Do Not Fear, for I am With You.

Tonight I was reminded yet again of the power of God. When we grip the steering wheel white-knuckled, nearly panicking, whispering the only word we can remember, "Help..." He has already turned the hearts of those He will use to fulfill that request.

He did it before we even knew we were going to ask Him. And the reason why it sometimes seems hopeless is because we have to move through Time to catch up to what He's already accomplished.

Abnormality

He glances through my chart; he clears his throat, his expression unreadable.


He stands, flashes me an uncomfortable smile, and says, "I'll be right back."


I stare down at my peeling candy-red toenail polish and pull my feet under the chair, even though there's no one else in the room: I'm ashamed I haven't had a pedicure in over a month.


I'm wary of what he's going to say when he comes back into the room.

Burnout.

Read the following paragraph and determine the age of the writer:

“On our trip to Red Rock Canyon, we ate delicious food. We ate food like tacos, and drank beverages like Coca-Cola and grape soda.”

What’s your guess? 9? 10?

Would you believe this “paragraph” was written by a thirteen year old eighth grader?

That’s the kind of thing I’m up against.

There’s no glory. Only guts.

There’s no “ah ha moment.” There’s the heartbreakingly slow, viciously exhausting daily grinding of dragging each and every student inch by inch, out of the swamp of ignorance and lethargy, while they snap and pull and fight against me every moment.

Yesterday, an 18 year old senior told me that he didn’t have to do any work in my class because come October he wasn’t going to be in it anymore. When I questioned him further he said he was planning on passing the High School Writing Proficiency Test. I asked, “What if you don’t pass?” To which he replied, “Miss, you’re mean.” He has no desire to become a better writer or thinker, he just wants to graduate. If he passes the test, he gets to graduate. Clearly he is capable of achieving his goal without my help.

And he’s not the only one.

I can count on one hand the number of students who give a damn. Four. Out of a hundred and fifty. I’ve never been very good at math, so you’ll have to figure out that ratio on your own, but I can imagine it’s a fairly depressing number.

Teachers have become obsolete. We are underpaid, overworked, ignored, ridiculed, disparaged, accused, indicted, judged, and even executed. We charge into the battle with damaged armor, archaic weapons, training deficiencies, oblivious commanding officers, and the erroneous belief that we will, somehow, someway, win the war.

Today I had to tell over fifteen kids to take out their earbuds. Yesterday I also had to tell eight. And the day before that? At least twelve. 


And the same shit goes on and on and on. 


Ad nauseum. Ad inifinitum.