I look at the color on the key board when I type. When I needed to be someone totally different, look at my words from a different point of view, I painted them tan. I needed to feel like they were new hands somehow. I needed to feel like the end of the self-edits was new.

One of my students noticed the nails. She scrunched her face and told me she would tell me tomorrow if she liked them. This is the same student who told me, that she wanted me to be the fashion club sponsor, but it was totally okay that I wasn’t fashionable… Teaching teens is often a little rough on your ego.

This time, she didn’t accidentally insult me. She told me the tan was fine for my skin, but it didn’t suit my personality. I needed something bolder. She said I am never understated. So she brought me in gun-metal. It is chipping off as we speak, and I don’t even care.

I need the gun-metal nails today, this week. My book is completely self-edited and I just sent out every chapter to a different somebody I respect and they are reading, and commenting, and editing.

Everyone told me that the book writing process was going to be hard, that it would take a lot out of me. But no one told me about the sharing, the critiquing, the editing. I told someone I think I would rather have sent off sixteen naked pictures of myself. Giving birth. (Don’t worry internet those don’t actually exist.) That is how vulnerable I feel.

So, I am sporting the gun-metal nail polish. I need to be reminded that I am a bad-ass. I need to see the proof of it on my fingers. Sometimes, you have to wear the costume, to feel like the super-hero you are.

I rolled my eyes as he approached. What else was there to do but let him approach? People putting gas in their car are pretty much stuck, they need the liquid pouring into their car, so they have no choice but to listen to your plea.

Photo Credit: Jennifer Upton

I was especially stuck that day. I was at the last gas station readily available to me before the long stretch of high way between my house and my school. After running out of gas on three separate occasions last semester, I had hoped to maintain this semester’s clean record. I was running a little late, but not as late as I would have been had I run out of gas.

Unsurprisingly, the man wanted money. He was hard up and on his way to an odd job. He swore it was true. I tried not to roll my eyes. I thought of the time we handed fifty dollars and our address to a man who swore he was going to pay us back, used a church we recognized as a reference. I thought of the time we offered the man claiming hunger an extra sandwich, and how he kept insisting on a dollar. This supposedly hungry man was not interested in a sandwich. I thought of the woman I stopped on the side of the road supposedly out of gas, how she refused to go to a gas station with me. She only wanted to go to an ATM. Of course he wanted money. Of course I rolled my eyes.

But it was impossible not to feel the check deep in my gut. Give that man your money. Give him the ten. I never have cash in my wallet, not at the end of the week when all tolls have been paid. How did God know I had ten dollars? How did he know I had a ten? I wasn’t even sure. Of course omniscient was a vocabulary word that week. Of course it was.

As I handed him the ten-dollar bill, the man caught my eye. Hebrews 13:2 he told me. Look it up. I finished pumping my gas and  got into my car. Mostly, I was still sure that ten dollars was headed straight to the man’s next trip. But curiosity got the better of me. It almost always does, and my Kindle was in my purse, just waiting for me to flip through it.

Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.

Entertaining angels, I rolled my eyes again. Good trick drug addict, you got another sucker. But there was a piece of me, probably the part that still gets the Newsboys song referencing the same verse stuck in my head, that wanted to believe it. Maybe I did just entertain an angel.

I don’t know if I am fool, or a cynic, or a girl who hears bizarre things from the Holy Spirit. I am probably all of those. But this is what I do know. When I left the gas station, there was a man filling up his car in my rearview mirror. Perhaps, perhaps I am just a girl who entertained an angel without even knowing.

By my story sister Jennifer Upton

We sit at our computers, hers outside of Dallas, mine in Atlanta, and we write together. Click click click click, OKay, show me what you got. She thinks I am doing her a favor. I will finish my edits ahead of schedule because of her. I believe in this book again. When I read her some of the parts I have written, she laughs out loud in the coffee shop she is occupying and tells me she can’t wait for my audio book to come out. She thinks I am going to get a book deal that includes an audiobook. She believes in me. In this.

I have a partner in Story Sessions 201. Every Sunday we exchange chapters, except for when the Spirit not only tells me to rest, but tells her to tell me to rest. Then she makes sure I am resting. She gives me the hard truth about writing books, internet fame, the condition of my heart. I love her for her truth telling. I love her for her words, that she lets me peek into and savor before most.

I have a whole team of women, actually. They have been forcing me to see myself as a writer. As one who writes like she breathes and eats and sees. They don’t care that I have a full time job that I also love, or a pair of crazy babies. They don’t mind when I have to shout over the girls to say what I want to say on our conference calls that have become like church to me. The find it endearing. I do not have words for this. Me, the writer, my gratitude for them is too big for words.

I have found my tribe.

I am linking up with Lisa Jo Baker’s Five Minute Fridays. Join me?

Erin Leigh used to go to my church, where somehow we never really connected. This is sad because we were clearly supposed to be besties. Perhaps it is for the best. I don’t know that the world could handle that. She ran a first marathon last spring to raise money for the education of 26 girls in Nepal. This was after she moved to NYC because she was ready for a change, and now she is running her second marathon for a second year of education for the same 26 girls.

Bravery is My Fickle Boyfriend by Erin Leigh Patterson

We’ve all known him. The allusive guy who is too cool for words, way-out-of-my-league kind. Not the nice one who tells you how he feels and communicates and leaves no mystery (read: boring). The nice one, he is nice. Nice is great, but bravery… Bravery is allusive.

This weekend I ran 17 miles. 17 miles at my slow pace allows for lots of thinking time. I mostly thought about the hamburger I would later dominate, but I also thought a lot about the girls in Nepal who are in school. I thought about their strength and that their strength is pure and beautiful and so very needed. I stole some of their strength as I was running. Thankfully strength begets strength and there’s no finite amount, but plenty to go around.

In thinking about strength I remembered Abby’s blog post from earlier this year, how she told her daughters that they “help people do things that are brave and strong.” I remember being a big puddle of tears as I read that, partly because all the miles wear me out so I was really tired, and also because it was so humbling to be associated with the words “strong” and “brave”.

There’s that fickle boyfriend. I want to be brave, really I do. But me?

But here’s the thing I’m learning while training for my second marathon: I wasn’t born brave or strong. No one was. We were just born. Being brave, it’s an act. “People who do things that are brave and strong.” Abby didn’t say she helps her friends who are brave. But the ones who do things that are strong.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to run 17 miles. I woke up one day, got offered a spot in the NYC Marathon, took it because I am no fool, and then I started training. I am not going to complete the marathon if I can’t complete 17 miles. It’s basic math. But just like you exercise your muscles to lift weights and start humbly with 5 pounds, life lets us start small.

Whatever situation I am in these days I am finding the need to exercise different muscles. I have a new job and often have no idea what is going on. I am trying to run another marathon and have no idea how to keep my  tired eyes open while working at said job. I am trying to raise awareness about girls’ education so we can raise enough money to send 26 girls to school for their 2nd year and… yeah.

Strong starts small. And brave, well brave might be fickle but it only needs to last for a few crazy minutes while you make a crazy decision. The rest of that story is what makes you strong.

(This is Abby again) I love this post because it shows the way we see ourselves versus the way others see us. Erin Leigh IS brave and strong. Always. And yet…it surprises her. I am working on a theory that self-image is like a fun house mirror, and we need someone else to hold up the mirror or we can’t get an accurate perception of ourselves.

If you would like to support Erin Leigh in her Brave and Strong efforts you can:

Tweet encouragement at her. Training for a marathon is a THING and she is DOING IT. Let us encourage her. (@erinleighnyc)

Spread the Word. Share the heck out of this post, and her story.

Pray for her. And tell her. Send her your prayers for her, ask her for a girl she is raising money for that you can support in prayer. You can use email: Erinleigh (dot) Patterson (at) gmail (dot) com or twitter: @erinleighnyc

Support her effort financially. Educating girls is one of the best ways to serve a developing nation. Erin Leigh is running 26 miles (again!) to raise money for a second year of education for 26 girls. I don’t want to train for a marathon, so instead I will give her money. You can support her efforts by donating here.

It is October. This always takes me by surprise. In the midwest the changing of the seasons was marked by a crisp note in the air. The shorts were put away, the sweaters were pulled out. Fall did not sneak up on us. Now I live in the south (I mean, I used the word y’all a thousand times in my last post) and the fall sneaks up on me. I am still wearing sundresses, and strip off my cardigan in the school parking because it is too warm to wear it in my car.

But the warmth does not make up for the lack of light these days. I can feel the depression, hazy around the edges of my brain, waiting for the chance to descend. You can track the cycles of my mental health, following the waning sunlight, since late elementary school. October starts to get spotty, November is never good. I begin to recover in March when the sun comes back.

by the amazing Jennifer Upton

In my worst October, I turned 17. I wore a soft pink sweater to school and it was just a touch too warm. My mom got a chocolate raspberry tort from our favorite bakery. My boyfriend and a friend from school came over for dinner. My friend gave me a poster that read, CHOOSE JOY. That Friday night I missed yet another football game and my friends from the marching band called from the band room after the game. They called to wish me a happy birthday and I couldn’t stop crying.

My friends mom called mine, and they came to my rescue in a mini-van, took me to a sleepover that had been transformed to an impromptu birthday party. Half way through the midnight movie I went upstairs to pee and started sobbing uncontrollably. When a girl came upstairs after me, found me sobbing at the kitchen sink and asked me what was wrong, I remember gasping for breath, and howling “I DON’T KNOW.” I started medicating my depression (under the careful watch of my mom) that weekend.

It was hard that year, choosing joy. I am grateful my friends saw me struggling. I am grateful for the reminder. I needed it that fall. I need it in the fall. I can feel the depression seeping in. I am trying to choose joy.

I am trying to choose joy in the two herbal supplements I swallow every morning, with them I swallow the prideful idea I should be able to do it on my own. Sometimes God’s grace comes inside the bottles you buy 2 for 1 at the GNC.

I am trying to choose joy in the simple things. It is scarf week! I love scarves, and am sporting one every day in my classroom. This makes me happy, not shallow.

I am trying to choose joy in leaning into this season, pumpkin patches, fires in the evening, salted caramel mochas, Last night I made a grilled cheese sandwich with brie and honey crisp apples. Sometimes fall is subtle, and that is delicious.

I am choosing joy by letting go and laughing. My girls want to wear their Halloween costumes recently acquired on Ebay pretty much daily. Why not? Why not let Priscilla dress up as a cupcake and sing happy birthday to herself for the rest of the month? Why not let Juliet sport her ice-cream head and let her tell me she is delicious? She is delicious, they both are.

I am choosing to see the beauty, in the fall leaves, in myself, in the people who love. Sometimes the imperfections are the exact reason I love them so much.

By the amazing Jennifer Upton

This choosing joy thing, it is a fight for me. I think it always will be. So often I hear of joy as something you are surprised by, something soft and warm. In the fall, for me, joy is something I have to fight for, cling to, swallow hard.  But I have read the promises in the word. This is a thing that already belongs to me.

It is the fall, October has come, and I am fighting for my joy.

It is that time again! September has flown by. Priscilla is officially two and knows it. Yesterday she took the big bowl of popcorn off the table and growled at Juliet and me every time we put our hands in the bowl.  We had an appropriate sized birthday party with a home made cake and two families for guests. She cried when we sang her happy birthday because she likes her sister to be the center of attention, and her the trusty side-kick. Then she opened her tea set from Grandma and got mad I made her share it. She didn’t want to open any other presents. After much persuading she opened her drum. We had a parade. I cannot believe that it is about to be October, MY BIRTHDAY MONTH! Specifically, thirtieth birthday month!

Here is what I was into in September

Revolution Doughnuts: Christian and I have made a deal where we take turns waking up with the girls on Saturday. Every other one, even-steven. Sometimes, it is my turn to get up I would really rather stab myself in the eye. I am t-i-r-e-d. On those days we go to Revolution Doughnuts and then my world is happy again. The live music, the little toy kitchen the kids like to play in, the not even being upset when my kid pees on the floor. It is parental heaven and  the doughnuts are the best I have ever had. Holy-moly, these doughnuts y’all. I started with the spotted-trotter, a yeast doughnut with a caramel frosting like the one my mom used to make and call penuche, topped with bacon sprinkles. Bacon Sprinkles. I didn’t think it could possibly get better from there. Then I had the crunchy mister. Lord. Have. Mercy. It is like the best breakfast sandwich you could ever imagine. I literally started drooling when I typed that out. And one morning Rilla woke her sister and I up at like 7 am, so I got there in time for a cronut. Cronuts are doughnuts made from croissant dough. Yes. It is as good as you are imagining. Their fall flavors are out, pumpkin cake doughnut, neutella cream puffs, lemon curd filled, y-e-e-e-e-e-s-s-s-s.

Grey’s Anatomy: I think I am going to try to stay current with this season, because I just watched the last season in about two weeks. My first year of teaching, (the one the manuscript is about) I would binge watch this season from DVD’s I rented from Blockbuster and episodes on ABC.com. And I would cry, for Meredith, and Izzy, and my students, and myself. I cannot explain how closely these things are linked to me emotionally. But it has been helpful to be watching the show again as I edit.

Fit for Lit: I ran (well about half ran) the Fit for Lit 5k which benefits the Literacy Alliance of Metro Atlanta. Y’all, people need to be able to read, like for real. You would be amazed at the sheer number of people who can’t and how hard life is when you can’t read. Anyway, the race benefitted that. It wasn’t too hilly. There were story book characters all around cheering us on. I got this awesome shirt that I wore to school that says “I put the RACY in LITERACY.” Then I found out my kids didn’t know what the word racy meant….and I felt old.

Ria’s Bluebird Cafe– After the race we had brunch at Ria’s and it was amazing. The nuetella stuffed french toast, the breakfast burrito, the eggs benedict with crab and steak. Everything that came to our table was so, so amazing. And the place is adorable, and eating outside by the fountain under the awning, it was just perfect. What we didn’t have were the pancakes, which the New York Times has named the best pancakes in the world. I will for sure be returning.

Music Together: My sister Emily is a music therapist. She does these amazing family music classes by a company called Music Together. So we get the CD’s for birthdays and such. I don’t mind them and the girls love them. Specifically, there is a song called Who’s Gonna Pick You Up, about how you stay different places but mommy and daddy and grandma and grandpa come back and it is okay and they love you. There is a part that says “sometimes you miss them” that Juliet always miss sings “sometimes you hit them.”  I would correct her, but I am too busy laughing.

The Jesus Story Book Bible (Still)- Sometimes Christian reads the stories to the girls and I hear him in the other room, and I cry because YES that story DOES point to Jesus. You need this kids Bible, even if you have no kids. I have it on my Kindle for me.

Story Sessions 201– We are two-thirds of the way done and I absolutely would not have been able to edit without these ladies. I don’t know that Elora is going to have another section of 101 (which I also took) until January. But the online community is ten dollars a month. I am in it and it is worth every penny. If you want to just test the waters she has a retreat coming up. There are no words for how grateful I am that this community exists and I am in it. If you sign up for any of that, tell her I sent you!

October Preview- I turn thirty this month, and I have managed to jam pack the month totally full. I am going to have the first ever France girl weekend with my mom and my two sisters. We are meeting half way in Corbin Kentucky in a little cabin in a state park. I could not be more excited if we were meeting at an all-inclusive resort in the Bahamas. A weekend with my sisters and my mom! Happy Birthday! Then I am coming home and my in-laws are going to come visit and Connie will clean my microwave and I will not have to cook for myself all week, and she will encourage me to go to bed early because I work hard and am tired (Yeah, I DO have the greatest MIL ever) and the day they leave my friend Alison is coming to visit! And we are going to laugh until we pee our pants and eat all the things.

The next weekend is my actual birthday. Friday I am co-hosting a party with my friend Brooke for 26 miles for 26 girls. Erin-Leigh is guest posting this week to tell you all about her amazing mission. I wrote about her first marathon here. But the girls need a second year of school, so Erin-Leigh is running a second marathon. Then on Saturday I have my last 201 call, my manuscript edits are due to myself, and I am getting my tattoo. Holy Crap. Thirty is going to be a big year y’all. I can feel it.

Then there is Halloween and I already let the girls run around the house in their costumes. They are going to be a cupcake and an ice cream cone and it is so hilarious and cute I just giggle when I see them in their little hats. We are going to ALL the festival things, because I want everyone to see them in their costumes. But just typing all this out makes me exhausted! I think it will be worth it. I guess we will both find out next month.

On the Blog- The Post To the Teachers Already Tired blew up, totally blew up in a way I was not expecting. But it made me realize that I am not the only one. We are tired y’all. The most amazing thing happened this month out of that though. I started asking my story session sisters to pray for me and my students. And they have, and I can totally tell. So, pray for a teacher, email them and tell them that you did. Ask if you can pray for the student who is the hardest to deal with every day. It matters so much.

Also, sometimes people drop prayer requests in my box and I am so very honored to pray for my readers. Please feel free to do that.

As always every month, I am linking with Leigh Kramer. It is the funnest link up ever! If you do it, let me know. I want to know what you are into too.

Teaching is an act of faith. I have to remind myself of this almost daily.

Teaching is an act of faith.

I am not responsible for this particular pearl of wisdom. My work wife said it from a stage a few weeks back when she was participating in a panel all about her new book. She said that teaching is an act of faith, that every classroom is a tiny church, and every teacher preaches what they know and believe from behind the desk or table, or spray painted podium and hope that it sticks to their congragation of students. It struck me as deeply true. She couldn’t make eye contact with me while she said it. We talk about teaching and faith and church a lot in our 2 hour daily commute. Maybe my CRV is a tiny church two.

Teaching is an act of faith.

I’ve been asking God a lot of questions. A lot of questions about direction and the future. I’ve been wondering a lot about what my next step is. I don’t always hear clearly from God. But this time I did. “Come sit by the fire that warms your soul.” I still don’t know about my futre or direction, or next step. But I know that teaching still warms my soul.

Teaching is an act of faith.

Sometimes we never see the fruit of the seeds we’ve planted inside a kid. Sometimes we don’t even know what constitutes as seeds. I got an email from a mom the other day. Her son told her I was hilarious (which makes that pretty much the best day of my life). He has never once even cracked a smile in my class, but my wacky brand of crazy makes the kid feel safe. Who knew?

Teaching is an act of faith.

A kid raised his hand in my class last week. A kid in my class that I have known for two years. A kid who is notorious for disengagement. He raised his hand in my class and answered a question correctly. A hard question. About Shakespeare. Then he responded to the follow up. There were over 200 days of me smiling, saying his name, asking him to respond and getting nothing but a blank stare. I wasn’t even sure he knew my name. He raised his hand. 

Teaching is an act of faith.

What we do is sacred. Not all of it. Probably not the attendance everyday (but maybe, don’t we all like to know that someone noticed we weren’t their?). Surely not the part where you teach them how to bubble the dumb scantrons. But every day, we make ourselves known to our students; we seek to know our students. We teach. We throw our seeds all over the room and hope that some of them find fertile soil, that some of them grow despite the rocky ground. But it is so hard to tell what is taking root. Sometimes, we can’t even tell what are seeds. Sometimes a wind comes and blows the seeds who know where and a random rasberry bush many years later in the mind of a child who was never even in our room.

Because teaching is an act of faith.

We had an intruder drill last week. It shook me to the core. I can no longer pretend that people with guns only show up at schools very far away.  We tried to pretend that everything was normal, my students and I, while we locked ourselves in my classroom and ignored the banging on the door. We are now hosting drills for when someone comes to violate the trust of the classroom. We are preparing for a gunmen in the school, and we all continue to show up anyway.

Teaching is an act of faith.

I think of the sacrements. Holy communion, baptism, marriage. All are outward manifestations of things happening deeply inside. And all are more than simple representations of something happening deeply inside. Those sacrements participate in the things they represent. I don’t mean to sound egotistical or unneccesarily holy. But I am beginning to think of my classroom just a little sacramentally. Like maybe I will never know exactly what happens in my classroom. Maybe I don’t need to know. Maybe the mystery is the sacred part.

Teaching is an act of faith.

There is a story that my dad tells just the way my grandmother used to tell it. It is the story of a story that my great-grandfather Burgess used to tell.

Grandpa Burgess was a child, riding into town on the wagon. They needed some things in order to finish the harvest. I’m not sure what. That part is never told. The part that is told is the part where my great-grandfather’s wagon passed a family, sitting on their front porch in their Sunday best. In their Sunday best on a Saturday.

The wagon stopped and the inquiries were made. The people in their Sunday best on a Saturday were waiting for Jesus to return. They were sure it would be that day. They were waiting on the Lord.

The story goes that my great-grandfather, still a boy looked at his father, my great-great-grandfather asking what they were going to do about this new information. Well, came the reply, we are going home to plow the field. Jesus will just have to find us working.

There was a bumper sticker that was popular, when I was in High school. It said “Look busy, Jesus is coming.” And it bugged me. It didn’t bug me because it mocked the idea that Jesus was coming. It bothered me because, Jesus is coming” should be the reason that the church is actually busy. And not the reason we should be looking busy.

I went to a wedding today. It is hard to put into words how sweet today was. The beautiful couple met at a sacred harp singing, and thus all music was preformed shape note style. The bride walked into the hall, glowing and singing. She walked in singing. I am usually overwhelmed by the look in the groom’s eye, by the rush of romance in the air, the joy. And there was for sure all of that. But this time, the bride came in singing.

It made me think of the bride of Christ. I hope He finds us singing. I hope He finds us actually busy. I hope He finds his Bride, working in the fields.

Dear Sweet Priscilla,

At about the time I knew your name, I knew in my heart what the Lord spoke over you. “This baby brings change.” This one brings change. And you did. And you will. You, my sweet girl, bring change.

I’ve been told that an easy baby, often turns into a challenging toddler. You were an exceptionally easy baby. You are a delightfully tricky toddler. There is no battle you are unwilling to fight. No “no” you will not rage against. And boy are you good at that. Time out doesn’t work unless I carry you all the way to your room, and you can hold a grudge better than any two-year-old I’ve run into. Last time I picked you up from the baby sitter, you were refusing to make eye contact with her. She dared to make you put away the toys.

I’m not going to lie. The little change maker you are isn’t the easiest personality to parent. I know to choose my battles wisely. There aren’t any you won’t fight, and a lot of things you see as completely unfair. I love this about you, even as I am fighting this in you, I love this about you.

I don’t want to kill the urge in you to rage against the things that aren’t fair. I want to refine your sense of justice, so you don’t waste any of that tiny fight on the things that don’t matter. So you can be a force that changes the whole world. I am not going to be perfect at this. You are going to have to be a little patient with me.

It is no surprise that you came so close after your sister. You are her smaller, hilarious shadow. It is only in the past week that you have decided your name is Priscilla. Earlier in the year you were telling everyone that you were Juliet. Now you announce your name un-prompted every fifteen minutes or so. “I Rilla, I PRISCILLA!” I am so glad you know who you are.

You have your dad and I in giggle fits pretty regularly. There is no situation you can’t find the humor in. No time your dimples aren’t likely to peak out as you give notice you are about to have a good time. You are the life of the party my girl, even when it is just a party of one.

Your arrival was a bit of a surprise, and you continue to surprise me. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I love you.

Mom