Million Dollar Mercy in Action

The ten students waiting for me down on the story rug were an ugly tangle of accusations and rebuttals, tears and indignation. Only moments earlier, they'd returned from a contentious game of Capture the Flag. Gym class was over, but the factions remained, and the hostility was ear-shattering.

Usually under such circumstances, I would deliver a scathing speech to the whole group, slicing to the root of the squabbles and bullying a confession out of the offenders. Today, I found myself clothed in the gentleness I've been praying for! And for once, I saw the opportunity to apply some earlier learning instead of seeing the interruption of my schedule.

See, today's chapel had centered on Matthew 5:7: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy." We talked about needing mercy and giving it to others. (Last week, we compared God's million-dollar mercy to our ten-dollar mercy, since receiving His mercy enables us to give it to others.) It's a simple concept; but like a lot of Jesus' directions, it doesn't come naturally. If first graders are representative of humanity in general, wanting your offender's pound of flesh is what's natural. Showing mercy is supernatural.

"It looks like some of you had an opportunity to show mercy to some of your classmates today. If you were honest, do you think you were merciful?" They squirmed, and I waited. Ira was the first to admit to an ungracious attitude, and he apologized to the people he'd yelled at. Immediately, the other tender-hearts of the room followed suit.

Ilsa's apology was simple, but significant: "Peyton, I'm sorry I said that you cheated." I noticed because Peyton's voiciferous denials were the type I see when he IS guilty. Knowing him well, I figured that he had cheated, and that Ilsa knew it.

I carefully mentioned that sometimes we all feel tempted during games, some people to be angry, some to cheat, etc. And I left it at that. While I was thinking about how to deal further, Ilsa got up from her spot on the rug and went to sit beside Peyton, sharing her blanket with him. It was an unmistakeable token of friendship from the most sought-after member of the class, an act of mercy to someone who, with all his huffing and puffing, was far from deserving it right then.

I was floored. I was still trying to convict him. She, on the other hand, was doing exactly what we'd discussed in chapel this morning: giving someone a second chance even when he doesn't deserve it.

Even more stunning was Peyton's response. Under the weight of her kindness, he suddenly broke. "I did cheat," he confessed. "I really wanted to win. I put my foot over the line, and then I lied and said I didn't. I'm sorry, everybody." By now, they were ready to be merciful in return, and friendships were once again restored.

It was a rich moment, one I will remember for a long time...

Two Epiphanies About My Height, Courtesy of First Graders

My brother Nick came to visit my class in October. He's something of a legend in first and second grade (apparently, the teacher talks him up), but when he comes in person, he even manages to exceed expectations, mostly by being BIG. Really big. Way bigger than Miss Djerf. (They are also impressed by his ability to beat Miss Djerf at everything, but that's a post for another time.)

He passed me up when he was eleven or so, so I've had plenty of time to deal with it. My students, however, were concerned by the inequality. Pablo eyed the two of us carefully, and then patted my shoulder comfortingly and said, "He's not THAT much taller than you, Miss Djerf. Just a little bit." (The picture is Pablo showing me how much more I need to grow to catch up.)

Grayson took it one step further. He started grilling Nick: "Nick, you exercised a lot, right?" Nick admitted that yes, lately he's exercised a lot (playing college basketball will do that to you). Grayson turned triumphantly to me and announced, "See, Miss Djerf? All you need to do is exercise, and you can be as tall as Nick!"

I'm not feeling terribly confident about that solution. The way I see it, if being born nine years earlier didn't help, exercising more isn't going to erase a thirteen-inch gap...

It turns out that Grayson is full of helpful observations. Just this week, his face lit up when he saw me standing next to the music teacher. He'd had a revelation: "Miss Djerf! Mrs. O is taller than you!"

I agreed, of course. Lots of people are taller than me. His next comment, however, was a first.

"So THAT'S why she's married and you're not!" She and I chuckled, but he wasn't finished yet. "So THAT'S why SHE'S a grown up and YOU'RE still a kid."

I might just end up in therapy after all.

Letters to Miss D.

Needing to fill a few minutes between lessons this afternoon, I asked my students to write me a letter when they finished their book work. Here's a general sampling:

Ms.D You are a WaNDrfull tech you are the Best techr in the Wlrd thank you For teching me Math Langig AnD BiBl.

But not spelling, apparently.

The distracted nature of the following letter is a blend of her butterfly-like personality and the rising action of the classroom at the time of writing:

To. Miss. Djerf.

I had a fun this Summer! I mist you that handwriting book is silly! I wish this was quieter. How was your Summer? I bett it was good. You should make a roull that people must be quiet exsept if you have a quwestden, coment or anser.

Rocken science lecen!

We should have rules? In a classroom? Are you kidding? But glad you liked the science lesson.

The following is probably my favorite:

Dear Miss D I really like your singing. And you read us great books. you write great. And you draw great

Yep, I'm forming a cult. The cult of the Miss Djerf followers. (Our motto: So we don't exactly listen to what she's saying, but we think she's great...) I think I'll pick this student to be the leader; he can spell.

Sound Bites

It's been an exciting seven days in first and second grade. The energy and noise which constantly exude from the eight boys, as well as the effect of my own directions reverberating throughout the room (rather than being absorbed by the students) are enough to make my ears ring.  In the midst of the hubub, however, I occasionally overhear bits that survive a retelling or two:

Yesterday morning, Grayson paused as he entered the room, threw his arms out, and announced, "Let the show begin!"  For him, life as usual. For me, an insightful moment.

Last Friday, in the middle of a Bible discussion, someone randomly interrupted, "Miss Djerf, what if Ashton was stalking you?" 

Fielding unrelated questions is in my job description. This time, I just laughed and lightly replied, "Oh, Ashton would never stalk me." 

Ashton, seated on my right, added, "Yeah!...Besides, I don't even know how!" 

When the gym teacher arrived in dress clothes instead of sweats today, my class piled on the compliments: "Mr. E, you look tight!" "Oh, Mr. E, you look handsome!"  My favorite was the first grader who said, "Mr. E, if you had sunglasses on, you'd look just like a guard at a party!"  (Is he thinking of a bouncer?)

The Opening of Kid-Quote Season

We had our first and second grade open house yesterday. A few kids came in to try their new desks and check out the new room arrangement (and see me, I guess).

My favorite conversation was with the second grader who happened to be the most quotable first grader in my class last year.

I hugged him, saying, "I missed you this summer!"

He sighed and replied, "I finally threw up."

While it wasn't what I was expecting, I did the best I could to roll with it: "You did? Were you sick?"

"No, I was brushing my teeth," he explained.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Are you feeling better now?"

"Yeah, sort of." He paused, then ended with a flourish: "Miss Djerf, why is throw up always orange?"

I'm so glad he's back!

A Good Question to Ask When You're Singlehandedly Snarfing a Bag of Potato Chips

"So how old do you guys think I'll be when eating like this takes its toll on me?"

- Marissa during a recent road trip (to be fair, I must confess that I was assisting in the potato-chip snarfing)

Why I Feel Three-Fold Guilt Over the Passing of Another Brief Minnesota Summer

1. Yet again, I didn't make good on my resolve to be a better Twins fan.

2. My inner cheapskate won out over my inner State-Fair-goer.

3. During the only viable months for acquiring a natural tan, I failed to be outside long enough to get one.

I'm a terrible Minnesotan!

Fiction in Progress (or, What to do with a kidnapped Barbie)

"It's MY turn to be the set designer."  These aren't words you typically hear from a seven-year-old boy. I don't know where he learned the term, but he was employing it correctly; using my digital camera, we were shooting pictures for a story we've been working on.  And his nine-year-old brother HAD been hogging the set designer job.

I've recently spent several days with my four youngest cousins, and our chief occupation has been making a movie using pictures from my digital camera. The five of us collaborated on a story involving malicious Lego men who kidnap a Barbie princess and tie her up in some bushes above their hideout.  As each child has manipulated the plot, Barbie has escaped, fought off a gigantic spider, and made friends with a 3-foot-tall teddy bear. So far, so good. But now, we've run into a problem.

I've been told that the essence of writing good fiction is to create your character, stick him in a tree, throw rocks at him, and get him down.  We were following the formula perfectly until we came to the getting her down part. Turns out my cousins invent malicious plot twists so well that nobody wants to release our poor Barbie from the tree.

Today, the conversation with Mr Seven-Year-Old went like this:

Me: We're running out of time. We need an ending. How do we help her get away?

P7: All right, I've got an idea. We can have the lego guys re-capture her and hang her by a string over a fire!

Me: That's not an ending. That's giving her more problems.  And we don't have time to make a fire.

P7: OK, so then we could have the motorcycle guy come up to rescue her, only then he can turn out to be bad guy, so he cuts the string, and she starts to drop into the fire, only then her horse saves her.

Me: No, we're not doing anything with a fire. We need to do something different.

P7: OK.  (long pause) I still like my idea. Does anyone else like my idea?

Me: I like your idea, but we're not doing it. We're not doing anything with a fire.

P7: Hmmm... I still like my idea. Megan, let's just do my idea.

Me(mostly to myself): We don't need a fire, we need an exit strategy! 

His brothers and sisters agreed that a fire was too difficult. However, they suggested

- turning the decapitated spider into a snake which re-captures her, or

- having the bear betray her and turn her over to the Lego villians.

As far as I can tell, our heroine is still in a tree, and we're still throwing rocks at her. This movie may turn out to be darker than I expected.

Having Church

We could hear the singing from outside the gate. Inside the compound, it became clear that the "congregation" had started the service without us! At the door of the classroom, David motioned for us to follow him through the crowd of singing students to the front bench, the only empty one in the room. Although the song was in Swahili, we clapped and danced with them, joining in the spirit if not in the language.

We'd heard that the services at the high schools were full of life, but the students at St. Valentine's Mixed Secondary School exceeded our expectations. Two young men were at the front of the crowded room, leading out in song and dance in the call-and-response style. Another student laid down the beat on a goatskin drum in the corner. Had you peeked into the room, you never would have guessed that the students had been herded to the service by the headmaster! (David, one of the Scott Theological College students assigned to this high school, told us that since STC started sending students to run the service, the headmaster believes that he's observed a positive change in the students. Therefore, even though it's not a Christian school, he forces everyone to attend.)

When they were finished singing, another student came to the front and called various individuals up to the front for "presentations."
Students came up and sang songs or read Scripture for the group. The songs (which were in the hip-hop/R&B style mixed with African church music) were met with wild applause from classmates.

Presentations by the students were followed by presentations from the visitors. Each of us stood, introduced ourselves, and took a few minutes to encourage the students from a passage from the Bible. I spoke from Hebrews 11:6: "But without faith, it is impossible to please God, for the person who comes to God must believe that He exists, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him." I challenged the students to seek to know God above all else, because when we make Him our goal and our treasure, He does reward us. I don't know how well the students understood my English, but they were responsive and quite welcoming.

The best part of this trip has been connecting with other believers here -- the ABO orientees, and the Kenyan believers. Our lives are so different (most of my life in the States is inexplicable to the high school students I talked with today), but we share the same God and the same Bible. The seminary students here at Scott are particularly noteworthy. Their passion for Christ and love for others is contagious!

Tuk-tuks, Boda-bodas, and Piki-pikis (or, On The Road Again)

Two weeks from Thursday, I will be back in the United States. After five weeks in Africa, I think one of the strangest things about coming home will be having my own car all to myself again. I've missed it occasionally (mostly when I've craved solitude), but mostly, I've enjoyed trying new forms of transportation here. Here's my basic African transportation primer (for further, more official information, see Wikipedia -- I tried to include links to pictures, but couldn't do it):

The Matatu
My Kenyan friends and I took a few matatus (small buses) when I was in Nairobi. According to Kenyan regulations, all matatus should be painted white and comply with the set passenger quotas. Some do; however, there's also a large fleet of matatus run by young men who use theirs as a form of self-expression. I rode in one which was painted bright purple on the outside, plastered with the likes of Foxy Brown and Jay-Z on the inside, pounding with rap music (the sound system must have been monstrous), swerving in and out of traffic as it hawked more customers, and filled with the lovely fragrance of diesel exhaust (cough). Good times.

The Tuk-tuk
A tuk-tuk is what you would get if you crossed a scooter and an old VW Bug. Last Thursday, after shopping in the open-air market in Machakos, my roommates and I paid 20 shillings each to squeeze into a tuk-tuk on our way back to the college. We had six people in ours, which seemed to be a strain on both the engine and the frame, but it made the driver quite happy to have acquired so many passengers.

The Boda-boda
Yesterday Sarah and I persuaded Viola to join us for another trip into Machakos, this time on the backs of boda-bodas (bicycle taxis). For twenty shillings each, we perched sidesaddle on padded platforms behind our lean, tooth-challenged "drivers." Turned out to be easier than it looked, even in a skirt (we decided that if everyone else can do it in a skirt, so could we). I even got out my camera and took a short, very bumpy video.

Some of the missionaries love the boda-bodas because you can talk with the drivers as you ride; others dislike them for the same reason. Last week, a boda-boda guy proposed to one of our British girls after bringing her back from town, telling her, "I'd really like an English wife." When she explained that in her country, people don't get married unless they are in love with each other, he countered, "But I do love you!" Mine was silent; he must already have a wife.

The Piki-Piki
After shopping and enjoying samosas in Machakos, the girls persuaded me to add another form of transportation to my list of new experiences: the piki-piki, or motorbike. We dug deep and paid fifty shillings each to again sit sidesaddle, only this time behind a helmeted driver who wore boots instead of flip-flops and revved his engine instead of ringing a bell. I climbed up first, grabbed the small handle at the back, and away we went...through an alley, not to be followed by either of my friends! Shortly, however, we came out on a road I recognized, and fell into line with the other two piki-pikis. My driver had simply taken a shortcut. Whew.

African Signage

A few of my recent favorites (I'm really sorry I wasn't able to upload the photos):

Please do not wash your shoes in the sink.

- in the women's bathroom at a church in Nairobi.

Notice:
Please do not misuse the toilet paper.
Pocketing toilet paper is STEALING.

- on the bathroom door in the T-Tot Hotel in Machakos. (I admit that I rejoice whenever I find toilet paper in an African bathroom, but not so I could STEAL it!)

J. K. STORES BOOKSHOP
We sell cows

-This is a huge sign above a store in Machakos. Considering that you can buy a refrigerator, underwear, a charcoal iron, luggage, and furniture at the grocery store, I wouldn't be surprised if you could buy a cow at the bookstore.

Superlatives

Strangest thing I've done this week:
Pretended to be a chicken for a video some guys are making for our Friday Fun Night (read: talent show). They refused to reveal the plot beyond my minute part, so I'm looking forward to seeing the finished product (which, I think, will be a 24 knock-off). I'm hoping that it's kind to chickens.

Coldest I've been this week:
We took the students to a private school in Machakos today to visit classrooms and go swimming in their huge pool. The sun was out (and being near the equator, it's quite warm), but that water was brutal. After all, it's winter here! It took me nearly an hour to work up the courage to get in; then I enjoyed a refreshing (brief) five-minute swim.

Most interesting question I've heard in a sixth grade classroom:
"Who can tell me what female circumcision is?"
I was sitting with two of our ABO students in a room full of sixth graders. Their teacher was attempting to display their knowledge of Kenyan history. A discussion of reasons tribes resisted colonization led to the topic of female circumcision. As soon as the teacher asked this question, she met my eye, and I nearly burst out laughing. When none of the students was willing to describe this practice (ugh!), the teacher must have decided she was in over her depth. Instead of explaining, she simply said, "It's really bad. Even I am against it. Female circumcision is bad, right?"
"Yes." The students answered in perfect chorus.
"But male circumcision, is that bad?" Boy, she was determined.
"No." Again, they answered in unison.
"That's right. Male circumcision is good, but female circumcision is bad." And with this statement, she abruptly headed for safer ground.

Most insultingly honest thing a child has ever said to me (ever!):
If you really want to know, ask me. I decided against posting it where anyone in the whole world could use it against me.

Cutest animal I've seen inside:
The gecko above my door last night. I love the way they can run sideways along the wall.

Scariest animal I haven't seen inside:
The three mosquitoes which managed to bite me. Hoping that I don't regret not taking malaria medication...

And now, some educational African superlatives (just to prove that I've been paying attention during our morning lessons):
Largest African country: Sudan
Most populated African country: Nigeria
African animal which kills the most humans each year: hippopotamus
Least populated African country: Namibia (second in the world to Mongolia)
Fastest animal on two legs (in the world): ostrich
Fastest animal on four legs: cheetah
Tallest animal: giraffe
Animal with the largest mouth (in the world): hippo

So That It May Be Seen Plainly

It started out as a relaxing afternoon. After sitting through a very loud Kenyan church service this morning (cranking the volume to the maximum is apparently a virtue here), I came back to my dorm room ready to soak up some quiet. Read my Bible for a while, journaled, and then, like my roommates -who were also enjoying the quiet- laid down to take a short nap.

Lying there, my thoughts focused on architecture; specifically, the terrible acoustics of this dorm building. Sound travels from one end to the other without impediment, a feature only amplified by our location across from the open staircase. I could hear parents calling their children (over and over again!), people telling stories about their church visits this morning, and (this was my favorite), an intense battle against bad guys, complete with sound effects and fought with gusto by four small boys. Did I mention that I could clearly understand what each person was saying and tell who was saying it? I felt like a spy.

The only problem was that I wanted to SLEEP, not spy. I drifted into a vague, choppy daydream in which I imagined delivering scathing speeches to the offending parties. My words were lethal, attacking their personality flaws, lack of character, and their unfitness to be parents or missionaries. I woke up (to a Scottish five-year-old's voice outside my door hollering, "There's a baddie, right there! Let's go get 'im!"), and I was ashamed -- and still irritated.

I sat there feeling miserably sorry for myself. And then God brought to mind a verse I'd read and written down just an hour earlier:

"Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God." (John 3:20-21)

Earlier in the chapter, Jesus was speaking to the Jewish leader Nicodemus, explaining that one must be born of the Spirit to see the Kingdom of heaven. The verses I just quoted are the end of that passage. Jesus was trying to help Nicodemus see that his birth as a Jew or status as keeper and teacher of the law did not automatically qualify him to recognize or understand what God was doing. Only the Holy Spirit, working inside him to transform him (being "born again"), could open his eyes.

When I am wrong, I want to hide and pretend. In fact, I was thinking that I would have to spend all day in my room to preserve my reputation as a nice person (better a recluse than a viper, right?). But following Christ isn't about pretending to be something in order to make God or other people happy. It's about coming into the light as the broken, ugly person I know I am and living by a strength and love I don't possess on my own. It's living honestly enough "that it may be seen plainly" how great, loving, and merciful my God is.

I thought of Hebrews 4, which says that everything is laid bare before Him and nothing remains hidden from His sight. And then I smiled to remember the verses that follow that statement:

"Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who was tempted in every way, just as we are -- yet without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." (Hebrews 4:14-16)

I didn't have to spend the rest of the day in my room. Instead, I approached the throne of grace with confidence, laid down my ugly attitude, and received a lavish gift of mercy, paid for by a high priest who surely knows what it is to be irritated -- yet continues to choose love.

After receiving what I knew I didn't deserve, I found that I had some left over for my "hit list."

Overheard in Africa...

"Oh, the kids will love those! It will be fun to visit them -- that is, if they don't get eaten halfway through ABO. That would be sad."
-- Carolyn (my supervisor) on seeing two baby goats grazing outside our dorm.

"Turn to the person beside you and say, 'You're a blessing to me.' If you don't feel like it, say it in faith!"
-- A deacon at church in Nairobi last Sunday.

"You cannot miss what you do not know."
-- A Kenyan friend on the poverty we observed among the Masai people.

"Look! A mzungu! I want to go to America!"
-- A random man on the street in Nairobi as I walked by with my Kenyan friends. ("Mzungu" is the Swahili word for "white person.")

"I'm one of the few people who loves driving in Nairobi traffic. When a crazy matatu driver passes and is taking over my lane, I love to see how close they can get. It's my daily adventure -- almost like a game. When I get back to the states, and all I have to do is stay between two lines, it's hard for me to stay awake!"
-- An American missionary as he drove me through Nairobi. While I was slightly disconcerted by the enjoyment he received from this hair-raising necessity, I figured that an adventurous driver is no worse than a terrified driver...

"A man."
-- A beautifully dressed magazine editor in the Schiphol airport, when I asked her what's in Tel Aviv (her destination). She smiled mischievously and added, "Proof there is life after sixty-five!"

"I just can't believe that you're a grown-up. You just don't look like a grown-up to me!"
-- Daily comment from one of my ABO students, a developmentally delayed thirteen-year-old. My youthful appearance has been a nightly topic of conversation. She's not exactly convinced yet.

That Reminds Me...

I'm writing this post from Machakos, a beautiful town nestled in the hills of southern Kenya. Eight time zones from home, I've traveled over sixteen hours by plane and a few more by car to be here among people who speak Swahili, Kikamba, and some English (whenever we're off the college campus, where the English is quite good, we hear "How are you?" over and over again -- the equivalent to my Swahili "habari ako." We ask it, answer politely, and the conversation is over!). Although the campus itself has many modern conveniences, including electricity, hot running water, and wireless internet, life here is quite different from life at home (case in point: you never know when any of the above will cease to function, nor for how long).

But of course! I didn't come all this way for things to be the same. I'd be happy to assimilate all kinds of Kenyan practices, including tea and snacks twice a day and the welcoming attitude toward visitors. At times, however, the "newness" is exhausting. To cope, I find that my brain is constantly casting about for similarities to past experiences and known people, almost to the point of confusion!

Since I'm fearful of surpassing my "That reminds me of..." story quota with my new friends here, I thought I'd post a few of the more obscure ones here:

• At the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, I saw a large ink drawing of a nineteenth-century naval battle by the artist William Van de Velde. After reading that he sketched the battles while they were in progress, I thought of my brother Nick. As a child, he loved to draw basketball games from start to finish. This necessitated rather simplistic drawings (I think people were boxes with two legs askew), but the action was unmistakable, and the narration by the artist was priceless. I wonder if any of those drawings still exist?

• I also happened to observe a field trip of Dutch children at the Rijksmuseum. I stood back and watched the facilitator (who was in full costume complete with a huge wig) as she led the children on what appeared to be a treasure hunt throughout the museum. I couldn't understand her Dutch, of course, but her animation and the enthusiastic response of the class made me want to come along! When she released them to run and find the next item, they scurried off joyfully while she tottered along behind in her fancy high heels. I related to the chaperones of the group who, knowing how to behave in a museum, followed sedately, sharing indulgent smiles amongst themselves (except for the one mom -there's always one- who was running along just as excited as the students). I felt a kinship with them all. Since then, I'm pondering how to take my class to this exciting field trip, too...

• Last Sunday, I sat in on my Kenyan host's Sunday School class. I found that 10 and 11 year olds arrange themselves the same across the ocean: girls in front, boys crowded together in the back. All of them struggled to concentrate on the lesson until Ann stopped and introduced me. (The teacher in me was thinking, "Hurry up and tell them who I am! They can't think about anything else!")
  

• Naturally, I'm reminded of my family more than anyone else. Three things in particular have made me feel right at home: the constant use of mobile phones EVERYWHERE (one even rang in church this morning), the way my Kenyan hosts yelled for one another regardless of proximity or time of day, and the constant banter/argument over rules in a game I played with the other ABO-ers Friday night (as we cheerfully picked apart every last rule, I thought, "Phew -- the Djerfs are not the only ones!").
  

Anticipation and Rest

I'm sitting surrounded by open luggage and last-minute tasks, checking off lists and then adding more to the same lists. I leave today for five weeks in Kenya, Africa, and I'm trying to make sure I'm ready...

There's something about traveling which stirs excitement within me. The realization of how much is out of my control requires that I trust God more (or go out of my mind with anxiety!). As the Psalmist said, "As for me, the nearness of God is my good. I have made the LORD God my refuge, that I may declare all His works." (Ps. 73:28) I become more grateful all the time for circumstances which remind me that I cannot navigate my life on my own, because they make me lean upon my very big God.

Not that I'm naturally comfortable there. I like to know what's happening next so that I can feel ready for it (or so that I can fret about not being ready for it!). Like my students do all day long, I'm always asking Him "What are we going to do next?" The routine is oddly similar to when I pass out materials, and before the directions can leave my lips, the sound of wailing and gnashing of teeth fills the room: "Miss Djerf, I don't know what to do!" I find myself panicking and whining much the same...

Lately, like a good teacher, He's been handing words I've spoken back to me: "Listen, whose job is it to have the plan? Don't you think I have one? Do you think I know how to give you directions about this? Do I ever give you a project and just stand there? NO! Now, if you'll just chill out, I'll tell you what to do, one step at a time." (He usually says them more kindly than they sounded coming from me the first time.) Just chill out.

One verse I'd like to get into my heart these days is Hebrews 4:9-10: "There remains, therefore, a Sabbath-rest for the people of God; for anyone who enters God's rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from His. Let us, therefore, make every effort to enter that rest, so that no one will fall by following their example of disobedience." As I travel across the ocean, expecting to serve Christ there, I want to place my confidence in His plan and His work, not my own. This verse alludes the the people of Israel who weren't allowed to enter the promised land because they refused to believe that God would fight their battles for them. They chose to rely upon themselves (and subsequently wallow in their own inabilities), and God disqualified them from the promise. He wanted them to participate in His big-ness, to be in the midst of the battle and see His mighty hand fight for them. He wanted them to move forward and rest in who He is.

I know He wants that rest for me on this trip, a rest that's different from sleep. It's participating wholeheartedly in whatever He has for me to do, but doing it "with the strength that God supplies." (1 Peter 4) I can relax because the work is not mine, it's His. So is the plan. And so am I. Therefore, I can rest, whether or not I know what's next...

Each to His Own (or, Appliance-Based Creativity)

As she was loading the dishwasher recently, Tiffany told me about an advertisement she'd seen for a washer and dryer which don't require the adding of soap or fabric softener.

Since I don't struggle to remember detergent, I can't imagine that I would pay any extra money for a washing machine which would remember it for me. Clearly, I'm not in their target market, but someone out there must be, right?

I asked Tiff what she'd pay extra for, and she said a desk which could automatically sort and file the papers she placed on it would be worth every penny.

Since that day, a tiny portion of my brain has continued to imagine uncommon appliance features that WOULD speak to my pocketbook. Here's the beginning of my list (including Tiff's magic desk, of course):

• If I were in the market for a washing machine, which I'm not, I'd pay more for one which would wail or honk until I came to switch the clothes. I've always wondered why they don't make washers buzz like dryers do.
• On a similar note, I'd have to buy the dishwasher which would prevent me from walking away from the dishwasher after loading it WITHOUT starting it...
• A blender which could clean itself would turn my head,
• as would a refrigerator which disposed of its own forgotten leftovers.

One of my fifth-grade drama students told us last week that she's always wanted a locker with a snow-cone machine inside. Can't say I understand, but most of the team thought it was inspired...

What appliance feature (ridiculous, inspired, or otherwise) would sing a siren song to your credit card? If you have one, post it as a comment so others can see it too... Perhaps we can inspire some aspiring inventor somewhere!

Overheard at Northside Lately...

It's been a soggy few weeks, so full of field trips, report cards, and end-of-year projects that many a blog post has turned to mush. Only a few bits survived, mostly overheard quotes scribbled on post-it notes, scavenged from my desk as I cleaned it off for the summer. Here they are, without further ado:

A fourth grader admonishing the goalie during a game of floor hockey:
“Just a little warning: when you’re goalie and I’m coming, block it and then get out of the way, cause I don’t stop so good.”

Conversation with a kindergartener accused of pushing:
Me: “Did you push Jason?”
P: (Pauses, eyes on floor) “No.”
Me: “What did you do?”
P: “I ran him over.”

A first grader after I announced we were going to do something new:
“Is it landscaping? ‘Cause I’ve done LOTS of landscaping!”

A first grader, who had to take a bathroom break in the middle of a class “running in place” contest, on re-entering the contest:
“And guess what, Miss Djerf? I didn’t stop running the entire time I was at the bathroom!”

And, finally, a conversation in our classroom the last week of school:
P: (sighs) “I love Miss Djerf. Miss Djerf is the best teacher.”
E: “Yeah.”
P: “And she really loves children.”
E: (Alarmed) “But she’s not married!”
P: “She loves children!”
E: (Even more alarmed) “BUT SHE’S NOT MARRIED!”
Me: “Awww…what am I going to do without you guys this summer?”
I: “Find a boyfriend!”

Three Things I Love About First Graders Today

1. They're honest. Really honest. Yesterday one of my boys saw my school portrait and said, "Wow, Miss Djerf, you look like you were really sweating in that picture!"

2. They sort of speak their own language. This week, a different boy wrote that he wants to be a "rocking scientist" when he grows up. A smile-inducing phrase if I ever heard one.

3. If they are concerned about you, they will pray for you until you tell them to stop. (This tendency once resulted in a boy praying for his mom's canker sore for several weeks, until I suggested he check up on her progress. He came back the next day, rejoicing: "It's healed!") I've been touched by their prayers for my new niece, who came for a brief visit a few weeks back. They usually pray things like, "God, let her follow Your ways and just be a great woman when she grows up," but occasionally they get more specific: "Lord, please bless baby Isabelle and let her marry my baby brother Isaac when they grow up."

The Little Red Hen According to First Grade

It's been an industrious writing week in first and second grade. We're finishing up our own books, re-writes of "The Little Red Hen." Within the pattern, we've been quite original; among others, we have an anaconda who wants an ice cream sundae, a fox who bakes cookies, and even a little beige lizard who builds a car (think, "Who wants to go with me to the junkyard to find some parts?"). And, of course, we have a host of friends (including a droidika and a break dancing chipmunk) who selfishly refuse to help with anything ("Not I!" rumbled the dragon.).

Having successfully navigated the writing, editing, and re-copying (ugh), we're now illustrating our masterpieces. I'm delighted by students who have added visual subplots, like the construction of a swing set in "The Pig Who Loved Pancakes." In the first picture, a pickup truck with a bed full of 2x4s is parked outside the pig's house; in the final picture, a swing set sits outside while the pig enjoys his pancakes inside. (Unfortunately, most of these details are undecipherable to the untrained eye.)

I'm more exhausted then delighted, however, after fighting all afternoon to keep one student's imagination tethered to the words at the bottom of his pages. His story, about a wolf who makes french fries and the Jedi, fox, and pterodactyl who won't help, is fairly standard. The illustrations, however, were elaborate concoctions which required minute-by-minute explanations to the rest of the class.

Did I mention they had nothing to do with wolves or french fries? We had running story lines about the fox visiting other worlds (he has a magic door in his room, and sometimes other foxes come from the magical world and do illegal karate with the fox), the Jedi fighting a running cameo list from Star Wars, and something about a bunch of pterodactyls...I lost track.

Around the third page, I stopped at his desk and reminded him that since this story is about a wolf who makes french fries, the pictures should at least include the wolf. He replied, "I couldn't draw any pictures of the wolf because he's outside, and I'm just drawing the inside. Plus, he's not wearing a shirt, so it would be inappropriate."

At the next page, I made my case again: "I really think that there needs to be a wolf somewhere in this picture! The story at the bottom of the page is about a wolf!" This time, he couldn't draw the wolf because he was in the shower. And then because the wolf was in his underwear, getting dressed. Finally, on page six, he managed to squeeze an inch-tall wolf with a basket of french fries down at the bottom of the page.

It was so small I couldn't tell if it was clothed or not.

Dodging Future Bullets

The art assignment was fairly open-ended: "What I Want to Be When I Grow Up." Most of the class got right to work, and soon pictures of soccer players, artists, coaches, road workers, firefighters, golf pros, soldiers, and teachers (awww....) started to emerge. After a few minutes, however, I noticed that one boy in the back row had his head in his hands and a blank paper in front of him. Nearly in tears, he was clearly distressed.

When I asked him what was wrong, he replied, "I just can't decide what I want to be! I really don't want to do a life-threatening job...but those are the only fun ones!"

He agonized a few more minutes longer, and then self-preservation must have won out. At the end of art time, he turned in a charming picture of a (drumroll please)...cook. I'm fairly certain that wasn't on the "life-threatening" list.

I relate to this young man. While I've never hankered for a life-threatening job, I have spent a large share of my life worrying about decisions and events that weren't even on the horizon yet. I have worried about what I would wear to jobs I never applied for, how to discipline children I haven't conceived, what to bring on trips I've never taken and even how I would break up with a guy who, as it turned out, never even asked me out (maybe he picked up on that vibe). To borrow my friend Rosa's words, I'm all about dodging future bullets.

The thing is, I'm about as equipped to solve all my future problems as my second-grader is to decide on his life's occupation at the age of eight. Not only that, but I have this day to live, and I tend to miss it if I'm fixated on the future. I have a lot to learn about what really matters in my todays before I move on to my tomorrows.

In the words of Jesus, "So don't worry, saying 'What will we eat?' or 'What will we drink?' or 'What will we wear?' [how did Jesus know?] For the idolaters eagerly seek all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be provided for you. Therefore, don't worry about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Matthew 6:31-34)

Talk is, well, you know.

Grrrr.

Why is it so much easier for me to preach something than to practice it?

I taught sixteen weeks of conflict resolution chapels this year, but when I ended up in an ugly argument today, it took me four hours to humble myself and apologize, a course of action I would have recommended to you from the start. (In the heat of the moment, knowing the right thing to do only made me more angry!) It wasn't until I asked (in a broken prayer) for a change of heart that I could do what I already knew to do.

This idea of knowing without actually doing comes really naturally to me. I slid perfectly from bossing six younger siblings into telling first and second graders what to do all day. I'm all about telling other people how to solve their problems. I easily think that if I can teach something, I'm doing it myself.

The next time you want to kill me because I told you AGAIN what you should do, just challenge me to a game of basketball. That should take the wind out of my sails.

Don't get me wrong. I love basketball! I have become a huge fan of high school basketball over the past few years. Somehow, watching Nick and Bekah transformed me from an aloof outsider to a student of the game. Over the past five years, I've sat near my dad or brothers as often as I could and asked constant questions. Though I still prefer to watch with an omniscient interpreter, I can now manage on my own. I can throw terminology around with the best, and to the uninitiated, I sound downright knowledgeable. I can tell a jump shot from a hook shot, or a pick from a moving screen, or a carry from a double dribble -- as well as any referee can, anyhow.

However, when my family gets into a game of pick-up, I'm left on the sidelines. Every sibling has outgrown my ability, and no one wants the boring job of defending me. Although I could probably remember more basketball terminology than Bekah, I'm no match for her on the court.

The difference? Only one of us has practiced.

We both have knowledge, but only one of us has prioritized in such a way that the knowledge is useful and effective. Bekah has showed up and sweated at practice; I've told stories.

I'll be teaching another chapel tomorrow morning, this one on being a difference-maker. Tonight, I'm thinking about basketball, and I'm fully aware that my words alone have no difference-making power on their own (if they can't change me on their own, they certainly can't change anyone else!). The power to act on the truth is truly a gift from a gracious God, one I need as much as my students.

Lunch with Miss Djerf

Today, I had two students in for "Lunch With Miss Djerf," a reward for good behavior. One girl started with her candy bar -- a no-no in the lunchroom (I'm the "eat your healthy foods first" Nazi), but hey, this was a reward, right? Even so, I couldn't fall entirely out of character: "So you're starting your lunch with your Crunch bar, huh?"

My subtlety wasn't lost on her, but she held her ground. "Yeah," she replied, "I hear that the crunch part is supposed to be pretty healthy."

(This is the same girl who, when giving a presentation, told us that arctic hares are SO CUTE that sometimes predators will -in the midst of the chase- suddenly stop and stare, so struck by their cuteness that they decide to let them go. Inventing facts seems to come naturally.)

Gummi Bears and Underwear

It all started when snack time rolled around. Most of the kids went to get one out of their backpacks; the ones who weren't prepared received a measly five gummi bears, the snack cupboard being nearly empty. One boy was scarfing his gummi bears when the rest of the class began to tattle: "Miss Djerf, he already had a snack! I saw him eating a snack bar from his backpack!" He vehemently denied it, angrily shouting back accusations and insults to his accusers.

As they continued to yell back and forth, I found the lone snack bar wrapper in the trash can beside his desk and put it on his desk, confronting him: "Hey, you're not telling us the truth! When you lie to us like that, it makes us not trust you." We were far beyond rational conversation, however. By this point, his anger was so out of control that I sent him to cool down in the hall for a few minutes.

As he left the room, he muttered under his breath, "You hate me! No one at this school likes me. I hate this school!" When he reached the door, he turned to me and growled, "You can just wear your underwear on your head!"

The rest of the class was mortified. "Did you hear what he just said to you?!" As for me? I was trying VERY HARD not to burst out laughing.

What do you do to someone who tells you to wear your underwear on your head? Our handbook is silent on this one!

In the end, he stayed in at recess, and we had a long talk regarding Proverbs 28:13 "He who covers his sins will not prosper, but whoever confesses and forsakes them finds mercy." After several minutes, he finally broke and admitted he'd lied. "I just wanted two snacks today instead of one. I wanted two snacks really bad!"

If nothing else, it was a lesson in thinking like a first grader. Five gummi bears matter. Underwear is an insulting thing. And just like with grown ups, admitting you're wrong is not an easy thing to do -- but it's the only way to mercy.

A Delightful Distraction

One of the things I adore about first and second graders is the way they "rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep."

I mentioned to my class this morning that Mark and Eunice (my brother and sister-in-law) were at the hospital to have their baby. One of my students suggested, "Let's all guess what time the baby will come and see who wins! That's what my family always does." The rest of the class began to immediately call out their predictions with an enthusiasm that surprised me. I'm not sure if my own excitement was that contagious or if they saw a perfect opportunity to do something other than phonics...

I wasn't going to be picky about motivation. I was thrilled to have ten kids to be excited with! So, we filled the left side of the white board with a list of our names, each followed by our estimated time of arrival, followed by the name we think this baby will be called. I think I committed an educational faux pas in promising a prize to the student whose guess is closest, considering that they spent all day wondering who would win the contest instead of paying attention. Of course, their teacher spent all day checking her cell phone, so I guess we were all in the same boat.

I also found myself redirecting curious questions like "How is that baby going to get out, anyway?" and only narrowly escaping disaster. Learning exactly how a baby gets out is NOT one of the things I'd like them to remember first grade for. If they are going to remember something from today, I'd much rather that they remember listening to the heartbeat on the phone with me. I know I'll remember them sitting perfectly silently at my feet, eyes widening in awe when they heard the muffled wump-WUMP-wump-WUMP-wump-WUMP through the speaker.

I love my job!

Off the Treadmill and into the...Dark Curtain?

Through a series of events and the wise direction of my parents at the point of a nasty breakdown, I stepped away from several church responsibilites at the end of January and entered a new period of seeking God. It was a choice to deliberately step away from the "spiritual treadmill" I'd been on (the "Lord-here's-my-list-of-how-I-justified-my-existence-in-the-world-today-aren't-You-happy-with-me-see-everyone-else-is" lifestyle, characterized by lots more doing than listening). I didn't know what to expect at first, but eventually, I began to realize that slowing down was only the beginning. God wanted to speak, but I had no capacity to listen. Over the past three months, I have begun to learn a little (emphasis on LITTLE) about stillness and hearing...

And to my delight, God has begun to speak. He's surprised me, though. I had a list of things I was interested in hearing about (like who I should marry, or what I should be writing about, or where I should be going to church, or really important things, like whether or not to buy a certain pair of shoes), but I'm finding that He wants to re-write my list, too. He's challenging the way I see Him, myself, the world, and my role in the world as His child. (I'm almost afraid to write about this process, as though it will cease to be a part of me when I share it with the world-at-large -- the handful of you reading this being a small representation of the world-at-large, of course.) He's been speaking about treasuring eternal things, re-orienting my heart piece by pitiful piece, and I yearn to cooperate, because the fellowship with Him has been sweeter than words can say!

But the rubber has to hit the road sometime, doesn't it? I find myself with choices and plans to make -- yikes! After two months of quiet rest and soul conditioning, I've been bumped from my cozy cocoon and am now facing what my future looks like OFF the treadmill. I'm supposed to run outdoors now, and let Him choose the route, step by step, and I don't know how to do it! My friend Corrie recently referred to this as the "Dark Curtain" -- when we look ahead and see only that the future is shrouded. We know that SOMETHING is on the other side, but guessing only brings more anxiety. All we know is that today's step seems sort of hazy, and we're not sure that we want to go very far without seeing... (Because we know enough of God that if it's any good, it's not likely to be easy, either!) So, I hold back, waiting for a glimpse beyond that Dark Curtain.

I don't know why I think a long-range plan from God would put me at ease; I can't even read a recipe all the way through and produce an edible result! I'm constantly flitting back to the cookbook because I can only handle very small directions. He knows this. And that's just it. He knows me, and He wants me to know Him! The destination? Plenty has served to remind me recently that my destination is heaven! Everything in between is a journey that He already knows, end from beginning. And I know Him well enough to know that He's FAR more reliable than Mapquest...

***
"Faith" by John Greenleaf Whittier (I thought -- couldn't confirm the authorship tonight)

Nothing before, nothing behind
The steps of faith
Fall on the seeming void
And find
The rock beneath.

Love to the Blue Clock Above the Kitchen Sink

I've spent pieces of today sorting through unfinished writing projects of various sizes. I'm meeting with my writing group on Monday, which means that something must reach completion by then...
I'd forgotten about this attempt at poetry from last fall. It made me think of a conversation I had with my mom and Jan at a conference a few weeks ago. Making plans to meet for the morning session the next day, we decided that whoever arrived first would choose and save seats. I immediately whined, hoping that it wouldn't be me so I wouldn't have to decide where and then fight to keep the spots. Jan (lovingly) replied, "Megan, I wouldn't worry too much. I don't think there's a very big chance of you getting here first." Point taken.

*******************************************
Love to the Blue Clock Hanging Above the Sink

By Megan Djerf

We’re standing in my kitchen, laughing, and I wait for you to notice it once again.
It’s the same question every time.
“It’s still broken?
It wasn’t working the last time I was here.
Why don’t you throw that clock away?”
If you don’t mind my saying so,
You’re practical, smug.
“If it never tells the right time, why keep it on the wall?”
Like last time, you reach to drop it to its doom.
And like last time, I re-hang it on my wall, and tell you,
"Leave it alone. I love that clock."

True, it cannot claim beauty or expensive pedigree,
or even an interesting story of how it came to be there.
And yes,
It is defective as far as clocks go.
I’m not pretending that it’s a clock champion.
Hours arrive, expecting to be marked, and they must wait
for the minute hand scrambling nearly ten shy of its goal.
It struggles along, always reaching toward the truest moment
And missing by several, but refusing to abandon its quest.
We don’t look at that clock to know the time.
My wristwatch can serve that punctilious purpose.

I’d explain it to you,
But you leave the house thirty minutes early if it’s snowing
And have seen the beginning of every movie you’ve ever watched in a theater.
And I’ll bet you’ve never limped all day in high heels because you ran to beat the bride into the church, either.

You wouldn’t understand.

******

Two weeks after writing this poem, we actually took the clock down as a prelude to throwing it away. (Poetic kindred spirits aside, it IS disruptive to have an unpredictable clock.) In so doing, we discovered that the clock keeps time when it's not on the wall. Must be some problem with the battery. Therefore, it's still in the kitchen, ticking away. So perhaps there is hope for me, too!

Surprises

This morning in chapel I watched a fifth grader (a former student) wow everyone as she portrayed an over-the-top teacher in a skit. She's always been a wallflower kid, the type who answers questions with the fewest words possible, so I was surprised when she recently joined my drama group. Turns out she's a natural. Her character was supposed to fly off the handle at a student for forgetting something, so I suggested that she threaten detention or having to repeat sixth grade. She took it a few steps further: "No, that's NOT OK! You know what? You're getting detention -- for 140 days! And you're going to have to live in your locker! And so you'll become this small! And you'll have to eat bread and drink water for the rest of your life!...And, you'll have to wash your hands in your own saliva, and dry them on your pants! And you'll never get out of sixth grade, ever!" To top it all off, she threw back her hands and did the "evil villianess" laugh. It was delightful. (I am, of course, choosing to believe that she drew her inspiration from her own creativity rather than her own experience with our teachers...)

Not only is she braver than I thought, but creative, too. Today's performance was God drawing back the curtain a bit for the rest of us, whispering, "Here's a peek at what I see and value in her!"

On the other end of the spectrum, an unexpected encounter with a former parent brought a flood of memories with it. Two months into my first year of teaching, her daughter gave me a crash course in helping a first grader cope with the pain of divorce. I so clearly remember this precious little girl hanging at the back of the line one day, chin quivering. She didn't want to go to gym class. When I questioned her, she leaned against the wall, hung her head, and whispered, "I don't want my mom and dad to live in two different houses." And then the tears came in torrents -- for both of us. We spent the gym period back in the classroom, crying together. I bonded deeply with that little girl; my heart hurt as I remembered her today. I don't think I've ever felt the pain of a student to that depth again. I don't think I could keep teaching if I did.

Eventually, the year ended, and life went on for both of us. Over time, I learned that longevity in this profession requires a certain guardedness, one I sometimes regret. I wonder what she's learned over the past five years...

Why Soggy?

Why "Soggy Inspiration," you ask? Because "Soggy Delights," my first idea, sounded like something from a Prairie Home Companion quasi-commercial, that's why. ("Soggy Delights -- the remarkably honest cereal! Because your breakfast will taste better with lower expectations.")

Truly, it's because a small handful of the thoughts that fly through my mind each day seem to ring of something real, something that matters. Fleeting markers of vivid moments, they cause me to smile, or burst out laughing, or sink to the floor and cry out in prayer. And I am compelled -inspired- to find the words.

Thus far, however, I have failed to develop the discipline of instantly recording these words, leaving them instead to marinate in my milky brain with everything else. By the time I finally pause, usually just before I hit the pillow, what earlier passed for inspiration is now a shapeless, drippy mess.

Blegh.

Hence, the name. In this blog, I'm seeking to decrease the soggy quotient in my life. Here goes.