I was lying in bed this morning thinking over the
week—the good, the bad, and the ugly. On Friday, I completely botched this
spelling test at first and got insanely frustrated. My teacher told me
afterward that she had made both mistakes I did (going WAY too fast and
misnumbering the words, thus completely and thoroughly confusing the kids), and
I had been turning that over in my mind along with the week’s lessons and
adventures. I was thinking about being at peace with teaching, with where and
who I am in this classroom, with the lessons I teach that go great and the ones
that bomb. I was examining myself to figure out exactly what part of all this
it is that makes me restless, what led to the continued anxiety I feel, even in
a healthy, balanced, supportive school environment. Logically, it makes no
sense. I love my teacher; I love my kids. I love that we have coffee and snacks
in the teacher’s lounge and I get to have so much one on one time with my
teacher. I love that I get to school early, how quiet the halls are first thing
in the morning. Sometimes I think I’m reaching one of my biggest goals for the
semester and finally falling back in love with teaching.
So the fear is not in the environment—it’s a part of me.
It’s part of how I think, how I interpret what’s happening in the classroom.
This fear comes with anything new, anything unfamiliar, and it’s something that
only goes away with time, with continuing to step out, to give myself little by
little to these students and these teachers and watch them handle my heart with
grace. It comes with having truth spoken back to me and the sloooowwww process
of learning how to speak it to myself. This brokenness in the way I think, the
way I see and interpret my circumstances, is what I need to bring to the feet
of Jesus time and time again, to set aside and walk away. I need to trust my
teacher, my students, and my own ability to do this, to shoulder the learning
of these fifth graders and whatever comes next. I have to trust that what
happens now is preparing me for what’s coming down the road, that lit circles
in my real classroom will be so good
because of what I’m doing right now. It’s like plowing a field—every piece of
grass and stone has to be removed, dirt has to be broken before it can be
reshaped. It has to be planted, watered, picked over for bugs and protected
from animals, and to some extent, part of it is forever out of your control and
squarely in the hands of God. Even in this process, the farmer does not see the ground as broken, but as having been prepared for harvest.
So that’s my hope right now—that the kinks are being
hammered out of me, that I am being taught how to see details and anticipate
needs and maintain attention and focus. I’m trusting that I’m accumulating
exactly the skills and strength and perspective I need, that what I do today
prepares me for tomorrow, and this week will prepare me for next year. This
will add up. It will come together, and there are things happening in and
through me that I can’t see or understand right now. For now, I just get to
take the next step and be caught and held. Things are working out—I’m having
small victories. Lit circles are going better, and ever so slowly, I’m getting
an idea of what will work. I’m beginning to figure out what my students need
and how to use my time wisely. Of the two students I was worried about, at
least one is actually getting into their book and I see no changes that worry
me. I still have to figure out how to grade lit circles, what that looks like,
and now I’m completely without excuse because I know how to work the grading
system. I take on about two more hours of teaching this week and about thirteen
transitions that occur in that time. I’m beginning to see that my mistakes are
a beginning, not an ending, and they get to act as a milestone, an Ebenezer to
where I’ve been, where I’m going and the One I’m following. How else can I find
grace but in the places I fall short?
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