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."
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
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)
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)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
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.
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.)
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.)
Friday, May 1, 2009
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.
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.
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