darn crab salad in the universe.  I think I have probably had dreams about that crab salad since that night.

I held my husbands’ hand as we walked Main Street and smiled.  It is such a safe little haven.  Community children roam freely, knowing their parents will find them eventually.  Laughter can be heard from the next block over.  For a city girl, I sure love small town living.  It is irreplaceable and dwindling.  What will my town look like in ten years?  Or twenty-five or fifty?  In case you live in a steamer trunk and have not heard, North Dakota is in the middle of an historic oil boom.  Think California gold rush in the 1800’s.  It is changing the face of our state so fast it is dizzying.  It is not all bad, of course, but change is indisputable and undeniable.  Whether the locals like it or not, North Dakota will be forever altered from this time forward. 

Whatever the future holds, I hope that my town will hang tenaciously onto its charming graduation rituals.  I hope my grandchildren get to experience them someday.  I hope my very own real-life Mayberry resists the outside influences for a while longer.  I hope Senior at a Glance and Class History are carried forth, however new technology makes that possible.  I hope little boys in big boy bodies still clomp down the stairs clutching flowers for their mommies, like tots who proudly lay dandelions at their mother’s feet.  I hope the more things change the more they stay the same. 

I hope Mayberry keeps its charm for awhile longer...

Mrs. Dahl, Are You Almost Out of Surprises?

 

Tomorrow my Little Darlings will cross the threshold of the Magic Tree House for the last time.  They will cease to be first graders and will morph into second graders, much like the Painted Lady caterpillars sitting on our science table.  The count down has begun.   Our time together is finite.  The end is at hand.

I am not ready.

Do not mistake that statement to mean that I am not wildly excited about summer vacation, for I AM.  Sleeping past 4 a.m. is the stuff of fantasies.  Also, my house looks like an A-bomb found its mark, and that lawn isn’t going to mow itself.

My sorrow has less to do with needing to spend the next 10 weeks with these same children, as it does wishing I had had more time to teach them all I had wanted to.  Where did all the days, weeks, and months go that had stretched out endlessly in front of me, like a ribbon of highway in Wyoming?  I am truly shocked that the end is here.  I had wanted to do thematic units on Lady Bugs and Eric Carle’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear.  They never got touched. 

There are also those last few math lessons.  Not critical stuff, but it would have been nice to get it all in.  This teaching thing is as much about timing as it is touching the intellectual soul of a child.  Who knew?  I am already planning next year in my head in order to do things differently (and better). 

We have a little game we play in our class.  I tend to be a little random.  Maybe you have noticed that.  Probably once a day, my students and I will be discussing something and my mental light bulb will go off in the quirky way it does.  “I have an idea!” I will gasp with surprise.  “What is it, what is it,” they all clamor to know.  Then a mischievous smile appears on my face, and I say, “You’ll see.  Mrs. Dahl is…” “… full of surprises!!” they finish with a shout.  I have trained them well.  The fun is less in what the surprise is as it is the anticipation of something to look forward to.

During some subject or another about a week and a half ago, The Thinker stopped his work and asked pensively, “Mrs. Dahl, are you almost out of surprises?”  “Never!” came my instant reply.  But I knew what he was getting at.  Did the end of the school year translate to a winding down of my energies and creativity?  Good grief, I hope not.  This quasi-hippie always has a thought or two rolling around inside my head like marbles in a tin can.

But the mood of my Sweeties has been odd at best lately.

This last week of the school year the Little Darlings have been shockingly quiet and subdued.  I wondered at it first thing Monday morning during all the usual morning rituals.  I kept thinking it surely could not last during a lengthy round of vainly trying to finish the science unit (we did it!!), and was sure I had stumbled into an alternate universe when they came in from lunch recess that same day.  What was going on??

The answers began to tumble from cherubic mouths about mid-afternoon.  Turns out something akin to Senioritis had infected my usually rambunctious gang.  If you have had children graduate from high school and leave the nest, then you know what this malady is.  It is that phase between childhood and adult maturity when they begin to grasp that life as they know it is about to end and it makes them… well, WEIRD.  Some of my children during that last year of high school alternated between grumpy and clingy, some withdrew into their own private world, and some went with grumpy all the way, baby!  Needless to say, it can be a trying time for all who inhabit the same living quarters. 

My personal spin on this phenomenon is it is God’s way of preparing parents to say goodbye to their offspring.  It is much like the last week of pregnancy.  You are so miserable and uncomfortable that you’d easily entertain the notion of grabbing the old hubbies hand saw and cutting the darn thing out yourself.  Senioritis has the same effect.  By the time they pull out of the drive headed to the university of their choice you are nearly pushing them out the door and shouting things like, “Don’t worry.  We’ll ship your things later!!”

My first graders have been a little squirrelly too.  Arguments and moods and hyperactivity have been in abundant supply.  But this week they seemed to have come to some sort of emotional climax.

As they sat scattered around the floor of the Magic Tree House, busy putting the finishing touches on their insect books, I overheard quiet conversations from first one side of the room, and then another.  Little faces were earnest and voices tight as they poured out their thoughts to one another in low tones.  Finally, they could contain these feelings no longer.  One sad little face looked up and into mine.  “I don’t want to go to second grade,” he said flatly.  Little echoes from this corner and that chimed in.  “Of course you do!” I assured them.  “Second grade means you are bigger and older and ready for more challenges.”  One honest chap summed it up succinctly, “I hope I get retained.”  Oh, for goodness sakes…

“Second grade will be wonderful!”  I assured them.  Little end-of-first-grade heads were shaking no in resigned woe.  “I want to stay with you, Mrs. Dahl!” said Little Sally Sue sadly.  Now, before you get the idea that all this luvin’ went to my head, I have been around children enough to know that this sudden case of the jitters has less to do with my fine teaching, than it does simply fearing the unknown.  They will love second grade and I will get little more than an occasional greeting from them in the hallway.  This I know.  But I certainly want them to finish this week and this year looking expectantly to the second year of their elementary career.

To that end, we put together Memory Books that have helped chronicle the year and (I hope) have reminded them of the astonishing changes that have occurred since last August.  We wrote about the friends we made and the subjects that became favorites and the books we adore and how our bodies have gotten bigger.  As they filled in the page titled, “How I Have Changed,” I glanced over and caught a couple of the boys trying to determine that very thing by measuring each other with their hands – simultaneously.  It was such a comical sight I had to snap a picture. 

We have also dealt with changes that transcend the mere passage from one grade to the next.  My sweet foster girl is headed to a new home when the school year ends.  She came in frantic yesterday saying that her older sister would not be going with her.  I hugged and tried to reassure, but later asked the sister if that was indeed true.  Her blue eyes welled immediately and she shook her blond head no.  “I was frustrated because I hate to leave so I said I was going to stay.  I’m going too,” she ended with soft resignation in her voice. 

Another student who has only been here since January does not know if his family will stay.  I do not know whom I will see again.  I very much like to know what the future holds and what to expect.  This is difficult for me as well.

And while I am being honest, I’m just going to say it.  I am having a hard time saying goodbye to these, my students.  You don’t have to go back and read too many posts before you pick up on the subtle clues that I am over the moon for these nine kiddie-poohs mine.  They are eager learners.  They are respectful and polite.  They are FUN.  
But they must continue on the path of their own journey, and I must do the same.  I wrote a short letter to them that was published in the school newsletter.  It goes like this:

Dear Students,

I hope I have provided at least a small foundation for a lifetime love of learning.  I hope you have found, not just school, but the joyous journey of discovery to be pleasurable.  I hope you never stop asking questions about the world around you.  I hope that you continue to want to fill your minds and hearts with the wonders of the universe.  I hope you achieve whatever it is you long to do with your lives.  I hope you never settle for mediocre.  I hope you rise to your best potential. 

Each one of you has taken up residence in that forever place in my heart.  I send you off to second grade, Dear Children, with fondness and best wishes!

Love,

Mrs. Dahl

With these thoughts and emotions churning inside my half-century heart and head, I sat waiting for my daughter’s high school spring concert to begin.  Both the choir and band were to perform and my Sweet Rosie had a vocal solo, the program announced.  I sat idly looking about at the audience members and my eyes rested on a Kindergartner in the front row.  Her red hair was slightly tousled and her jack-o-lantern gap-toothed grin was directed at a friend.  A fresh, hot-pink cast did not slow down her energy or buoyant mood.  She was all giggles and sunshine. The thought tiptoed into my head that in a few short weeks she would be my student.

I felt the soft tug of a smile at the edges of my mouth.  New students and new challenges are waiting.  A refreshing summer break and then a new crop of nervous, shy first graders will begin to weave their way into the loom of my soul.

I think I will be ready…