Dallin Malmgren's Blog, page 34

2017 — Your Year in Review

            I know, how presumptuous! Like I have any insight at all into your 2017. Actually, the title is just a hook. It was sparked by the realization that this is something I need to do. It’s a tired metaphor, but life really is a journey. Consider the end of each calendar year a milestone, or at least a signpost. A time for reflection—think of yourself on a bus or a train, watching fields and towns and telephone poles go by. But as you look out the window, you also see your own face. Examine it.

So where to start this review? Health seems a good place. That may come across as self-absorbed, but is it really? How you feel affects every other category in this inventory. Take stock. What did you weigh at the beginning of this year and what do you weigh now? (Up from 189 to 194 for me…sigh)   What meds are you taking, then and now? A sad truth—there are some issues of health you have little control over. If you have the flu, you feel like crap and there’s not much you can do about it. Or worse things than the flu. The best I can offer is give it to God and live with it. But we can focus on those areas over which we have some control: diet and exercise and attitude. In assessing our health, perspective is an important key—we’re not looking for glorified bodies, we’re looking for improvement.

Next on my list are my relationships. Obviously, family comes to mind first. I know there is a world of dysfunction out there so it’s not an absolute truth, but still…God teaches us unconditional love by giving us children. But how does that play out in real life? It’s certainly not an invitation to license and indulgence, but it’s not spare the rod and spoil the child either. Remember the incredible joy and hope and promise we felt at the moment of birth? How are we doing with that these days? Unconditional love is not how I would characterize my marital relationship—but it should be. (“Husbands, love your wives as Christ loves the church…” Eph. 5:25) Marriage is the real school of love. You can’t fake it, you are going to have nitty gritty moments, it goes way deeper than feelings, and it will involve self-sacrifice. (My personal assessment: after 40 years, I think I’ve moved somewhere between kindergarten and first grade—but I’m still happily enrolled.) I haven’t even mentioned extended family or friends or people from your past that you have neglected. (Note to self: future blog on relationships)

I used to tell my students the two most important choices (non-spiritual) that they would make would be who they chose to live their lives with and what they chose to do. The word career encompasses a lot of different activities today. (If you are at peace with your career, you can skip this paragraph.) If you wake up each day dreading your life because you have to go to work, you need to consider a career change. Three factors comprise an acceptable career to me: 1—can you support yourself doing what you’re doing? 2—are you making some sort of contribution to the world doing it? 3—are you content? If the answer to any question is no, you don’t necessarily have to change jobs, but you might pay attention for warning flags. Career changes rarely happen magically—start with small steps.

A related area to examine, especially as you get older, is your finances. I know people who are old and poor, and it is a difficult life. Misfortune can be a cause, but it can also be a choice. There is a constant battle going   on in everybody’s bankbook: debt vs. savings. You have to be able to find a balance (we Malmgrens are notoriously frugal—God is working with me on that). In your self-examination, if you find you are more in debt than you were a year ago, I hope you know why. (“It just happened…” or “Oh well…” are not acceptable reasons. Finances can be a source of tremendous stress—stay on top of it.

I spend a lot of time playing golf. I have no problem with that—golf is a spiritual exercise (really). But I know time is a resource I need to examine. I also care passionately about sports: basketball (Spurs), football (fantasy), and golf (oh, to be able to play like that!) On a more confessional level, I also watch certain sitcom reruns. These pastimes veer dangerously close into that area known as “a waste of time.” People need to have “me” time—periods they can do what they feel like regardless of intrinsic value. But I have a helpful resolution as regards this resource: give more of your time to others. My friend Mike Ball once told me, concerning his retirement, “I try to make sure I do at least one nice thing for someone else every day.” A noble aspiration.

One last item on my inventory: our souls. Jesus said: “What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul?” I don’t want this to turn into a sermon, only an encouragement. Tend to your soul like a garden. It will blossom and grow.

Whew. These self-examinations are not an easy business…kind of like putting yourself through a meat grinder. But I suspect the next step might be even harder—how am I going to change?

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Immanuel

      I see the signs all over the place:  “Keep Christ in Christmas”.  I know that it is a noble sentiment—we are celebrating Jesus’s birthday—the reason for the season—all that jazz.  It is a testament that His birth is celebrated all over the planet.  But something about the sign rankles me, and I think I’ve figured out what it is.  It implies that we have to prop Jesus up—that He’s fading and we have to make Him relevant again.  I wouldn’t be surprised to see Trump wearing a hat with the slogan.  My question is:  how could we possibly keep Him out?  The only way is to ignore Him, and that is way more our loss than His.

I’m well aware there’s a dark side to Christmas.  Everybody talks about the commercialization.  Black Friday and Cyber Monday and even poor old Small Business Saturday.  I can’t recall meeting anyone who actually wanted to go to their office Christmas party.  Doesn’t everyone seem to be in a hurry at Christmas?  Hurry is not good for the soul.  The season itself seems to wink at self-indulgence:  eat more, drink more, spend more, be less active.  Then there’s the stress:  is the plane on time?  Did we buy Aunt Emily enough?  Don’t let Ray and Bob sit near each other.  Won’t the potatoes get cold?  Damn Cowboys lost again.  The hurt feelings and the horrible greed—I didn’t get what I wanted.  I like hers better than mine.  They spent more on him than they did on me.  Worst of all, the disagreements and outright fights.  My friend who is a cop told me that domestic disturbances go sky high during the holiday season.  If you are a mostly sane person, you probably experience all the above—only to a lesser degree.

You don’t have to be a religious zealot to enjoy the light side of Christmas.  First and foremost, there is the joy of family.  My son, his wife, and our three granddaughters live in Dallas.  My other son and his wife live in Port Townsend, Washington.  My daughter, her husband, another granddaughter (and one on the way!) live in Toronto.  Anyone who is not dead inside is blown away by the shining light in the eyes of little children anticipating Christmas.  Right now we are all in Dallas—joy to the world! (And we have four generations present—how cool is that?)   Even in Texas, where the prospect of snow is dismal, you have to enjoy the season (who could imagine a sweltering Christmas?)  And this holiday brings its own special kind of beauty—the tree, the decorations, the lights, the presents!  The spirit of giving, though sometimes misshapen, is omnipresent—ask the bell ringers and Elf Louise workers and so on.  One of my favorite parts is the food—Thanksgiving gets the glory but Christmas has just as much substance—and I like ham even better than turkey.  I’ll bet every single reader has his/her own favorite Christmas song—from Silent Night to Robert Earl Keen’s Merry Christmas to the Family (a personal favorite of mine).  And their favorite Christmas movie (Still can’t watch It’s a Wonderful Life without tearing up.).  For me, Christmas officially begins with the Christmas Eve candlelight service, where the pews are packed with people who haven’t seen the inside of a church in twelve months but still hold up their candles reverently.

And this segues into the real side of Christmas.  I guess this is what the signs are (or should be) about—Immanuel.  God with us.  Most of us get it that Christmas celebrates when the baby Jesus was born.  We have Easter to remind us of the grief and great joy of the crucifixation and resurrection.  But we all tend to forget constantly, consistently, carelessly Immanuel.  God with us.  Present.  Here.  Now.  And, I am certain, enjoying Himself immensely.  Yet we tend to treat Him like the elephant in the room.  So I have a new Christmas word:  permeate.  Dictionary.com says:  to pass into or through every part of.  I want His Spirit to permeate everything we do to celebrate Christmas.  Or rather, I want to become more aware of what is actually happening—“I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be made complete.”  (John 15:11)

Have a joyous Christmas.

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A message to my former students

As soon as I retired, I started having these dreams.  The principal walked into my classroom to evaluate me and I was completely unprepared.  Or I was driving the school bus down the highway and my tennis kids were hanging out the windows, ignoring me as I screamed at them.  Or my seniors in English 4 were getting rowdy and I realized the exercise I had for them was ridiculously easy and boring.  Or I got summoned to the vice-principal’s office to find angry parents.  Or I turned around from the white board and every single kid was on his/her cell phone.  I had these school anxiety dreams about four or five nights a week at first, and it bothered me.  Didn’t I really like teaching?  Was I always stressed?  Was I more afraid of losing my job than doing my job?  My current reality kind of reinforced my dreams—I was retired—I didn’t miss it—when I went back to Clemens to visit my friend Cari, I snuck in and out of the library—didn’t miss teenagers—couldn’t believe I found time to teach with all the fun things I have to do with my mind these days.

The dreams have receded now (still have the occasional one), and I find that my perspective is changing.  The first thing I realized is that I didn’t miss teenagers, I missed you—my former students.  You are the ones who passed through my classroom—the ones that moved me, and inspired me, and melted me, and frightened me, and troubled me, and, oh so many times, made me laugh out loud.  Thank you.

So, thinking of you, I feel that stirring inside, that urge to teach (I honestly thought it had dried up.)  But that seems so arrogant—who am I?  What do I have to say that could make a difference?  And if I had something to say, shouldn’t I have said it back then?

What was I trying to get across when I did teach?  I was never one of those lesson plan guys—what were my lessons?  (I used to tell my students before a test, as regards cheating, that in five years they would never remember what they got on the test, but they would know in their hearts if they were dishonest—that seems like an okay lesson.)  I loved teaching English because it was mostly about literature, and literature was about people and life.  I loved teaching Creative Writing because it was really about opening up your mind.  I loved teaching/coaching tennis because it was about how you conducted yourself and the relationships you formed.  With so many fond memories, I think about what lessons I hope I might have passed on to you.

The first is this:  Life is good.

There are a couple of geese, Anwar and Cleopatra, who live out here at the Bandit.  They’ve been here at least as long as I have.   I think their home is around the 13th green, because that is where I see them most.  But I also see them flying around low to the ground, over fairway and rough, or floating out on Bandit Bay.  Sometimes they huddle together below the 13th tee, as if they like to watch the golf balls go by overhead.  Every evening they waddle up to Mary Ford’s house, where she gives them their dinner.  My wife tells me that geese mate for a lifetime.  I look at Anwar and Cleopatra, and I think,  life is good.

Now that I’m retired, I play a lot of golf.  My very favorite golf is with our men’s group on Wednesday and Friday and Saturday mornings.  Everybody throws in $10, we divide into teams, and we play competitive golf.  It is so fun!  When I hop into my golf cart and drive up the hill on those mornings, I can barely contain the joy that is throbbing in my veins.  And I know that life is good.

But that’s just me.  There are a trillion other paths to joy.  My wife gets up a little later than I do.  She’ll pour her coffee and look out the window.  Sometimes it’s the hawk that lives in the wooded area behind our house.  A few weeks ago it was the incredible flock of multi-colored butterflies who adore the flowers that she grows.  Lately it’s been the lone hummingbird who forgot to migrate with the rest of them and sits alone on our feeder.  It’s like Disneyland out there.

Believe me, I’m aware that life is not always good.  I’ve heard about the bombing of hospitals in Syria.  Chemical warfare.  Isis.  Intentional starvation.  Wall Street greed.  Sexual harassment.  Prejudice.   And you can’t just blame it on man’s inhumanity to man.  The fires in Los Angeles,  the floods in Houston, the earthquake in Mexico City.  We call those things “natural” disasters.  I cannot come up with any neat prescription that explains away the rampant pain and suffering that pervades our entire planet.  (Though I’d like to write about that another time.)

So maybe I have to change the text of the lesson:  what I meant to get across in my classroom is that life is meant to be good.  That is the intention.  Contrast the hurricane and the volcano with the morning dew and the evening sunset, which are far more frequent occurrences.  Go for a walk in the woods.  Fall in love.  Watch a mom and a baby.  Play with a kitten.  Learn to drive.  Lose yourself in a book.  Make art.  Cook your favorite dinner and top it off with a glass of wine.  Really pay attention at Christmas.  Life screams out at you that it’s meant to be good.

So what if yours isn’t.  Don’t lose hope.  If you took my Creative Writing class, you wrote a journal.  I’d collect them at the end of the semester, scan through them, and give you some ridiculous grade.  I was reading one girl’s and I realized she could be suicidal.  I kept her after class and in talking discovered she was definitely suicidal.  We went to see the school counselor and the girl went to Laurel Ridge.  About ten years later I heard from her—she was getting married and she wanted to thank me.  Wow.

Yeah, nice story, but “don’t lose hope” is a bromide, not a plan.  What if your life isn’t good right now?  There is something you can do at this very moment, and I promise it will work.  Do good.  Think of something nice you can do for somebody else, and do it.  The Buddhists (or is it the Hindus?) call it karma, and the Bible says “As a man sows, so shall he reap.”  It is a natural law.  What you put out comes back to you.  It’s not black and white, and you don’t get to choose how it transpires, but that is how it works.  Whatever your circumstance, do the right thing (your heart will tell you), whether you feel like it or not, and you will move forward.  Life is meant to be good.

One of my favorite teachers, Ms. Stepp (I think it’s Rhodes now) used to have a bumper sticker on her door:  “Practice random acts of kindness.”  I have an amendment:  “Don’t make it random.”  Look for every opportunity.  There was this poem we read in my CW class where a woman was walking along the beach and she discovered a pelican with a fishhook pinning its jaw to it’s wing.  It was flapping around, unable to do anything, obviously distraught.   (A trapped pelican is a pretty fearsome beast.)  But she went up and gripped it and was able to free the bird from the hook, and it flew away, wild and free.    The last line of the poem is:  “Virtue:  what a sunrise in the belly!”

We could all list a thousand reasons why life isn’t good.  But if it is meant to be good, it becomes crystal clear what our assignment is:  make it better.  Do good.

 

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Breathe…

     “Abide in me, and I in you.”  I have to believe this is the key to the abundant life we’re all supposed to be living in Christ.  It’s clearly an invitation, so it seems we’re not there yet (at least I’m not).  Or are we?  What does it mean to abide?  I’ve grown accustomed to a cup of coffee in the morning.  Do I pour an extra cup?  Talk to the air?  How do I go about abiding on an everyday basis?

The above verse clearly implies an interaction.  But I have a confession to make:  it’s all pretty vague how and when God is interacting with me.  I’ve never had one of those Saul of Tarsus moments—the blinding light, the burning bush, the voice from heaven.  All I got was this internal realization that it was true.  I did speak in tongues once, but that was because everyone around me was doing it and I just started blabbering—I’m guessing God thought it was pretty funny.  I have tried the Bible Verse channel—come to a dilemma, flip open the book, point a finger, and see what God wants to say to you (you learn to stay away from the Old Testament with that one!)  My standard modus operandi is the Open Door/Close Door method:  I think God wants to move to Dallas—put the house up for sale—no one buys the house—I guess He doesn’t want us to move there right now.  But I’ve never heard a voice.  (My friend Taylor assures me that some people do actually hear His voice—more power to them.)  Mostly God speaks to me through the little things.

This abiding seems to be a tricky business.  Can you abide without knowing it?  There is a Zen koan that goes:  If you want to be, act as if.  If you want to be calm, act as if you are calm; if you want to be compassionate, act as if you are compassionate; if you want to be good with girls, act as if (that one actually worked a few times in my youth).  I think there is some truth to it—you can shape the kind of person you want to be.  But will it work for abiding?  There’s the conundrum:  you can’t fake abiding—it is not a one-man show.

I’ve stumbled upon a new theory:  breathing is the doorway.  Breathing is the most elemental action we take.  And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living being.  Doesn’t the doctor smack the newborn baby on the bottom to start the breathing (or is that an old wives’ tale)?  And isn’t our last breath our final act?  The alpha and the omega.  The breath of life.

Yes, I’m aware of the universality of the practice of breathing as a spiritual exercise.  Hindu—Buddhist—Islam—Zen—mediation—yoga—pop psychology:  all extol the benefits of controlled breathing as a means of becoming centered.  We would be foolish to exclude or dismiss the wisdom of other religions or cultures regarding the art of breathing.  And the Bible has many references to breath and life and spirit.  I recognize I’m a complete amateur when it comes to breathing.  I’ve never thought about it—I just do it.

But as a doorway to abiding?  Seems plausible—so I’m incorporating it into my life.  For example:  like all couples, Karen and I will have our testy moments—I’ll do or say something that annoys her, or vice versa.  The other will respond in kind…and again…and (by grace) I realize the next thing I say will take this right over the edge…and so I breathe.  I breathed for almost four miles on the way to church last Sunday, and it was an excellent service.  Or I’m standing over an important putt…one I really want to make…so I breathe.  (No, it doesn’t always go in—I told you I’m a novice at this.)  Or when I can’t go to sleep and want to…I breathe.  One of my favorites is when I just wake up in the morning…I breathe.  And I say good morning to Him…and am glad for a new day, all snuggly there in my bed.

That is the only distinction I would make between me and all the breathing artists I mentioned above (or maybe there is no distinction).  It’s an interaction—breathing in is receiving life from Him and breathing out is responding to Him (and that wonderful pause in between!)

I need to add my characteristic disclaimer:  my ultimate truth is that I cannot abide by trying.  I can’t get there through my own effort—He must bring me.  The bridge we cross is called Faith—if our breathing was left to us, we’d choke.  A Christian koan:  Let go and let God.  But breathe.

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Waiting for…

Traffic lights, grocery lines, license bureaus, auto repair services —we all have to wait.  (I especially hate it when they assign you a number.)   Most of us never learn to wait, so when we have to, we have no plan.  We just go where our minds take us, and, in my experience, it’s not usually a pleasant place.  Then there’s the factor of what you’re waiting for.  There’s the involuntary waits (traffic snarls, flight delays) and the self-imposed waits (last foursome to tee off, the line to ride Space Mountain).  Without becoming a total recluse, I don’t think it’s possible to avoid waiting.  I guess rich people can buy themselves a little extra time.  But my thesis is that waiting is an inevitable part of the human condition.

I bring all this up because I have been waiting.  This afternoon, ringing a bell, helping Salvation Army.  That might seem self-aggrandizing—doing good, helping the poor—but the truth is I was waiting.  My shift was 4 to 5.  I tried to discipline myself not to look at the time more than once every ten minutes.

The worst waiting I can recall enduring was monitoring TAKS testing (or whatever they call it now) while teaching high school.  We had to sit alertly or move up and down the rows to make sure no one was cheating.  It was an untimed test.  There were tiny windows on the doors where the administrators could peek through to make sure you were monitoring properly.  I learned that a Tic Tac would dissolve in 111 seconds if you put it in your mouth and moved it around (no biting).  If you set it on your tongue and didn’t do anything with it, 4:10.

In January of 2016, my wife and I decided that it would be good to move to Dallas to be nearer our youngest son, his wife, our three granddaughters, and other family.   We put our house on the market in February.  Still haven’t moved—we are waiting.

Of course, my waits are nothing compared to what’s available out there.  I fear to travel because I have experienced going less than 1.4 miles in an hour, and I have seen those people sleeping on cots in the airport.  I don’t even want to think about those evacuation or snowstorm lines, where you’re not moving at all, and you don’t know when you’re going to move again.  The mother of all waiting:  trapped under ground in an earthquake.  I admire the people who go through it—I’m not sure I could—and I wonder how their spirits have responded.

One small disclaimer here:  there is a different kind of waiting that transcends the above (for a baby, or bad news, or a new job, or the right person) – that doesn’t count because it is more about the event than the waiting.

So what’s the point?  It sounds like a simplistic spiritual bromide, but – uh duh – patience.  Almost everything in the cultural media points to immediate gratification.  How are we supposed to learn to wait?  You have to believe that patience is a virtue that you want to acquire—or that your impatience is causing you psychic damage.

What are we really waiting for?  Here’s my radical theory:  we are all waiting for God.  Set aside our human beliefs—if there is a God, He is all-knowing, He is all powerful, He is omnipresent.  He is in control.  I don’t mean that He makes everything happen, but He permeates everything that does happen.  And He has brought you waiting.  A tough premise for some, but let’s be honest:  you sure didn’t bring yourself waiting.  Receive it.

We had varmints tearing up my wife’s garden most every night.  So we got one of those wire traps, and the first night we got an armadillo.  The second night we got a teenage raccoon.  It was still when I discovered it, but as soon as it noticed me, it started rattling around the cage, looking for a way out.  The next night it was the mama raccoon.  She was hissing and snarling and spitting as soon as she saw me.  (So scary I had to get my friend Cecil to help me set her free.)  The next night was a baby raccoon,  I drove her to the woodline and opened the cage and she ambled out.  They were all waiting and I was their God.

So the question becomes:  how do we wait?  Mostly we seek a diversion, mainly with our phones.  But that’s just treading water.  I want to learn to be calm.  I especially don’t want to be that guy fidgeting and fussing and cussing and slamming and even doing worse things.  If waiting comes from God, it’s meant to be a growth experience.  I have a few suggestions:

It helps to realize there’s nothing you can do about it.  You may be steering your ship, but you don’t control the waters.
It also helps to remember what I said above: the waiting comes from God.  He put you in this situation—it is not the guy who ran out of gas in the middle lane at 4:30 p.m. (he is dealing with his own God thing).  Receive it from God and acquiesce.
Breathe – your connection to the Spirit is by your breath – breathe in, breathe out. Realize your connection to the Initiator of that response – it helps.

Almost makes me look forward to bell-ringing again.

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Karen’s poem — A Lament for Sutherland Springs

 

(artwork — Karen Malmgren)

A Lament for Sutherland Springs

Lost rage clinging to death

Stalked up the walk in black

On skin colored with chalk.

Battling what was won

By God’s begotten Son,

Who died for you and me

Then rose in victory!   The veil torn.

 

Excuses will not work,

Explanations not heard

For such dark sorrow sown.

The Word being spoken,

Proclaimed to the broken

By numbers of His love.

Decisions made alone.  Let us pray.

 

Locked in minds a syndrome;

Air heavy, breath won’t come.

Lives are gone, but not for long.

Their spirits are released.

No fear in any eyes,

Souls on the other side

See light, arms opened wide.  Heaven’s here!

 

Hear the screaming; hear the shouting;

Hear the praying; cease the doubting—

It’s a fallen world.

 

Stubborn ignorant pride;

Drugs, alcohol and lies

Are excuses folks use.

Just fuel to flame evil

From thoughts of sick people

In hearts that can be healed,

Transformed and made anew.  Why not you?

 

My enemy, my friend—

Perhaps neighbor or kin—

No hero at the end.

Reasons for senseless hate

Words can’t articulate.

Blood stains your given name,

A coward’s show of shame.  What went wrong?

 

Pleas echo on the hill;

Pass laws that shouldn’t kill.

Galvanize for action..

Show hurt some compassion..

Move from complacency..

Give grief some dignity.

Wisdom calls you to her.   Please listen.

 

Hear the screaming; hear the shouting;

Hear the praying; cease the doubting—

Change the fallen world.

 

Thoughts in anguish reeling

Bodies move unfeeling

Shocked by the intrusion;

Life seems an illusion.

But there are green pastures

Near quiet, still waters

On paths of righteousness.  Jesus calls.

 

Faith, unseen friend teaching;

Hope given, world reaching;

Love, greatest gift without end.

Food for hungry times.

Answers for the meek,

Filling all who seek.  Revive us.

 

So let His Spirit flow;

Powering passion to show

Forgiveness can be real.

Marching to Zion’s hill

Hands grasped without the dread

That life will end instead.

Salvation to the lost.  Lord, come back.

 

Hear the screaming; hear the shouting;

Hear the praying; cease the doubting—

Free a fallen world.

–Karen Malmgren

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Hello, Jesus: my true confession

It has been about three and a half years since I retired from teaching.  I have to confess, I haven’t looked back at all.  Don’t miss it, haven’t kept in touch, don’t think about it (but still dream about it!)—I even avoid good old Clemens High School like the plague.

I knew that when I retired I would be starting a new chapter in my life.  I wanted to be fully present for that chapter.  Of course, my old standby plan had been that I would concentrate on my writing.  I always thought of myself as a teacher and a writer.  Lo and behold, I discovered that I had nothing to write about.  At least nothing that really grabbed me.

But it went deeper than that.  I figure this is the final chapter of my life.  Oh, I don’t mean to be dramatic.  I hope it will be a long chapter.  Maybe more like a Part III with a bunch of chapters contained within.  However you look at it, the question confronted me:  What do I want to do with the rest of my life?  More than anything else?  (No, not golf.)

I met Jesus when I was twenty-six years old.  I was pretty lost—happy on the outside, broken inside.  I accepted Him into my life.  He led me to a fine and beautiful wife, blessed us with three vibrant children, guided me into a challenging and fulfilling career, rescued me from every bad decision and crisis I could manufacture, and gave me a life full of love and laughter and joy.

But all along the way, I knew I was only scratching the surface of my relationship with Him.  I was a nominal Christian floating in the midstream.  I checked out okay on the exteriors:  good on Bible reading (I like to read), weak on church attendance (still don’t love church, but I have gained an appreciation for it), no major David/Bathsheba transgressions but tons of minor self-indulgences.  Naturally, when the major crises arose, I would become devout, and when they passed I would slip back into self-absorption.  Still He blessed me.

And so my true retirement goal became clear to me.  This most important of all my relationships was the one I had kept on the back burner.  I was holding Him at arm’s length.  Foolish Galatian!  Just consider His promises:  “I am with you always…”  “…abide in Me…”  “I can do all things through Him…”  “…yet not I, but Christ living in me…”  “…fountains of living water…”  Those are invitations, folks!

I can remember in a book group discussion I had one time, the prevailing opinion was that Jesus was a wonderful teacher, a peerless role model, a proof of what exists inside us all.  If I had to follow that Jesus, I would wither in despair.  It would be like being presented with a brand new shiny Corvette and not having the keys or any other means of starting the engine.  Nice to look at but basically useless.  He lives.

So I have embarked on my retirement.  Three plus years.  Wow.  I’d love to report that I am a changed man, transformed, walking around with a glow.  Honestly, I doubt that you’d notice much difference from the man you knew whenever you knew me.  But I believe that the Holy Spirit works from the inside out.  I still do a thousand things to impede His progress, but I am on His side.  He reveals Jesus to me.

I have over 2,000 friends on Facebook.  This was a pitiful plan I hatched when I decided to use social media to become a famous author.  To quote my boy Bob Dylan, “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.”  If I have any “teaching” left in me, it can only be to point to Him.  Praise His Name.

Love God and love your neighbor—the sum of the commandments.  Pretty simple formula for daily living.  And certainly something worth writing about!

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Cinco Anillos — My take on Spurs’ championship

Cinco Anillos – My take on the Spurs’ championship

 

It’s been a week now, and I’m still riding the wave, even if the water’s getting shallower.  I don’t think about it as often, but when I do a big smile breaks across my face.  We got number five!  In one of the most glorious runs of all-time, a run that came with very little stress and anxiety, if you don’t count the Mavs.  Being the self-centered person I am, I will always equate number five with my own waltz into retirement, God’s icing on my cake of joy.  April, May and the beginning of June cruised by as I planned my life schedule around which nights the Spurs had a playoff game.

Did I expect  them to win it all?  I am optimistic by nature, but, heart of hearts, not really.  The agonizing end to last season (see my blog entry Los Spurs)…  Do you remember the first two (or three) months of this season, when we were crushing the teams that sucked but couldn’t get a win against the potential playoff teams?  I was afraid of the Clips, Houston, the Warriors, the Grizzlies, the Trailblazers, and OKC.  Especially Portland and OKC.  (I didn’t even think about the Eastern Conference.)   So I was hopeful, at best.

But the Spurs inspire such passion, devotion and love.  I confess I am a terrible fan.  I don’t go to games, don’t own any Spurs gear or paraphernalia (though I do want to get a sticker for my golf cart), and don’t attend the parades and celebrations that go with winning it all.  All I do is watch their games, read about them in the Express News and on the internet, and smile as the national sports media essentially ignore them.  If I were typical of our fan base, the Spurs would go broke.   But I’m not.  Our fans are as diverse as our players.  There’s a couple in Corpus Christi who drive up for every single home game.  I think they’ve missed one in fifteen years.  Of course, the Spurs have been good for fifteen years—how many teams can say that?  I know there are other NBA cities with large Hispanic populations, but I’d bet anything that the Spurs rank number one worldwide among Hispanic basketball fans.  In one of my less self-centered moments I realized—if I, who only watch the games on TV, can experience this much happiness over our championship, how unfathomably joyous must it be for our more committed fans?  It’s a wonder San Antonio hasn’t floated away.

How do the Spurs do it?  I remember after the 2007 championship I came up with the following body analogy for the Spurs core:  Pop is the Brain, Timmie is the Soul, Manu is the Heart, and Tony is the Penis.  (I know that makes Tony sound like a dick, but, c’mon guys, where would you be without your penis?)  Now I have to add to the analogy.  Kawhi, quite obviously, is the Hand, and R.C.—well, R.C. must be God, who knows and sees all things, and understands how it all fits together.  Many Spurs fans already know this, but there is a wonderful YouTube video called “The Beautiful Game”—which is a six minute tribute to how the Spurs play the game of basketball.  If you haven’t seen it yet, it will probably bring tears to your eyes.

Every loyal Spur fan probably has his/her favorite moment from the playoff run.  I’ve heard about Manu’s thunder dunk on Bosh, Boris’s behind-the-back pass to Tiago for a lay-up, Patty’s diving tip pass to Manu, Tiago’s revenge block, and many others.  My personal favorite came early against the Mavs—Manu’s crosscourt baseline pass, all the way from one side to Danny Green open for a three on the other side.  Danny said that Manu threw a curveball, so that the ball swung out of bounds and hooked back in at his corner.  I’ve been watching basketball for more than fifty years and have never seen that pass before!

Can we repeat?  I feel cautiously optimistic.  We were clearly the best team in basketball this year, and the biggest thing we’re losing is another year.  The core is even stronger, since you have to include Kawhi in there now.  We have to have Boris back, and Patty owes it to us to come back since we allowed him to do the worst emcee job in the history of championship celebrations.  I think the key is Manu.  It concerns the hell out of me that he is playing in the World Championships for Argentina this summer—though I admire him for it.  Here’s what’s got to happen:  Manu must never play more minutes than his uniform number during the regular season—and the Spurs should give him the month of March off.   Go to the beach, hang out with your wife, take care of the twins and Luca.  Be fresh April 1.  Are you listening, Pop?

Go Spurs go, forever and ever.

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My Retirement Speech

I have no intention of giving one, but I did want to write one…

Wow. Thirty-three years. My plan was to teach for twenty and then become a full-time writer. But our plans are not always God’s plans. When I think of the things that have happened, the ways that I’ve changed, and, most of all, the people I’ve met in the thirteen years since our plans diverged, I accede to His wisdom. Being a teacher has been my calling.

I decided to become a teacher when I was 29 years old. Karen was pregnant with our first child (my darling Bethany), and I was working as a hospital storeroom clerk. The realization came to me that I was about to become a family man and would need to keep working for most of the rest of my life—and I knew I could do something more meaningful than delivering medical supplies to different floors of a hospital. What did I want to do? Teach and write.

I got my first job at Ste. Genevieve High School when I was 31. I started out as a moron (see “key incident” in Chap. 18), but in three years time—with the help of some very kind people—I had found my footing in the classroom. I knew who I was and that kids would respond to me. They even threw a party for me when we left Ste. Gen.

There followed two dark years at Judson High School in Converse, Texas. Judson was five times the size of my previous high school, and the only people I could connect with were my students. After two years they decided not to rehire me (essentially, I got fired!), which I believe had more to do with a personality conflict with a veteran teacher than with my professional competency. But, no regrets. I ended up at Clemens, and I got a book out of the experience. (Read my side of the story in The Ninth Issue—soon to be available on my website.)

Followed by 28 years at Samuel Clemens High School. I am not a school spirit “rah rah” type person, but my love and respect for this school and this district run deep. The district has kept my wife and I gainfully employed for over fifty combined years at a respectable salary, and it has provided all three of my children with a strong educational foundation. As for the high school—the reason I stayed so long is because I never saw another school that looked like a better place to teach. I have been inspired, rewarded, and fulfilled, and that boils down to one factor—as it always does in teaching: the kids.

I always told them that I chose English because it really involves learning about life. My employers gave me the Creative Writing program the day I started at Clemens, and it remains the most stimulating and fun class that I teach. I have learned that regardless of what you teach, if you can strike that creative chord within a kid, if you can get it to thrum, you will be blown away by the results. One of my favorite things about my website is that it contains a Student Writing of the Week, a Photo of the Week, and a Video of the Week. I am the caretaker who gets to sift through 33 years of thrumming.

I have enough self-esteem to believe that I have done my job well, that I have touched the lives of many of the souls who have passed through my classroom. What an honor and a privilege! I think of the line from Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig in The Pride of the Yankees – “Today I consider myself the luckiest man on earth…” (Of course, he was dying, which gave it more gravitas.)

But my intention for this book was that it would be helpful to those who do what I did. It seems so arrogant to advise—but I have come away with a few opinions on how to navigate the minefield that comes with taking possession of a classroom. You have to learn to prioritize. One of the pitfalls of teaching is that you can always do more. You are bombarded with tasks from your administration, your department, your extra-curricular responsibilities, your students and even their parents. My wife was driven to a four year sabbatical after 15 years of teaching because she always did more. Learn to do what matters and fake the bullshit.

Early in my career a wise teacher told me “It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.” I’ve lived by that rule, and it got me the thickest file in Central Office and many unforgettable and meaningful classroom experiences. A good rule of thumb for evaluating a course of action before you leap in is to ask yourself if what you intend to do will really be beneficial for the kid or kids involved. You can’t go wrong if you put the kids first.

I’ve got tons of other advice if anyone is still listening. Stay healthy because the one thing that every good teacher needs is energy. Become a good listener—not one of my best traits, but I have noticed that kids will talk if they know you’re listening. And that’s when you’re most likely to make a real difference. Stay in the moment, because that’s where the laughter and the joy and the empathy reside, and those are the things that make your job fun. Finally, don’t sweat the small stuff. It is always going to be there. Miss that duty if you need to. Fake that lesson plan. Take that mental health day. You are a distance runner, not a sprinter.

Teachers and writers share a common job hazard—they mostly don’t get to see the effect of their work. The lessons you impart are planted internally. The kid leaving the classroom looks the same as the kid who came in. It is usually a matter of faith that something positive happened. Have faith.

Last but certainly not least, I want to thank the lord Jesus Christ for His watchfulness over my entire career. I don’t know how so many teachers do it without Him. I couldn’t have.

***Reminder– This blog entry is actually the 34th and final essay from my new ebook, Is This For a Grade:  Re-taught and Re-tested.  If you are interested in reading more, the ebook is available on my website.

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The First Day of School

Blogger’s note: Like my last entry, most of this blog comes from a book I wrote 20 years ago entitled “Is This For a Grade?” I am in the process of republishing that book as an e-book, but annotating it with my current observations and opinions. I hope to publish this update the day that I retire, if not sooner.



The more things change, the more they stay the same.



(Having reread this chapter, I find I have nothing to change. Somehow, that gives me a comforting sense of continuity. I still enjoy the first day of school, and it is still mostly for the reasons listed below. But this year I have an entirely new perspective on the last day of school. Please read the “Afterword” at the end of this chapter.)

I like first days. Oh, I can’t say that as the summer wears down and the next school year looms ahead I get all chirpy, but once I’m there and that first bell rings, I know I am where I belong. Not a bad feeling.

I like standing in the hallway in front of my door when that first bell rings. New students, new couples, new clothes.

The freshmen are easiest to spot. Poor fish. They look so scared, peering at the numbers over each classroom door, trying desperately to stay out of anybody’s way, anxious to deposit themselves into a classroom, any classroom, and be safe. (Yes, I suppose I am idealizing a little. There is also the new breed of freshmen, anxious to do nothing but acquire a baad reputation as soon as possible.) But upperclassmen still enjoy misdirecting freshmen, and selling them phony maps and hall passes, and harrassing them for stepping on the school seal, and all of that stuff that makes high school high school.

Summer romance remains as constant as William Shakespeare’s poetry. The wise teacher makes it a point to stay very detached from the intricacies of the dating scene within a high school student body. Still, we can’t help but notice, and to judge accordingly. I always groan inwardly when I see a sweet, young girl whom I taught the previous year tucked under the arm of a boy of questionable morals whose primary form of exercise involves bending an elbow to raise a beer can to his lips. I feel equally mystified, but a lot happier, upon observing youngsters experiencing love for the first time. We tend to forget that not everyone comes to high school played out and jaded. The sight of two young people completely caught up in each other, oblivious to others, wholeheartedly devoted, is enough to make me wish I was young again (but not for long). Because you want it to last for them (and you know it won’t).

Ah yes, new clothes. The first day of school ranks right behind the first day after Christmas vacation for haute couture. The natives will be stylin’. One of my tennis players came into our first class this year bragging that he’d spent $150 the previous day on school clothes.

“What did you get?” I asked him.

“Two shirts and a pair of pants.“

(I have three children headed for high school, and I’m scared!)

I like to watch them (the dreaded them ) come into my classroom. Some move immediately to the back of the room, seeking that point farthest away from me, as if I have herpes or halitosis, hoping (in vain) that I will allow them to keep their distance for the rest of eternity. Others sit front and center, perky as petunias, eyes bright and eager, like desperate candidates at a job interview. Most think nothing of me, eyes darting around the room scoping out who else will share their English class and seating themselves accordingly. The pretty girls never sit alone.

I like to see what they bring to class on that first day. There are always a few who travel light, having already lost their schedules and failing to produce even a pencil or piece of paper, should the teacher (outrageously) want to get right down to business. It’s easy to spot the ones whose mothers still play an active role in their lives. New book bag, organized notebook, two of everything. It’s fun watching how quickly they can trash their mother’s best efforts. But the ones who really amaze me are those kids who manage, on that very first day, to look as if they’ve been attending classes the past six months. You’d think they had moved out of their homes to come back to school, their book bags loaded down with every imaginable thing. Put a brand new textbook in their hands and watch it transmogrify instantaneously. And they can do it with new desks, new clothes, new shoes …

I have a fairly standard set of procedures I follow on the first day, some imposed by the administration, others invented by me. Taking roll, naturally. Only three things really concern me regarding the class roster–the ratio of boys to girls, whether I have any repeaters from previous years, and if I have drawn any of the known troublemakers/juvenile delinquents that attend our school. Having a good male/female balance is always a good sign for a class. Having an overabundance of boys can be hellish. (This year I have fifteen boys and three girls in my second period class–it’s getting pretty testy in there.) I resent repeaters. My class is usually fun, and it is not hard to pass if you do the work. If a student is a repeater, it means he had the fun without doing the work. I hate that. As far as the troublemakers go, there’s not much I can do. On that first day, I try to let them know that I know who they are, and that I’m willing to withhold personal judgment. Some of those kids do better in my class than they do in most other classes. Many of them … well, you can’t win them all.

Then it’s time for classroom rules. I discourage eating and drinking, and they have to spit their gum out if I see them chewing (it makes their faces look ugly). I try to enforce the school’s tardy policy (which is always changing and never effective). I discourage people from leaving my classroom, but I am not without compassion. I have sat trapped in a classroom before, with a bladder or bowel about to explode, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. If nature calls, we must respond. If nature calls frequently, see a doctor.

On to the seating chart. I do that the same way every year. They all put their names in a hat, and I select a Vanna White to draw. As she picks names, I give a little speech about fate and destiny, how who you sit next to in English II class could end up being one of the most significant events of your life, certainly not something to be controlled by a mere teacher, but rather something to be left up to whatever Higher Power you choose to believe in. I get downright flowery about it. (Incidentally, if the chart doesn’t work out, I don’t hesitate to change it.)

I end that first day of class trying to find out about the people I will be teaching. I use a personal information card, which contains relevant information (home and work phone numbers, extracurricular activities) and irrelevant information (their all-time favorite movie, what they expect to be doing in ten years). What I ask about them, I tell about myself.

It all boils down to making a first impression. I want them to look forward to my class. I want them to feel it is a place to be active, not passive. No doubt that’s a dangerous approach. Unleashing youthful energy is an invitation to chaos. But if I can get them sitting in second period thinking, Oh good, I have English next … if I can have them enter my classroom with a positive attitude about being there … if I can cajole them to think about what we are doing — then, I have a step up on most. And a teacher always looks for an edge.

I like lots of other things about the first day of school. I like seeing the new members of the faculty, mentally gauging to myself whether they are cut out for this line of work or not. I like seeing which teachers share my conference period. Who is in the faculty lounge at that time will determine how much of my conference period I spend down there, and how much I spend in my room, and, consequently, how much I will accomplish during that period. (Any teacher with sense avoids the faculty lounge like the plague! There is a good reason it’s called a lounge.) I like teasing fifth year seniors if I am friendly with them. I like getting mail out of my teacher mailbox again. I like tennis practice.

But what I like most is the progression. Every year starts with a first day, and every year ends with a last day. The alpha and the omega. The first day is fun. The last day, ah, that’s another thing entirely. On the last day, we enter celestial realms.

Afterword: If all goes according to plan, this next year will be my last as a teacher. Since I have had so much enjoyment, fulfillment and reward in my career choice, I am unable to explain why I am so anxious to leave it. But I am. The last last day will be more than celestial—it will be nirvanic.

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