So…I keep popping in on the “what you are into” link-up every month. I love it and feel like I get to know everyone just a little bit better. But I sure as heck am not going to do one. My tastes are a little….ahem….low brow, and I just did not need the entire internet to know how lame I was. But, you know, somebody picked the word “unashamed” this year, so at halfway through it is probably time I bite the bullet.

Books

I teach “great literature” all freaking year, so when summer comes around I want my reading like I want my summer fruit pie topping, light and fluffy. I haven’t really been able to find exactly what I am looking for, suggestions are more than welcome.

Half the Church by Carolyn Curtis James: The subtitle is  Recapturing God’s Global Vision for Women and that pretty much sums it up. The first half I was all “yeah, yeah, I already know this. The second half I was like Mind. Blown. felt…commisioned somehow.

Beach Road by James Patterson: Looking for a summer fluffy read. I like that it was written from multiple perspectives, some of whom lie. I hated the unneccessary twist/surprise/you think you know but you really have no idea ending. It made the first three-quarters of the book make very little sense. Dumb.

1st to Die by James Patterson: It is a series. I was hoping I would love it and have 12 more books to read. Alas, this was not the case. I will probably try one more, but again with the unnecessary twisted ending. This not as bad, but still…sigh.

Naked by David Sedaris: I am about half way through this and loving it. I like that every chapter can operate on its own. Plus, David Sedaris, two thumbs up.

Witches of East End by Melissa De La Cruz: Again, hoping for a light and fluffy read. It is okay, but I won’t be picking up the next one. Please, someone recommend something else and save me from myself.

The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides: I was supposed to like this. I was. But I didn’t. I just can’t like books where I am not rooting for anyone to succeed.

1000 Gifts by Anne Voskamp: I refused to pick this book up because “Abby does not read books with a bird’s nest on the cover.” Well, Abby is an idiot and should give books that everyone is telling me to try, a try. I am reading it slowly and savoring every word that has been so clearly perfectly chosen.

On the Netflix

Phineas and Ferb- Juliet is obsessed, so Priscilla is also. It is actually pretty entertaining. And I like the diversity of female characters.

Dawson’s Creek If you thought my summer-reading choices were bad, you should see my TV choices all year round. I am about 15 years late but I am digging it. I know it is ridiculous, that is the point. Also, I can write while it is on and still pay attention to both.

Eating and Drinking

Herbs de Provence- I put it on pork, chicken, roasted potatoes, my favorite has been fresh green beans with Herbs de Provence, olive oil, garlic, and sea salt. Delicious.

Williamson Brother’s Steak Sauce- Put it on steak, chicken, bread, your fingers, it is delicious.

Angry Orchard Ginger Cider- It is my summer go to. I used to hide loving hard ciders. No more. I love this one. The ginger cuts the sweet.

Ruby Red Summer Shiner- So yummy. Grapefruit. More Ginger. Even people who don’t love beer like this.

Tequila Sunrise Sangria- We had some people over and I made two kinds of sangria. The red was okay. But the white was awesome. I soaked raspberries and peaches in a mixture of tequilla, orange liquor, and sugar. Then I mixed that with Barefoot (do you know about this cheap delicious brand of wine?) Sauvignon Blanc, ginger ale, and a splash of orange juice. It is even better than you are imagining.

E-Courses I took

Story 101– Elora Ramirez teaches this course. I took it on a whim because Tanya Marlow was taking it and I needed her to be my friend. Also, because I was feeling stuck in my writing and needed a push somehow. It has been a balm to my soul and a kick in the ass all at the same time. I feel sorry for anyone who takes it ever again because I got the best group of ladies ever in my class. It has been glorious. I am very, very sad it is over.

Shalom Sessions– I was staring down the ending of Story 101 when Brandy Walker offered a sale on her Shalom Sessions, so I signed up. It was really great. I got a handle on some of my dreams, she forced allowed me to work through some of the blocks as to why I haven’t been taking that next step. I am about to roll out some exciting things, and I have my shalom session to thank.

What I have been Writing

I FINISHED MY BOOK! I have a completed first draft of my teaching memoirs. It needs a lot of edits, but I am letting it sit for a few days. I did that. I completed a book. If you want a sneak peek you can read my series What They Don’t Teach in Teacher School. So far we have How to Take Attendance and How to Talk about Your Butt.

I had two guest posts on two really hard subjects. I wrote about education, downward mobility, and where we draw the lines for D.L. Mayfield and I wrote about extreme poverty and why we think it is okay for us and not them for Live58.

I contributed to a book called Wild Goslings, a collection of essays about empowering our kids to chase after a wild and wonderful God. I wrote one about toddlers and the worship service, and another about the potential of teens. I cannot tell you how excited I am about sharing these with you all.

I was completely flattered when D.L. Mayfield invited me to write something about downward mobility and education. That lasted about five minutes, after that I was nervous and a little manic as I tried to sort out all the thoughts I have about this particular subject.

It turns out I have a roughly 37 million separate thoughts about education that can tumble out in a jumble, tangled mess any time I open my mouth. Just ask my husband’s colleagues who came over for sangria a few days ago and were treated to about half a million of these thoughts when they politely asked how my writing was going. Thanks guys!

It is hard to talk about something that I am sure I don’t have the answers to. If 6 years in the classroom didn’t, parenting has surely taught me that theoretical solutions and what actually happens are often not at all the same. But I can’t help but dream of a day when the christian families in communities all over the country decide to invest in their neighborhood schools. I can’t help dream of a time when public school teachers who don’t love Jesus, surely praise the church who loves their students so well. I think the church could be the answer to public education, if we would just love it well. I don’t know how we could get there, but I do know that the thought of it brings me to tears.

So, without further ado, here is my heart:

Last year in Atlanta, the most prestigious middle school needed to be redistricted. It was overflowing with kids while the next closest school was half empty. One of the largest neighborhoods, which pushed the school to overflowing, was actually closer to the half-empty school. It was a no brainer –except it wasn’t. The overflowing neighborhood was also one of the most affluent. Many of the parents had moved into that neighborhood before their thirteen and fourteen year olds were even born because it was districted for the prestigious middle school. Those lines would not be redrawn without a fight.

You can read the rest here.

I spent 14 summers in a row spending a week at Girl Scout Day Camp. From about 3 until the summer I was 17. I started as a tweeny. Too little to be in the brownie group while my mom led a group for one of my sisters. They made me take a nap. I still resent it. I got a tick when I was 5 and the camp nurse had me pick the color of nail polish used to kill it, and popped that perfect specimen in a jar. My last year they were still using it as the visual aid to help leaders spot tics while checking hair after hikes.

By the time I got around to program-assisting I was an expert in all things day camp. Lighting fires with candle-kisses? I got that. You haven’t lived until you have taught 15 first grade girls sporting long pony tails how to properly handle fire (don’t forget your full water bucket with the wet stick poked in). You don’t know an exciting summer adventure unless you have supervised second graders as they chop vegetables for the kabob they probably won’t eat anyway.

Before you hand those young girls the pairing knife, you make them earn their knife safety cards. Before you pull out your blade you hold the knife with the blade tucked away, your arm fully extended you turn a slow circle. If you don’t hit anybody, proceed. You make them practice with cardboard cut-outs of switch blades, red lipstick smudged on the edge. A red mark is left wherever the fake blade is touched. Whoops, remember, we don’t handle the blade. Don’t hit anyone with that. You could make someone bleed. Those things are sharp.

Sometimes I wonder if our stories aren’t like those knives. We have to use them. They prepare our food; they save our lives. But be careful with those stories, those things are sharp. You could hurt somebody with those.

I wonder if we shouldn’t have to pass some sort of story-safety course before we hit the internet. I see so many stories flying through the air, ones I know are hurting people, ones I know are cutting too close. I want to be careful with my stories. I don’t want to make anyone bleed.

I have started telling the stories I stopped telling. I am one chapter shy of having a very rough first draft of the book I began telling people I was writing 6 years ago. The last two Tuesdays I have posted bits and pieces right here and have gotten a heartening response. But I get nervous everytime I hit that publish button. Am I representing my students well? Is there someone I didn’t see in my knife safety circle? Was the circle safe when I started, but someone walked in unknowingly. I’m scared of making someone bleed.

At the same time I want these stories to cut deep. If I didn’t believe in them I wouldn’t spend my summer putting them down and getting rejected five agents at a time. Like a surgeons stroke, I need them to be precise and sure. I am hoping these stories give new life to a system that is very, very ill. I suppose I know that there is a chance that my stories bleed out on the table. I don’t want to knick any arteries. I don’t want to make it worse.

I am longing for a knife safety circle for my stories. I am trying to make sure I don’t hurt anyone.

As I work on my manuscript I thought y’all might like a sneak peek. My book is at least partially about how the lessons I learned in teacher school were completely un-useful my first year of teaching. Check back next Tuesday for another lesson I learned the hard way, or look at the list compiled in the tab up top.

How to Take Attendance

Attendance was my first problem. People who are surviving day to day in the midst of poverty do not have the time to come pre-register their kids at school. The kids  switch schools from year to year. The numbers and faces of high poverty schools fluctuate constantly. I got my attendance lists the day school began, and somehow “how to pronounce non-white names” was not something it had ever occurred to me to learn.

All cultures have different rules about names and how to go about saying them. This was no exception. I don’t mean to mock any of my students beautiful and carefully selected names. I mean to only mock my own ignorance of the system that was so evident to everyone else in the room.

But there I was, at the front of the room butchering almost every name that came across my lips. Demon has the emphasis on the second syllable as does Terrell and Darrell. C-i-a is pronounced sha in Laquicia, Tamecia, and Quanicia. Also, all three of those middle vowel sounds are a long e. My nasal short a was hilarious to students as that sound comes straight out of my nose.

I only looked more inept when I assumed a boy was a girl based on the name (apparently, Diamond is like Jordan, acceptable for either gender.) Being unable to put names to faces because I could not yet distinguish boy names from girl names was winning me no friends. 15-year-old boys are not amused when you say their name followed by “can she raise her hand?” Especially when he has his hand raised right in front of you.

Every class period I had about three kids who needed to be added to the list. Every class period they would tell me their name as though I would be able to spell it by sounding it out. After about seven painful attempts I learned to let the kids write their own names on my list.

It didn’t even occur to me until about six names into first period that I was in over my head. My first period knew before I got to the second name.

The kids wanted me to call them by their street names. It seems many of the kids had what they referred to as their “government names” the ones that I was bumbling through as I took role, and then they had the names that everyone actually called them (I suppose when your name is Austintavious you sort of need a shorter handle). Now, I know that this is an honor. If the kids want you to call them what their mother calls them, it means that you matter to them. They want you to really know who they are.

All I knew then was that this street name thing might get me fired. Imani broached this subject with me first. “Ms. Norman, nobody calls me Imani. Can’t you just call me Juicy?” I swallowed. Hard. I tried to say it casually. “You want me to call you Juicy?” “Yeah everybody does.” “So, if I called your mom to talk about you…she would say ‘how is Juicy doing in your class?’” She looked at me like I was a complete idiot. “I don’t think that is a good idea. I think I’ll just call you Imani.” She rolled her eyes and sighed.

Two kids later it was Malik’s turn. “Ms. Norman, nobody calls me Malik” “Well then, what should I call you?” “Pappy” I am quite sure my already overly expressive sometimes buggy eyes became even more cartoon like. I literally choked and croaked out “You want your white teacher to call you Pappy?” “Yeah, call me Pappy.” At this point I pictured the principal walking by as I called “hey Pappy, can you get that book for me?”

“Sorry Malik, I have bills to pay, I can’t afford to lose this job.”  The plus side of these sorts of exchanges was they brought me closer to the bell ringing. That term “Saved by the Bell,” I hadn’t realized they were talking about the teacher.

This is a post in a series, Jesus At the Blackboard, a place to come and share our stories about educational choices in order to broaden the conversation without making parents feel bad about themselves. You can find all of the posts in this series here.

Sarah McCarten and I met through the e-course I can’t stop talking about. She is thinks deeply and I am grateful for this sharp and articulate piece.

You can only do your best.

I’m pretty sure the Gnostics are wrong and that Jesus and Mary Magdalene didn’t have children.* If they did though, I’m convinced they wouldn’t have sent them to a Christian School. In a where would Jesus school, I’m pretty sure an independent Christians school would score pretty low, but that’s exactly where my parents sent me.

I went to a run of the mill primary school, I wasn’t at the top of the class but I certainly wasn’t at the bottom. In those days, in my town, we had middle schools too, so at the age of 9 I went to my local middle school. At the end of my first term there I got a glowing report, things were going well. However, by the end of the year, the report wasn’t so good. I wasn’t the worst in the class, by any means, but I wasn’t where I should have been. My parents were so cross, not with me, but with my teacher, how could she have let them believe I was doing well, when in fact the truth was far from that. They’d lost their faith in our school system.

During that first year at middle school plans were emerging in our city for a Christian school to be opened. We’d heard about it, but thought it would be too expensive, and anyway my mother doesn’t drive so how would they get me there. More than that I’d been doing aright in normal school. Since the bad report though, they’d been reconsidering, They worked out that they’d be able to afford it, and that a lady my mum knew would be able to give me a lift there. Amazing. I remember the headmaster coming to our house for the interview, and leaving us with the uniform order form and an offer of a place.

In the first few years there it was great, really great. I did so much better than I would have in a state school, after a half a term or so my parents also decided to enrol my sister, and because the school was so small, even though we were 3 school years apart, we were in the same class. My sister is much cleverer than I am so she was able to help me with homework and stuff. It was also in the first year there that they discovered that I’m dyslexic and so were able to help my parents put measures in place to deal with that. For that I will always be grateful.

I could write, and have, about the things that made the school bad, I could tell you about how always being bottom of the class (I was in a class of 6 for my GCSEs) made me insecure, about how the fact that the uniform faith that the people there seemed to possess made me feel like I didn’t know Jesus. But I won’t because that’s not what this is about. It’s about honouring my parents for the choices they made and the sacrifices they went through.

I guess what I’d want to say to you, is do your best, you won’t get it right, but your kids will thank you for trying your best.

As a child, I was so inquisitive, I wanted to know, why, how and when. My school often wasn’t the place to ask those questions. Home was. I learned so much from the people in my family, especially my grandparents. Sometimes, I’ll be thinking about something, and I’ll wonder how do I know that, often it’s because one or other of my grandparents told me. It’s astonishing really.

I remember sitting in a maths lesson, we were studying trigonometry, I remember asking my teacher, why the heck we needed to know this, what purpose it would serve in life. He listed a host of jobs that might need this skill; have I ever used it? I think you know the answer. The things I learned from my family though, they’ll last a lifetime, the love of books, how to explain the bible, patience.

Even though I feel like I went to school for a long time, I found the days so long and I spend many of my waking hours there, I loved sleep then as much as I do now. I learned the thing I remember now, in places other than school.

* Of course they’re wrong, there is not a shred of biblical evidence for this; but humour me for a moment would you?

Sarah McCarten is a 30-year-old blogger/nanny. She’s from Yorkshire, but resides in Richmond in South West London, although you’ll often find her pottering around Watford. She loves Jesus, is passionate about theology, and she thinks she might want to be a vicar one day. She loves to write, sew, read, and cook. She’s not as funny as she thinks she is. She pretty much has the best friends in the world.

She blogs here and tweets here.

As I work on my manuscript I thought y’all might like a sneak peek. My book is at least partially about how the lessons I learned in teacher school were completely un-useful my first year of teaching. Check back next Tuesday for another lesson I learned the hard way.

How to talk about your butt

Da-a-a-amn, Miss Norman ain’t got no a-a-a-ss! The cry came from the back corner of the room. A thought that escaped out a of a surprised mouth the second I turned my back to the class to write on the white board with a green expo marker.

It was only the third day of school, but I recognized the voice as belonging to Neko. I stood at the board in the dress that I had so carefully selected for the first week of school. A brown wrap dress with three-quarter length sleeves, I loved the way this dress looked; just pretty enough to make me feel good, still distinctly professional. I pretended to continue writing until the blush running up my cheeks subsided and I could face the class as though I had not heard the exclamation from the back of the room.

Neko didn’t mean anything by it; he had simply never seen a woman with a backside as flat as mine. While inappropriate, the statement was accurate. Ms. Norman ain’t got no ass. It may have been the most obvious issue, but this was the least of my problems.

This was not the last time my butt would come up. I tried to follow the instructions of my teaching professors, ignore the comments and re-direct the conversation, but the students didn’t seem to understand that the shape of my backside was something I was unwilling to discuss. Now I know, I know it is because they liked me, they respected me, they were trying to protect me. Kids were talking about my flat-for-even-a-white-girl booty behind said butt and they were trying to let me know.

I abandoned the ignore-it technique mid-way through first semester when the girls in my fifth period attempted to stage an intervention. They wanted to make sure I knew about my problem and they wanted to help.

The girls approached my desk with solemn faces, “Ms. Norman, do you know what Apple Bottom jeans are?” I started laughing, that song had been playing non-stop in the hallways for the entire year Apple-bottom jeans and the boots-with-the-fur. Of course I knew what apple bottom jeans were, and I knew that they were designed to do just what they advertised, make your back-side look like a luscious red apple.

I explained to the girls, as gently as possible, that while I appreciated their help, and offer to buy me a pair of pants, this is just what white-girl butt looks like. My butt is just flat, and that is okay. They left my room with their heads shaking. How could I live my whole life-like that?

I learned that year to attack the discussions head-on, to ignore the blush as it crept up my cheeks. The kids were going to talk about whatever it was they were talking about. They may as well have accurate information.

Dreaming is for teenagers, people who have nothing better to do than lie on the hood of their beat up car and stare at the night sky. For people who can stay up late and not pay for it the next morning, with no one but themselves to feed breakfast.

Dreaming is for college students, for people whose parents still list them on their health insurance. For dorm rooms and coffee shops with acoustic guitars ever-present and couches pulled in off of street corners smelling vaguely like mildew and cigarette smoke.

Dreaming is for newlyweds, for couples holding mao-tai’s on a beach in Jamaica, or in their parents tent sipping a cheap bottle of gas station champagne as they talk about ten years from now when they will have a house and some kids and enough money in the bank for a real honeymoon the second time around. The grandparents will take the kids and the couple will fly to Hawaii, first class.

But dreams are not for me. The kids are in the patched up kiddie pool in the back as I stand at the kitchen counter typing with one eye on the splashing and shouting praying the duct tape holds for another 20 minutes, just until I can get the words out. They are naked again. Swim suits cost me too much time.

We are quickly approaching that ten-year mark, my husband and I, and even my body seems to be fighting the dreams. Dreamers don’t have muffin tops, or full-time jobs, or kids that need health insurance. Dreamers aren’t supposed to be interrupted by thoughts of responsibility and who will pay the light bill. I need to go to the grocery store and the Goodwill; I don’t have time for dreams.

It is my tenth week, my last week, in an e-course signed up for on a whim. On a whim I may have altered my life. (I know it sounds hyperbolic, but it truly has been one of the best decisions I have ever made.) Elora is asking us to dream. To put away the what-ifs and the how is that possibles. To simply sit, blank page in front of us and pour out the things that are hidden in our hearts.

I leave the TV on so I won’t become fully engrossed in this activity. I am afraid it is going to hurt. I know it is going to hurt. I think if I can distract myself enough I will be able to keep a part of myself protected. I underestimate the depths and volume of this calling of my heart, this thing they call a dream. It is loud, LOUD and big and a little scary. And now it is on a less than blank page, refusing to be ignored.

The first time I opened the email with this week’s instructions, I shut it immediately. Who has time for dreaming? Not me. I have kids to raise, dinner to cook, groceries to buy, a school year to prep for. I have a book to write. I do not have time for dreaming, I have a baby who won’t go to bed.

Moms aren’t supposed to dream for themselves. The dreams should be folded up and tucked away, replaced with onesies and swaddle blankets. For now at least, those dreams belong to your babies. That is the lie I have been believing: These dreams of mine have an expiration date; my dreams and my children cannot go-exist. My creativity must now belong to motherhood.  Here I am, two small children and a dream, none of whom will be ignored, all three shouting at me to be fed.

I write at the kitchen counter as the kids come in and ask for waffles for lunch. Waffles in the toaster, I realize we are out of syrup and spread some jam my friend made on top.  The girls clamber for more. Later, I am writing in the car in the parking lot of the grocery store, both of my children asleep in the back seat and I realize that while feeding my children and my dream I only managed to feed myself the bits of waffle my youngest threw on the floor. Will feeding my dreams will always leave me this hungry?

I’ve tried to pack away my dreams, to leave them folded carefully away in a plastic bin labeled, some day. I have tried to wait them out, to throw them out, to simply ignore them. It leaves me hungrier than coffee for breakfast and half a jam smeared waffle off of the floor for lunch. Like these girls I grew tucked safely in my womb, these dreams grown in my heart were given to me, and are demanding and impossible to ignore. It is part of their charm. I love all of them just like that. I’m a mom with a dream. I’m the mom of a dream.

Maybe dreams are for moms too. Maybe dreams are for people who go about their day at the grocery store, drive their kids in a circle in the mini-van until everyone’s head slowly drops to the side, maybe some days nap time is for dreaming cramped in the driver’s seat of the mini-van or standing at the kitchen counter just trying to get the words out. Maybe suppressing these dreams is a waste of my time and with everything on my to-do list I shouldn’t add that.

Maybe I don’t have time not to dream.

____________________________________________________________

If you are a person with a dream of writing, even just writing better for yourself or your students or your kids, if you are sure you don’t belong anywhere and need a creative community seriously consider Elora’s class. There is space for you, if you are hungry you will be fed there.

This isn’t totally without self-interest. If you tell her I sent you I get a discount on her 201 class, and can afford it. I would be very grateful.

This short break in my  coffee shop, husband has the kids. Why won’t the words come out NOW like I need them to, this book-writing idea is stupid, going to do it anyway. This rant is brought to you by Five Minute Fridays. I’ll be writing for five minutes. Let’s see what comes out, shall we?

Listen is the prompt. GO.

Listen. Are you listening? listen up please. Hey! You are not listening to mommy. That was good listening, well it is because you weren’t listening. That is danger! You have to listen.

Isn’t it always, perpetually the word that is coming out of my mouth. Listen. With a three-year-old and a not yet two, constant companions in this frenzied summer. LISTEN is not the soft and beautiful restful word that it is for others.

It isn’t that kind of word in the school year either. There is always something that has to be communicated, that day, that hour, that moment. Are you listening? This is important! If you don’t listen up you are going to have no idea what is going on! I need you all to listen!

But my children and my kids aren’t the only one I have been shouting listen at lately. Isn’t a query letter just a plea to beg someone to listen to you. Twitter is shouting into the world hoping someone will hear your voice. Blog posts written in the hopes that you have something worth listening too.

And the tragedies, inconveniences, frustrations, bizarre things that have been happening in a community I have become a part of making me rage at God. My sisters need help! Aren’t you listening! Are you hearing us, do you understand? We could use some help! Listen up already!

Is anybody listening?

STOP

Post Script- This is not meant as a plea for your validation. Please do not feel obligated to pet me. It just needed to get out.

Every Tuesday Stephanie invites us to reflect on a psalm. You can read the rest of those reflections here.

Psalm 59

For the director of music. To the tune of “Do Not Destroy.” Of David. A miktam.[b] When Saul had sent men to watch David’s house in order to kill him.

1 Deliver me from my enemies, O God;
be my fortress against those who are attacking me.
2 Deliver me from evildoers
and save me from those who are after my blood.
3 See how they lie in wait for me!
Fierce men conspire against me
for no offense or sin of mine, Lord.
4 I have done no wrong, yet they are ready to attack me.
Arise to help me; look on my plight!
5 You, Lord God Almighty,
you who are the God of Israel,
rouse yourself to punish all the nations;
show no mercy to wicked traitors.[c]
6 They return at evening,
snarling like dogs,
and prowl about the city.
7 See what they spew from their mouths—
the words from their lips are sharp as swords,
and they think, “Who can hear us?”
8 But you laugh at them, Lord;
you scoff at all those nations.
9 You are my strength, I watch for you;
you, God, are my fortress,
10 my God on whom I can rely.
God will go before me
and will let me gloat over those who slander me.
11 But do not kill them, Lord our shield,[d]
or my people will forget.
In your might uproot them
and bring them down.
12 For the sins of their mouths,
for the words of their lips,
let them be caught in their pride.
For the curses and lies they utter,
13 consume them in your wrath,
consume them till they are no more.
Then it will be known to the ends of the earth
that God rules over Jacob.
14 They return at evening,
snarling like dogs,
and prowl about the city.
15 They wander about for food
and howl if not satisfied.
16 But I will sing of your strength,
in the morning I will sing of your love;
for you are my fortress,
my refuge in times of trouble.
17 You are my strength, I sing praise to you;
you, God, are my fortress,
my God on whom I can rely.

I got up before anyone else this morning and went running. It was terrible. Hot and humid, like I was breathing steam. Apparently 8 is not earlier enough for an early run in the deep south in June. My lungs felt tight, screaming at me that they were not going to be able to get from this air everything that they needed. Especially if I kept up at the very, very slow pace I was going. Let’s just say it has been awhile. As I was running, then walking, then thinking about running, and continuing to walk I was listening to Jonathan Martin preach about the woman caught in adultery and the men throwing rocks.

The men throwing rocks. I stand accused as a rock thrower. I am by no means innocent of this sin. I have picked up rocks when I was supposed to extend grace. I have yelled and screamed but what about them! when confronted with my own wrong doing. But in this case, I have looked down, expecting to see the rocks I have been told I have, only to see broken shards of a relationship that perhaps I broke by clinging too tightly, not letting go soon enough.

It still breaks me. It breaks me to know someone so well, and not at all anymore. I am sure that someone would say the same thing. It breaks me to return the pieces of our lives, but cowardly, only at a time I know no one will be home. It breaks me to run across a driveway I once pulled into and blessed the Lords name, praying that I have successfully avoided an inevitably awkward interaction.

I cannot tell you how many times I have searched my heart, looking for the rocks that even I suspected I threw, only to find that while I am sure imperfectly, I have loved the best way I know how. But where does that leave me? With an email that hurls rocks of its own. Abandoner. False Friend. One who does not love like Jesus. No different from everyone else who failed. A stumbling block on someone’s way to the cross.

And with those words, a friend has become an enemy. Against me over and over again, at least within the confines of my own brain on repeat. And as I walk, limp really, slowly up the hill on my way back home, I hear what my podcast preacher is saying about the accuser, how it is often how we see God, but it is the first way The Enemy is described. And in my sweaty tired mess, annoyed that I can not run further or faster I yell to God exasperated, “Well that is all well and good for David, but what if the enemy was once your friend!”

Sometimes, even I am amazed by the depths of my ability to think that my problems are unique, that I am the only one who has been hurt this way. Didn’t David love Saul, sing to him in his misery, kiss his son and call him a brother? Doesn’t that make this psalm all the more heartbreaking? The mouths from which those words are spoken are ones that once blessed David richly.

And yet? In the morning David praises the Lord. Even when the attack comes from a place that has the capacity to completely cripple me, even when the words work into my head and I become my own accuser, the Lord is my Fortress. I will praise him in the morning.