The Line Leader

At beginning of every school year my elementary school teachers would assign class jobs. There were the usual jobs inducing paper passer outer, calendar duty, feeding the class fish, etc, but my favorite job by far was when it was my turn to be the class line leader.

I don't know why I liked being the class line leader so much? Maybe it was the appeal of leading the class and being the first one to the cafeteria or the first one to recess or maybe it was just my way of being a selfish seven year old who wanted to be in front. Sometimes I think I haven't changed too much. I am embarrassed to admit that sometimes I still like being the "line leader." On my defense, it’s not like I am consciously thinking, “ooh, I want to be in front”- but it just happens. Sometimes I end up walking two feet in front of the group, until a good friend points out how annoying it is to everyone else. And every so often when I find myself to be the first car at a stoplight I get this childish glee because I realize that I am the “car line leader” and that means I’ll be the first one down the street. I know it sounds odd, maybe even worrisome, but heck, I’m just being honest. I am sure I can blame part of this on the combination of being the first born in my family and being someone who likes to "be in charge", but there is also some truth to be told about growing up in a culture that trains and values leaders. I look back on my junior high and high school days and vividly remember teachers, mentors and speakers who instructed us to be leaders at school and in our community. There was this implicit message that good, responsible, successful citizens grow up to be leaders. Even in youth group we were encouraged to be student leaders, and once I got to college there were entire classes on leadership and how to make a difference in our world.

Leaderships is a buzzword now days. You can find books, curriculum, conferences, etc., all promising how to make you a better leader. It seems that we empower and teach our youth that they can and should be leaders. (This is certainly the message I heard growing up). We encourage students to plan and organize and bring about change and to essentially, become LEADERS. Which on one hand is not inherently a bad thing, but what happens when we live in a culture that emphasizes leading and not following?

These past few months I have been wrestling with what it looks like to follow. You don't hear a lot of talk about following. For one, the idea of following doesn't sound as glamorous and courageous as the word leadership. The notion of “following” doesn't sell books and curriculum and get people excited and passionate. There are plenty of community awards for having great leadership skills, but when is the last time you heard of someone getting a "dedicated follower" award? Umm, never.

I find it ironic that the Jesus I read about in the New Testament says, "Follow me" almost twenty times. He does not say, “Become great leaders" or "Lead on"... No, instead he says, follow me. What would this world look like if men and women really, truly followed Jesus? How would my life look different if I sincerely started to follow Him?

Following implies listening, waiting, and sacrificing. It requires a letting go and giving-up. This past year I have spent a large chunk of time leading-leading meetings, planning events, organizing projects, and teaching students, but very little time following. This summer I want to learn how to be a better follower.

Last Day

To be quite honest, I don't normally love graduations. They are long and sometimes boring, filled with cliché speeches and those horrible-why-were-they-ever invented blow horns, but yesterday's graduation was a highlight of my year. This was my first graduating class from San Marcos. I have had the privilege of working with many of the students who graduated yesterday since they were freshman. That's four years of teaching, reminding, listening, being patient, getting frustrated, forgiving, yelling, getting frustrated (again), relearning, reteaching and then doing it all over the next day.

Notice, the proud graduate in the picture. I know this kid. I have known him for 4 years. And the local newspaper could not have picked a better picture to put on the front page. This is a guy who hated school. He got in trouble in elementary school and once told me he spent more time in the principal’s office than his own classroom. He spent that past 6 months in my English class and every morning it was like pulling teeth to get him to pay attention. He liked to take 20 min long bathroom breaks and he spent more time sketching in his notebook than answering questions. I argued with him and took a way his cell phone, and often made him stay in at lunch to finish his assignments. I would assign nightly homework and he would moan "aw, ms. acker...I'm over this." Sometimes I wanted to respond, "well, fine. I am over you too." But something kept him (and maybe me) going. He finished. He did it. And I could not be prouder. This picture captures it.

For many of my students last night may be the only graduation they ever have. A lot of them go on to City College or start working, but may or may not actually have another graduation. Last night was their time to celebrate. I think one of the joys of my job is that I too get to mark time and celebrate with them- another year is ending, a season is done. I too, get to feel that sense of accomplishments that comes with finishing something. The year is done. Grades are entered. Good-byes are said. Yearbooks signed. Computers shut down. Doors are locked.

Today was my last day.

I love that there are natural markers to my job—clear endings and beginnings. Even though it's becoming a familiar rhythm every 9 months, I still get a little sad at the end of each year. Don't get me wrong I will be the first teacher to adamantly claim that "yes, June, July and August are three great reasons to teach" but there is something wonderful that happens between September and May… and that is the something that keeps me coming back.

So, here's to the class of 2009. Congrats.

What Money Can't Buy?

I've spent the past few weeks thinking more about money then I'd like to. Sifting through investment papers, researching home loans and meeting with my financial advisor has left me a little overwhelmed with the whole process. I normally don't worry a lot about money. I mean I have more than enough to get by and I tend to operate with the equation- save some, give some and spend some (yea, yea I know some financially savvy person would advise me to have some percent breakdown to give my so-called equation some validity, but just go with me)

Somewhere in the process of looking at interest rates and investment opportunities, I realized how easy it is to get caught up in the whirlwind of the American dream; believing if I only had this much more than I could afford_______ (insert any desired item or upgrade here). It always amazes (slash disgusts) me how quickly I feel entitled to the luxuries and conveniences that I have in my country, and yet I so quickly forget those whose entire livelihood is defined by extreme poverty and injustice. Today I sat in an office and tried to deicide Hmm, should I go with portfolio I or portfolio II? and yet in the same world at that very moment, a refugee in Pakistan has to wonder if he will find clean drinking water. The inequality just doesn't sit well.

And then I started thinking, what can't money buy?

Money can't buy...

laughter and late night talks with girlfriends.

simple flowers cut from your own garden.

an afternoon nap. or a good joke. or inner beauty.

the peace that God up there is so much more powerful than little me down here.

a run along the beach.

thoughtful words that bring hope to a hurting soul.

hand holding. or hugs.

or time.

Money cannot buy time.

I know this is not a brand new realization- it's pretty clear that we all get an equal allotment- 24 hours each and every day, no more, no less. And yet so often I feel like we view the concept time through an investment metaphor. We view time as money. We use language like "I'll invest my time here" or "How did you spend your time today?" or "Don't waste your time on that" We make decisions and justify things as if time is ours to spend, "I have plenty of time" or "If I only had more time."

Growing up I learned how to make the most of my time or to "use it well" so to speak. And there is nothing wrong with this per se- it leads to practical, efficient, multi-taskers like myself who somehow manage to get a lot done in short amounts of time : ) But sometimes I wonder what would happen if I went throughout my day and instead of viewing time as something to invest or control or utilize well, I viewed time as a gift to be received.

New Uses for Old things

I get really excited when I can find new uses for old things! I don't know exactly why- some thrifty and resourceful part of my dad must have worn off on me. But I seriously feel like I accomplished some fantastic feat or at least beat the capitalistic consumer market for a day when I discover some new use for something that could have been thrown out.

I am partially inspired by Real Simple, (probably one of the only magazines that I faithfully read cover-to-cover) because my favorite section is their New Uses for Old Things. I am convinced they should hire me, but they have yet to come knocking on my door to seek any great ideas. So, in the mean time I will share them with you.

New Uses for Old Things-a few of my favorites:

#1 Patron Bottle or Flower Vase
Confession, I do not even like Tequila, but I have walked up to my fair share of bartenders to ask for empty patron bottles. After the initial awkwardness of the bartender's confusion,"what did she just ask for?- it is not really a big deal. Most bars just recycle these bottles anyway so they are happy to give them away for FREE. Just soak it in hot water and take off the label and behold— a perfect vase!

#2) Old Contact Case or Perfect Travel Size Advil Case
If you're like me and you have 5 or 6 contact cases lying around the house from the eye doctor, don't throw them away. They're the perfect size to hold advil, vitamins or any kind of small pill. You can keep it in your purse and they don't get lost or crushed in plastic baggies.
#3) Tea Strainer or Powered Sugar Sifter
A few weeks ago I was making a chocolate bundt cake and the final recipe direction said "dust lightly with powered sugar." How do you "dust lightly" when you don't have a sifter? I thought about taking a spoon and shaking it but I have memories of trying that when I was kid making Christmas cookies and basically you end up with piles of powered sugar instead of evenly dusted sugar cookies. So, I decided to take an old tea strainer and fill it with powered sugar. And I was quite impressed that it dusted the bundt cake quite evenly, thankyouverymuch.

#4) Old Sheet or Perfect Beach Blanket
Everyone has an old sheet that either doesn't fit your current size bed or has been washed too many times that you can't remember what it's original color was. Well, don't throw it away. Old sheets make the perfect beach blanket. For one they're big—lets be honest towels that are 24 inches wide and 5 feet long are just not adequate—and two, sheets are thinner and easier to fold up and carry with you instead of some thick beach blanket. And you thought you would never have a use for your old college sheets, hah!

More to come....

Do you have any good uses for old things? please share.

The Best Way to Love Someone

My mom amazes me because she knows how to love people well. She taught me that love is sacrificial and sincere and that sometimes the best way to love someone is to listen.

And my mom knows how to listen.

Growing up as 1 of 4 kids, it sometimes felt like everyone was vying for mom's time and attention. My mom helped us with daily homework and drove us to practices; she cooked dinner and came to our school plays and watched our games and stayed up late sewing those god-awful Halloween costumes. And for as important as all those things are, I am convinced that it was her patience to listen to us that made all the difference.

I remember being a confused and awkward 13-years old, with tears streaming down my face and my mom just sat in the car with me and listened as I poured out all of my junior high emotions. I remember calling her from Taiwan, scared and overwhelmed, wanting more than anything to come home, and my mom graciously knew I just needed someone to listen. And I remember after I broke up with my first boyfriend, my mom drove up to Westmont just to take me out to dinner. I told her she didn't have to come up, and that I was “ok.” But she wanted to…And it meant the world to me. She wanted just to be there with me and listen. Even as I get older some of my favorite memories with my mom are when we grab coffee and sit for hours in oversized chairs next to a small round table, sipping our lattes, talking and sharing about life-and it doesn't matter what we're talking about necessarily-faith and church, or work and my students, or dating and relationships- my mom listens to me.

There is something so beautiful about listening. It is this timeless gift that stretches across people groups and ages and cultures and religious. I believe everyone wants to be listened to. And when you sincerely listen to someone you learn how to love a little bit better. I get sad that sometimes in our noisy culture where our minds and hearts are saturated with sounds and distractions, I don't always make the time and space to listen to others.

The art of listening involves being patience and attentive. By definition it involves caring about someone else and their thoughts and feelings more than yourself. I think it is one of the best gifts mothers can give their kids. I want to learn to be a better listener. And one day I hope to be a mom who will not focus on doing the hundreds of tasks that moms have to do and instead spend time listening to my kids like my mom did.

Mom, thank you for taking time to listen to me.

Happy Mother's Day! I love you.

Thank You, Sir

Today another teacher and I took our students on a field trip to the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles. Quite an adventure for 47 students and 2 teachers- if I do say so myself. We crammed on to one of the good ol' fashioned yellow school buses, which regardless of what they say does not in fact fit "3-to a seat" when you're talking about high school students.

Sometimes I get nervous and a bit worried when I bring my students somewhere outside the walls of my classroom. Not because they're bad kids, no in fact I think they're wonderful- they are real and perceptive and lively, but sometimes they can be a little out of line. Their language is colored with four letter words and every now and then they act without thinking and end up in trouble. I guess maybe pridefully, I don't want them and their behavior to reflect poorly on my teaching or me.

But more times than not, they amaze me. When I took them to an elementary school earlier this year to mentor and read to 4th graders they were incredible- mature, helpful, young adults who even filtered their language! And when we served dinner down at the local rescue mission they were the most patient and kind hearted servants I've ever seen. And today they were better than I could have expected. They were attentive, and eager to learn through a 3-hour museum tour, led by a rather intense, and passionate, in-your face kind of older gentleman (not your typical museum curator, that's for sure).

At the end of the tour, we gathered in a small dimly lit room and our guide, with his hands raised demanded their attention:

"Close your eyes. I want you to think of one word that captures how you feel after walking through the museum."

oh, no...I thought. I feared my honest, slightly sarcastic students would utter words like "umm, hungry" or "tired" or "bored."

He pointed to a kid in the back; one of my most difficult students, a student who spends more time in the office than in class, What's your word, son?

"Thank You."

I was shocked. My loud, usually disruptive, always distracted student, just said, "thank you."

That was the one word (ok, well two words) that stood out to him after listening and learning about the atrocities that were committed against the Jews. He was thankful; thankful for learning, thankful that someone cared enough to teach him and talk to him, probably in an interactive way that he had never experienced at a museum.

At that moment I realized how thankful I was, too. Not for the museum per se or my students, but for my own Jewish heritage. I am thankful for an American man named Varian Fry, who helped my great-grandfather escape from Germany in 1938 and for my grandmother who courageously fled on a boat when she was just 18, and for her generosity that has turned hatred and injustice for good. My grandmother has given more to me than I deserve- but that's a whole other blog post for another time.

Tree Stumps

I went to a memorial service today for a friend's dad , who died tragically in a plane crash earlier this week- absolutely, horrible. And then I got an email from another friend whose dad passed away just 10 days after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and 33 days before her wedding. oh. These kinds of events leave me feeling raw, and heavy-hearted and sad. I think I naturally have lived with a life-works-out-for-the best-kinda-attitude, but sometimes it’s hard to see the best in situations likes these.

When you're in your mid-twenties you don't expect to have to bury one of your parents. Obviously, death seems untimely almost whenever it hits, but there is a kind of childlike faith and beauty about holding on to the belief that your parents are strong, brave and maybe even, slightly invincible. But that notion seems to fade away when you lose someone, especially a parent. Something changes when you are hit over the head with the sobering, shocking and surreal notion of loss.

I haven't lost a parent, so I won't even begin to explain the array of feelings that comes with that. But I know what it feels like to walk through the loss of a grandparent, and a dear friend that was taken too soon, or a lost hope or expectation. I've learned that you can't qualify or quantify loss. Some loss is tragic and catastrophic other loss is daily agony and pain. You just can’t compare the two.

Jerry Sitster, wrote an incredible book about his own journey of loss and grief, called, A Grace Disguised. After he lost his mother, wife and two kids in a car accident he says, "Loss is loss, whatever the circumstance. All losses are bad, only bad in different ways. No two losses are ever the same. Each loss stands on its own and inflects a unique kinds of pain. What makes each loss so catastrophic is its devastating, cumulative, and irreversible nature."

I left the memorial service thinking, now what? This is only the beginning- a memorial service is the first painful step in acknowledging the loss, but there are still months and years ahead of grieving a wonderful husband, a loving dad, a trusted doctor and a beloved friend.

I can't but help think of a tree stump. When you lose someone it's like a part of your life, maybe a part of yourself, has been cut down. It's like all of the sudden part of you is missing. Almost as if there was this big, strong tree in your life and now you're left with a stump. In the book, Sitser explains that every time he looked out into his garden all he could see was this stump that reminded him of what had been once there, and reminded him of who he had lost. And he says that the stump never goes away. The place that person had in your life and in your heart will remain. The challenge comes in the process of healing and rebuilding. How do you let the stump be there- naming the empty, longing and grief that accompanies it, but all the while trying to began to live life again? What does it look like to plant flowers of grace, hope and beauty around the tree stump that is loss?

There is not a simple answer. But maybe, just maybe there is some kind of grace that begins to grow out of our deep hurt and pain. I guess I have to put hope in the God whom I believe in, the God who weeps and hurts with us, and yet also wants us to experience His grace in unexpected ways. I wonder in pain and suffering and loss is there such a thing as A Grace Disguised?