I am high-heeled, pointy-toed shoes.
 I am pumpkin spice lattes and sweet desserts.
I am budgeter extraordinaire and world-class napper.
I am average in too many ways to count
But unusual in just enough ways to matter.
At first glance the staunch conservative
with the staunchly conservative family—
Ha ha, fooled you. 
Most days we are so full of grace 
that our hearts bleed.
Like my mother and father before me,
I’ll ask way more of myself
Than I’d ever ask 
Of you.

pushing up from the floor
full extension
triceps expanding
body straight and core stronger, stronger.

pushing up against the stack
the words carefully crafted
each page, each line, each word
examined.

pushing up with all my might
won't let the news 
dampen my joy
my zeal
my calling.

pushing up for His glory
stretching arms
to touch His grace.

pushing up

In about ten minutes I am going to grade my first research paper of the school year.  The papers aren't due until Monday, and I had been looking at this weekend as my last hurrah before the grading onslaught would occur, but then I had the bright idea to offer extra credit to students who turn their papers in early.  And wouldn't you know it--many of them took me up on it.  And for that, I am grateful.  Mostly.

Grading research papers takes a long time.  Too long.  I talk to colleagues who can do it in half the time it takes me (even less than that).  I am trying to be more efficient, but I have never been very fast when it comes to grading essays, and so I just need to accept that this is something I have to do. 

Sometimes people ask me why I give this assignment.  It's a simple answer, really.  It's the job I signed up for.  I love this job, and assigning and assessing student writing is a huge part of doing it well.  I have seen English teachers who grew so weary of grading essays that they allowed themselves to stop assigning them.  I will not do that.  Not now--not ever.  Last summer I wrote to several former students--current college students--to ask them to reflect on their experience in my class.  Without fail they told me that writing the senior research paper was one of the most valuable exercises they did in my class.  They told me that the process of writing this paper with my guidance, helped them write college essays, when they received much less guidance. 

And so, I will grade.  As I always do, I have set up a weekly quota system for myself.  I have also determined in my heart (and asked God to help me in this determination) to maintain my joy and my peace as I take on this challenge.

I have run marathons before.  I know the pain and the struggle of the race, but I also know the satisfaction and the pleasure of the finish.  And so it begins.

About a week ago my eldest niece, Jenn, wrote this about her five-year-old son, as her status on Facebook: 

 "every night I hug Pete and say, 'I love you!' and as he walks away to his bed, he whispers 'she loves me.'  Makes me smile everytime!"

Ever since I first read this, I have been so moved by it.  As I replied to her that night, it makes me want to laugh and cry for joy.  It is so moving, so poignant, and, I think, an example of something we all need more of.  It seems to me that Pete is grasping the miracle and the value of his mother's love in a way that most of us rarely do.  I have not witnessed this exchange between Pete and Jenn, but I imagine he says it with a mixture of confidence, awe, and joy. 

I know that I need to do a better job of expressing my love to the people in my life, but what Pete shows me is that I also need to do a better job of marveling at their love for me.  

It also brings to my mind one of Grandpa Evert's favorite songs:  "Oh how I love Jesus . . . because He first loved me."  I have sung it my whole life, hundreds of times, but have I ever really understood it--in the way that my great nephew understands love--"He loves me"?  He loves me!  I want to feel Pete's youthful awe and joy; I want to revel in the knowledge that my heavenly father truly, truly loves me--that His love for me knows no limits, and that this love is so precious, that not a day should go by without me standing amazed at the glory and the miracle of this love.  

He loves me. 

I am closer to 50 than 40.  At age 46 (almost 47) I am firmly established in my adult years, but I have become aware, of late, that I still think of myself as a girl.  I still refer to myself as a girl.  I'll say to my students, "I'm the kind of girl who follows the rules."  If I imagine someone pointing me out across a crowded room, saying, "she's that lady over there," or "she's that woman wearing the scarf," well, it just sounds strange.  I mentioned this to two friends recently (one 39, one 43), and they said they feel the same way.  They don't think of themselves as women; they think of themselves as girls.

So, does this have anything to do with the fact that we are single girls?  Or does the fact that we're childless impact how we feel?  Maybe it's just a futile effort to hold on to our youth.

Over dinner on Saturday I mentioned this to my 26-year-old cousin.  She seemed pretty surprised that I feel this way.  In fact, she knows women who feel that "girl" is a derogatory term--one that should be eschewed by young females as soon as possible.  

I'd be curious to hear what the rest of you girls, women, ladies, think of this issue.  

P.S. I wonder if I'll still feel like a girl at 90?

I made a commitment to blog every day of the Daniel Fast, and even though it is technically January 22, I am content to call this this 21 posts in 21 days.  Whew!  I am sure that I have never written every day for 21 days before in my life.  I liked the discipline of it--except for a couple of days when I felt really uninspired.  

On to the Daniel Fast itself.  It was a good one--my most gratifying ever, for sure.  I am really looking forward to a latte, and I enjoyed a burger and coke tonight, but I am going to do my best to keep eating in a more healthy fashion.  I am not giving up soda or lattes entirely, but I will aim for moderation.  

But the food wasn't what this was really about.  This was really about 21 days of praying more, praising more, focusing on God more, and listening for His voice.  I absolutely loved my morning devotion/praise time at my church.  I would like to continue to do this one day a week--what a great way to start my day.  

If I had to identify one thing that I believe God spoke to me, it would be about trusting Him.  I suppose that doesn't sound very revelatory, but for me, it does sound easier said than done.  I am a worrier. I let stress eat at me--settle in my bones, my gut, my shoulders, my head.  I mentally and emotionally chew on things for hours.  Superintendent Luna's proposal for public education has been eating at me.  Some issues at my school have tormented me.  And over and over I hear God softly, patiently telling me to be still and know that He is God.  He is telling me to leave it all to Him.  I don't mean I'm supposed to stop caring or stop being proactive about some of these issues, but I do mean that when I've done all I can--I need to learn to stand and rest and breathe, knowing that the God of the universe sees me and cares about me and my situations.  

1. Conferencing with students for their senior research papers and seeing how well some of them are doing.  One student is comparing Jesus with John Galt from Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged.  Fascinating stuff.

2. Using my Christmas gift certificate to get a 90-minute massage.  Ahhhhhh.

3. Having a short visit with the Schramlets and their parents.  Gracie (6), Pete (5), and Ella (3) are my great nieces and nephew, and they always run to hug me when I arrive.  What could be better?  Wait, I know.  Schramlet number 4 is on the way, and I know her name! (But I won't tell you until Jenn and Dave go public.)

              I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve. 
It’s front and center, right in the middle of my chest. 
But it’s twice the size of those hearts you see on the Discovery Channel. 
It is strong and fragile and able to contain vast volumes. 
Sometimes the vibrant elixir encompassed in this organ overflows its banks,
sending conflicting feelings of sorrow and joy and confusion and gratitude
 through my being,
stealing my appetite and my sleep--
 permeating every moment with an intensity that is both
 invigorating and exhausting.
And just when I think every single person on the planet can see it,
I discover that,
 much to my surprise,
like Hemingway’s iceberg,
only 1/8 of what I am is on the surface,
and much of that is past finding out.

One of my inspirations for blogging is my brother's brother-in-law, Bill.  I think I've been reading Bill's blog now for about four years.  He is an inspiring and intriguing writer.  Bill's blog entries are often built around the motif of "Three Beautiful Things."  (I was thrilled to get a mention as one of the "three" a few years ago!).  

Last week, in my continuing effort to blog every day for 21 days, I sort of stumbled onto my own version of "Three Beautiful Things."  I wrote about the best moments of my day.  It didn't occur to me until the next day that this could be a recurring theme for my blog, plus a way to focus on the positive--to reflect with gratitude on my day.  I'm not sure exactly how I'll use this idea, but for now, here are some more best moments:

1. While reviewing for my AP Lit. final exam today, I was quizzing students about some Biblical characters.  (Yes, folks, we can talk about this in public schools.  We do a unit on literary allusions that includes Biblical characters, as well as those from classical mythology.)  Even though I teach some really gifted students, they don't always know their Bibles very well, so today I heard  about Joe the Baptist (Baptized Jesus) and Laertes (who, it seems, Jesus brought back to life after he'd been dead for three days). 

2. I didn't make it to the store this weekend, so I arrived at school without lunch.  I treated myself to a half a ham sandwich and bowl of baked potato soup from a local bakery/deli called Zeppole.  Yum!

3. I had a long, warm, reviving nap after school.  

One of the things I'd like to do with this blog from time to time is share some of the poetry and creative nonfiction pieces I have written.  (I took a class on creative nonfiction a couple of years ago and discovered that this is a category that I really enjoy.  It might sound like an oxymoron, but it really just refers to things like memoirs, etc.).  Sharing this kind of writing is scary, for a host of reasons, but I am going try to overcome my fears.  In this piece I might sound like I'm fishing for compliments.  I hope not. 

                 I recently read that 13% of American women consider themselves pretty.  At moments I am one of them.  For years I have described myself as mildly attractive.  That equates to sort of pretty, I'd say, although attractiveness and beauty certainly aren't the same thing. I think I clean up pretty well.  Give me a good night's sleep, 90 minutes to get ready (a good hour of that is just to let my hair begin to dry), lipstick, heels, and the right dress, and I feel pretty.  

            Some men seem to think I'm pretty.  Sometimes that's cool, and sometimes . . . it’s not. 

            Little girls tend to think I am beautiful, or, rather, they think the girl on the CD cover is beautiful. 

            Unattractive men often think I am pretty.  Aunt Susie says I am a geek magnet.  (Maybe it's not pretty so much as available?) 

            A few years ago I was telling my all-female writing group about a guy I had a crush on.  “He's too good looking for me,” I assured the group.

            My friend Rhonda, who knew my crush, said, “No he's not,” in that dismissive way that women reflexively use to encourage one another.

            And then Rachel added, “I don't even know him, but there is no way he is too good looking for you.  No one could be too good looking for you.”  I could see the sincerity in her eyes—feel the intensity of her words.  Now there's a compliment I can sink my teeth into. 

            For a moment, I was firmly planted among the 13%.