Letters to an Absent Miss Djerf

One question I’ve constantly fielded this winter is “Are you missing teaching?” There are two answers:

 No, I’m not missing the stress of teaching. Right now, the idea of managing the noise and activity of first and second graders all day is synonymous with thoughts of torture.

But yes, I’m missing the students. Terribly!

I missed them even more when I received letters from the class near Christmas. Their unfettered affection, creative spelling, and imaginative drawings (one featured me snowboarding down a steep mountain with the caption "your wining Miss Djerf", while another depicted me with some serious eyelash augmentation) triggered all kinds of warm-fuzzy emotions. 

Here are a few of these precious missives, nothing added except for titles (which double as summaries of my experiences with those particular children):

The Compassionate One

Dear Miss Djerf

I am having a good time at sckool. it was nicer when you wher hery. today wee are having hot choclit. The sckool has chached sinc your gon. But I feel bad that you hert.

The Enthusiastic One

Dear miss Djerf,

I was excited when I hrd this nys!

I hrd this

I hrd i wus cuming in youer klasrum.

I jumpd up!

I wos so hape!

I love your voys

it sos god.

you or nis

The Distracted One

Dear Miss Djerf

I hop you feel betr so you can come to shcool but after the shcool yer you are going to go to shcool so you will feel betr so you can go to shcool nest yer

I hop you cood feel betr I like you a lot

The Precise One

Dear Miss Djerf,

I really am looking forward to seeing you next year. Why not come on February third that is my dad’s half birthday.

Merry Christmas.

Boy, do I miss them.

On the Desire to Speak Being Far Greater Than the Need...

I suppose that could be the whole post right there.

I could say a lot more about how much I'm like a first grader, delighting only in telling and retelling my own dramatic stories to whoever will listen. (And sometimes even to those who don't listen, which results in the story fading out to the point of inaudibility and embarrassment. Yes, folks, I AM aware. But it doesn't stop me, sadly.)

I could write about how my ability to describe an amazing revelation from Scripture far outstrips my ability to act on said revelation. Clever words do NOT equal changed hearts.

I could tell you all about how I don't have any trouble pointing out your or someone else's flaws, but words that "build up and give grace to those who listen" (Ephesians 4:29) feel strange in my mouth.

I've been pondering all of this, and it keeps bubbling up into blog post ideas, perpetuating the problem a bit.

Some Scripture that is cutting its way through my thinking, "dividing between the thoughts and intents of the heart:" (Hebrews 4)

"A fool has no delight in understanding, but only in revealing his own mind." Proverbs 18:2

"There is one who speaks rashly, like the thrusts of a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing." Proverbs 12:18

"Do you see a man who is hasty in his words? There is more hope for a fool than for him." Proverbs 29:20

"The end of all things is near; therefore be of sound judgment and sober spirit for the purpose of prayer. [NOT for the purpose of cynical complaining or cutting others down!] Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins." 1 Peter 4:7-8

Words matter. Good ones. Bad ones. The fact that basically everything motivates me to speak or write tells me that words are an important part of who God has made me to be. But that does not mean all my words are fit for public consumption. Many ought to be reserved for the more intimate relationships of my life, particularly my relationship with God. Quite a few more belong in the trash heap. 

But that small bit left? My prayer today: Lord, change me to be the woman who "opens her mouth with wisdom, and on her tongue is the law of kindness." (Proverbs 31:26)

Animal Alter Egos and Dating Advice for Strong Men: First and Second Grade Journals

In a move to broaden our writing horizons (from pet and video game stories), I've been assigning journal topics during daily writing. We're terrible spellers, but plenty thoughtful and creative.

"If I Were An Animal, I Would Be..."

...a lion I woud scare peopl so I scare peopl out of a restront and eta al of thaer food.

...a cheata. Because cheata's can run 60 miles (97 kiloneters) per hour. The reason I want to be a cheata is because I love cats and cheata are part of the cat faimly. But the thing I don't like about them is because cheata's are meat eators and I'm meat.

...a dog. because I like treats and. people petting me and. have sharp teeth and. have big ears like. my anuts dog.

...a Rabit i like to hope i love to Run and i like to hiDe. But i dont to be shot and be eating. But i do like carrets. But the only thing is that i like to swim and Rabits dont like to be cold and i dont like to be in a cage

...a Dinesor because they are bigger than any other animel. And no body can kill a Dinesor except Jesus. Except I wouldn't want to scare to many people away because then I wouldn't have any friends then. and they eat meet and I really like meet and they are strong and they have huge teeth. But one thing I don't about Dinesor is how they don't get cavities without brushing there teeth

...a dinasor because it is big and were the first animal made. they have big bones. and have blud. and likes meat and green stuff. and be a good dinasor and stomp.

...a baer because I like fish and I downt lik winter and I like sleping but If I wus a baer i wud skaer people but i like to eat to   but I wud want to brush my teeth after. But I wud want to be frinds wih people

A few of us are rather attached to our toothbrushes, I guess. This makes me laugh.

After a week of studying this fascinating Bible character (and collectively groaning over his dramatic ups and downs), I told the kids to write Sampson a letter as though he's still alive today. They could tell him what they liked, ask him questions, or give him advice. These were my faves:

Dear Sampson:

Please never marey a philisyn girl agan. Never let anyone ty you up agan. Never cut you'er Hair. Never drink wien. Never let anyone win a Batell agest you agan. allways trust in God. allways love God. Never kill you'er self agan.

Dear Sampson how did you kill a loin and how long was it untill you came back and the bee nest was thier? That was a good ridly you. did And how did you get such a good ida to bren the Fillasteans fields. Oh and I have some ed wiss don't let girls get in the way of you and God.

Dear Sampson I liked it when you killed one thousand Fillesteens with a Dead donky's jo bone. But I didn't like it when you were falling in love with fillesteen women. And I don't think you should have taken some honey from the lion you killed. You souldent have told your wife the awnswre to the ritel. p.s. try not to fall in love with more girl's okay

Bloggish Introspection

My blog is having an identity crisis.

 

[Argh. Something about late nights brings out the thoughtful in me. I can sit down in the middle of the afternoon to write, and barely struggle through a handful of ideas before I fall asleep, but here it is, nearing midnight after a LONG week, and now I want to dump my mental drawers and sort them out...]  

 

When I started this blog, I deliberately chose not to pigeonhole it. I knew how well I categorize my visible, public life and perform for each category as expected, and I felt that I needed one place where all the crazy pieces of who I am were united, at least to the same degree that they are united within my fractured mind. 

 

A nice idea in theory; a silly one in practice.  I'm not sure what made me think I would turn into a different (less self-edited) person on a blog. I don't dump all of my laundry here; only the parts I'm willing to hang on a public clothesline. The pieces that look the best.

 

I have some ideas of what I don't want it to be.  I don't want this to just be a school blog of cute kid stories. I try to steer clear of the rambling journal-entry posts I'm prone toward. (This post is riding that slippery slope, but hey, it's late. My judgment ebbs when I'm low on sleep.) I don't want it to be too heavy, or too light. I want it to be fun and thought-provoking.  I want it to turn my readers toward God, but I also harbor a nature which wants, desperately so, to look good. 

I'm not a huge fan of dirty laundry blogs -and don't anticipate this one joining the ranks- but I'm wondering about my honesty and my purpose in writing.  One of the themes God has placed before me for 2011 is that it is to be a year of turning from seeking my own glory to declaring His glory. 

 

I don't know what this will mean for my writing here, but I'm asking God for two things: first, for the changes within my heart to love His glory more than my own; and second, for opportunities to give Him glory in whatever ways He wants.  Next January, I hope to be able to write a testimonial of my faithful, loving, full-of-surprises Father and His actions all around me in 2011!

Misplaced Creativity

My heart pounded, my mind raced, my fingers hovered above my keyboard. And my memory was...empty.  The cursor blinked impatiently in the "Password" box, taunting me. All I could remember was that I'd been pleased with the creativity of my password on the day I created it.

 

Which is the problem. My creativity, that is. It loves to show up when new passwords must be entered. I think it's the revenge it exacts after having sat mute while I filled in the requisite membership information on whatever new website I joined.  I'm enough of a rule-follower that I stick with true answers to things like name and address. Practicality demands simple usernames, too. But I get to the password box, and the world is my oyster -- or so my creativity thinks. 

 

Ah, it suggests. I have a perfect, obscure combination of movie lines or painting titles or animal words written backwards, all relating to this website in a bizarre way, that will be hack-proof and even a bit snarky. It will bring a secret smile to your face every time you type it in.

 

My mind agrees: of course!  Who doesn't want a password which pins an invisible badge of coolness on you at each use?

 

The only problem with an invisible badge is that once you drop it, it's difficult to recover...

 

Thus, my mental fumbling around once again tonight. That happy memory of feeling clever -- well, it turned out to have no relation to the memory of the actual password.  Guess I'll have to move on, abandoning the old one in favor of one I can actually remember.

 

Take that, creativity.

Not That We Don't Love Cookies

Taylor was antsy all Thursday, knowing that his grandparents were coming to visit sometime that afternoon. At his request, Grandma was bringing cookies.

Unfortunately, the cookies and grandparents showed up just as we were beginning our independent writing time. I expected to cut writing short, but Taylor -at the beginning, my most reluctant writer- surprised me.

From his cozy workspace under a table, he looked up at Grandma and said, "Um, can you come back later? I'm busy writing right now."

I think I managed to control my facial expression, but I was doing internal fist pumps like crazy.

You Tell 'Em, Brother

I'm a fairly structured [read: bossy] teacher, so I tend to dictate many aspects of classroom life. However, I always love to see what's revealed about each student's personality when I remove parameters and allow them to choose. My favorite today was a free writing "story" that came from a sweet first grader:

My school doesn't put up with any nonsense. My family doesn't either.

That was it. I will hereafter think of him as a sweet, rather straight-laced first grader (who perhaps has a secret desire to get away with a little nonsense?)...

A Question of Discipline and Parenting...Sort Of

You may be wondering why this blog has sat deserted for the past two -no, three- months. Well, the answer is a rather embarrassing. You see, I'm having a little discipline problem with my words.

Here it is, plain and simple: my words won't mind me.

How am I dealing with the problem, you ask? Oh, I lecture and they listen, and they nod their heads and promise they understand exactly what I'm telling them, but by the time we've made our peace again, we're too worn out to do anything productive. Tomorrow, we say. Tomorrow, we will work together and write. And then they behave beautifully, as long as we're driving down the road or sitting in the middle of a reading group or some other setting in which WRITING THEM DOWN is impossible. At all those times, they dance to the tune I play, and I nurse great hopes for them.

But get us home after a long day's work, and give us a chance to say something meaningful, and there is no cooperation, or obedience, or patience to be found. They scatter every which way, snickering and mocking, and I am left alone, pouting like a child. I'm supposed to be the one in charge here, right?

What do you do when your words just won't sit when you say sit? When they show off when they should be serving, or they run and hide when you'd like them to sit and properly answer your company?

Am I expecting them to be something they aren't? Am I asking too much of them? Is this the reason they don't listen? Or am I being too lenient, allowing them to run free when they should be shaped and disciplined? Is this why they no longer respect me?

Those of you more experienced in administering discipline, what do you suggest?


[For some crazy reason, when I haven't written for a while, all I can write about is NOT BEING ABLE TO WRITE! Here's hoping that this is a priming of the pump...]

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.

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.