I have a prayer box. For 18 months my prayers went on little pieces of paper and into the box. It was a mailbox between God and myself. All those times I wrote or spoke, “you are in my prayers” the person and where they where in life went into the private conversations I had with God.

This morning my intention was to go through the prayers to serve as a reminder of God’s faithfulness. What happened instead was within these candid conversations I saw pieces of myself and a glimpse of how I am perceived. They were pieces that for some reason, unbeknown to me I hide. I did not realize the depth of love I feel for all the people in my life and the level of trust I had in God. Nor did I realize how blunt I was with the Holy of Holies. Case in point, a prayer dated July 2010: Russell needs your help making his heart function, so he can spend more days with his daughter.” (there is no sugar coating within that conversation)Thankfully, Russell will be attending his daughter’s wedding next year.

Prior to reading the prayers My resolutions were focused on growing my character. I thought I was less than what I should be. Too materialistic, too egoic and the list of too’s could continue. After I saw a balanced person. If we kept score the thanks surpassed the requests three to one. And, within the entire box, there was one type of prayer for myself. They were for character. At the end of a prayer where I sought growth in a relationship. It said, “if I don’t have enough trust, can I have some of yours?” ….yet another instance of leaving out the sugar coating.

My husband was surprised by many of the prayers. “You actually pray for the president!” was the funniest response. And there was the pensive response when he remember realized (that means it sunk in) that I prayed for him through his trials.

Now the point of this blog. I suggest,to you reader, to make something of this nature for yourself. Prior to this experience I thought one way about myself. It ended with me realizing that by comparing myself to all that I take in, I devalued my character. I’m not as smart as (fill in the blank) or I wish I could be as giving as…. and the list could go on forever. Do I want to grow more, give more, be more? Certainly? And, the answered prayers were mind boggling. Three, out of all those prayers, went back in the box because they were ongoing.

Most important, after going through this,I realized that should I meet my maker at the end of the day two things would resonate. That awkward and tender giggle that comes when you’ve been more honest than you meant to be. And the delight that comes when you have been accepted because of that honesty.

The strongest tell tale sign of puberty is the voice.  A drop in range makes the voice easier to hear so less force is required to project the sound. Fortunately, the kids don’t realize this so I hear every secret they try to hide. And the look of surprise, when confronted with the knowledge that they were thinking of ditching 4^th hour is priceless.

image retrieved from http://www.funnycatsite.com

The only time the voice is a problem is when the kids get on each other’s nerves.  As was the case yesterday….Two loud boys were sitting next to each other. We were playing Catchphrase and the excitement was more than even the quiet kids could contain.  Loud Boy One started yelling at Loud Boy Two.  “BE QUIET! YOU’RE TOO LOUD FOOL!”  Fool is a term they use to connote a close, friendly relationship.

And thus the teachable moment began.  “Loud Boy One, remember how I taught you a softer voice is more effective than a louder voice.  Loud voices express excitement or frustration.  Softer voices express the ability to maintain control,” was the beginning of my intervention. “Remember, emotions are contagious.” He looked at me confused.  Then I went into the cause and effect of voice volume and how people try to compete with loud, but softer pulls them down to the level you want.  Ergo the softer voice has the control.  Still not believing the cosmic truth I demonstrated and talked to him in an even softer voice than what I was using.  As the effect of my voice hit his understanding of reality, his eyes lit up and he softly said, “Ohhhhhhh.” The rest of the class breathed a sigh of relief, because they too were about to be the recipients of a reprieve from the Loud Boys’ voices”

We were ready to commence the game and he indicated that he still had more to say and put his finger in the air.  “You know what I just noticed,” we all looked towards him, “You use that quiet voice mostly on me.”  We all burst in laughter, because, he was absolutely correct.

This is why middle school, in spite of the terror and the long hours and definitely the headaches, is so fun to teach. Eventually, they get it.

I smiled at her enjoyment of the drink. She noticing my smile, stopped raised her mug and said, “it’s hot cocoa.” She had that warm hot cocoa smile. Then she confessed, “Not really,” and went on to explain, “It’s warm milk with Hershey’s syrup.”

Stunned at first, I quickly realized that she thought that powdered stuff you add to water was the real hot cocoa! It was my first experience with a generation gap. Not realizing it at the time, I corrected her mistake, “That is how we made hot cocoa before they sold the powdered stuff. You are drinking the real hot cocoa, the powder is instant cocoa.”

Another girl who was walking by overheard the conversation stopped to learn more. “Are you for real?”

You’d have thought I said I walked in the snow or some other hyperbole that adults like to use on kids. “No, really.” I added, “That’s still how I make my cocoa.”

The bell rang and the three of us headed toward our common destination. The conversation ended with the second girl saying as she waved good day, “I’ll have to try that sometime.”

I smiled and thought to myself, “Today is the day I became officially old.”

Today as I walked down the corridor, close to the wall, so my hair wouldn’t get wet, the school bell rang. A door slams open and I am hit hard. In addition to looking like a fairy tale character, because I was walking with a hood and a scarf, I have the grumbly angry witch face.

The poor child who hit me is walking beside me. The moment was awkward. Finally, she looks up at me and says, “if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell you that same thing happened to me once.”

It worked. I looked at a child that I would normally console for one reason or another and burst into laughter. The shoe was on the other foot, and I got a glimpse of how I appear to those who experience my sprinkling of a little sunshine. And this is one of the 100′s of reasons why I teach middle school.

I overheard a conversation between a couple students. The eldest of them told the group, with the knowing wink, that it meant “to make out.”

I intervened, “No! It means meeting.” Every disinterested student suddenly found the lesson intriguing. I know because Mr. I Normally Don’t Care went to the back of the room and brought the big dictionary to find out if the well meaning teacher was trying to lead the class astray.

Sure enough I was right and the situation was ripe for teaching. “Maybe it’s the 10th definition. You know the dictionary helps with words that have multiple meanings.”

Now several students are in dictionaries and the girl who told the original meaning is laughing. She realized her definition wouldn’t be validated by Mr. Webster. “it only has 5 meanings.”

I was laughing with her too. Sometimes all it takes to get a kid to want to learn is to let them think they shouldn’t know it.

“David, I have gained 40 pounds since high school.”  This was my lame, but valid to me, excuse for not going to our upcoming 25th high school reunion. I don’t mind the 40 pounds.  They came with moments like that time the family sat on the porch and did the unconventional,  and ate the ice cream out of the carton. But will the people that remember the athletic Trish, see the love in the pounds?

David pulled out the skills that have made him my best friend since 4th grade. He says “Trish, everybody else has too.”  Don’t ask me why, but it was the perfect response.

“Oh!” sincere surprise was my response.  Probably because I didn’t go to the 10th or 20th reunion, many of my friends remained  18 in my mind.

Time Doesn't Change Some Things

The verity of David’s good friend skills came to light.  He lied! Everybody looked great.  I was so happy to see them I didn’t care that they looked better than me. However, the changes came out gradually, beginning when we looked at the menus to order food, and four of us simultaneously redirected the menus so we could read them better. Through chuckles, comments about bad lighting, bad prescriptions and the need for a new font proved David’s point.

We all bragged about our children and appreciated the faithfulness of the love that has  remained in our lives. Thanks to facebook we could commented on each other’s posts (Note to self add more pictures of the hubby to my profile), and knew why others hadn’t been able to attend (Congratulations again to Stacy who brought a lovely child into the world this week).

Being a writer,  I was worried that people would expect to hear wonderful stories about moments we shared. This was not the case, we were content to share time and laughter.  It was weirdly like lunch time in high school, except there was loud music, big screen t.v.s and plenty of time to relish the moment.  What’s even funnier, maybe not, they didn’t know I was a writer.

Scars that are earned when navigating through life were shared. 25 years ago at the wise age of 18 we were too confused, or at least I was,  to say “I have no clue about what is going to happen next.”  At 40 something we all are wise enough to laugh and appreciate having had the moment.

Pictures were taken, and I wonder if any one could catch the essence of the night.  The one where people said, “We shouldn’t have to wait 5 years to get together again.”

Maybe it was delirium from mowing the lawn in an Arizona August, or since it was Sunday, it could have been divine intervention-regardless a really good idea came to the front of my mind.  We don’t have to wait for the kids to have fun.  Out came the Trikes.  They are three wheeled scooters that we bought eons ago. 

At first the hubby wasn’t too happy with me. He thought I was out of my ever loving mind until he got on the scooter and became 10 again.

Life was smiling at and with us.  After our adventure with the scooters we thought we’d be adults and eat in downtown Tempe.  Neither of us had been to Five Guys so eating there would count as an adventure.  That would be two in one day.  Can life get any better than that?

Apparently the answer is yes.  For the first time in fifteen years the hubby shared a soda cup and an order of fries with me. Anybody that knows the hubby knows he has sharing issues.  The issue is he doesn’t like to share.  Friends, today was my day for the life lottery. Apparently Five Guys has 200 soda choices!

Six count em Six Lemonade Choices

The main screen on the soda machine

They had eight different flavors of Sprite!

Because we had one cup and were sharing we weren’t drinking too much soda. Which meant there were more chances to try different flavors.  Don’t tell him I said this,but it’s true, the hubby giggled. A lot.   I think we got more exercising running from our table to the soda machine than we got on that 4 mile scooter adventure.

At 8:30 we left hand in hand feeling a euphoria that can only be brought on by taking a walk on the wild side. Or in our case drinking more soda and staying out later than is appropriate for a Sunday night.  Our kids would be horrified. giggle giggle.

I had heard old, old people (that’s code for people so old I don’t want to know the real number of years they’ve been on this planet) say they still feel like they’re teenagers even though they don’t look like it. At the time I understood, but didn’t get it. Kind of like catching a cold, the misery in theory is a lot different than the experience.

Now I get it! When those running shoes go on my feet my mind goes back to 1983. That was the year my life changed. Finally I was good at something. Unfortunately my body is in 2011. And let me tell you, even though the shoes cost more they don’t work as well, because I am a lot slower.

And if I’m going to disclose some truths I may as well bear them all. My motivation level isn’t as uhm perky as 1983 either. And, good habits take work to develop. If they were so easy, everybody would have them.

But, there is a big plus. First the realization that my strength lies within my weaknesses. I have developed the gift of being able to laugh at the discomfort that comes when trying to reignite a dream. Every push-up (the girl’s kind of course) is an action that get’s me closer to meeting the challenge.

Even though I want to hurt my husband during the running workout, it is something that brings us closer. The same way we laughed when our children tried things, stumbled, tried again and made it; we laugh at our new milestones, and my ability to take complaining to a level that is comedic.

Consider this my invitation to you. What dreams lurk in the back of your mind, waiting to be recognized? Is it time for one of them to get a little more attention. If it’s difficult and may elicit whining, complaining, or a big bottle of aspirin that’s the dream you revisit first. The good dreams are the ones that give you a headache because you aren’t able to wrap your mi d around them. The beauty of a good dream is this: it is big enough to handle whatever you give it.

The heart of the matter was she was comparing what I call “supposed to” with reality.  She was supposed to be more successful and she was supposed to have a happier life.  Her friends all had great jobs, great families and great lives. The letter writer was in a place where she didn’t want to share because it wasn’t good enough.  If I could have responded I would have said, “you’re not the only one honey!”

Case in point:

• I have wanted to go to Europe since I was 9. The closest I have ever been is photoshopping my
  

  The closest I have been to Europe is via photoshop

  family in a picture of the Eiffel tower.

• I love all the “Don’t Eat This” foods.
• Those ads that ask if you want to lose 20 pounds irritate me because I need to lose 50.
• The son that got the big scholarship for college, was the one that decided he didn’t want to go.
• My house is the one that makes everybody feel good about theirs.
• If there is a competition, no matter how hard I try I am in the back of the pack.

This week Matthew Barnett tweeted something many people in my social circle hear all the time from his father Tommy Barnett:  “I choose to not see problems anymore….I just choose to praise God all the time.”  Now let’s take all those negatives from above (and trust me there’s more I stopped because this is a 500ish word blog)

• I live in a state that has so many tourist attraction that I haven’t been able to see them all.  My life never lacks in adventure.
• Dunkin Donuts are a gift from heaven. How can you say don’t eat a gift from heaven and be right?
• I can’t explain it, but my marriage took a strangely positive turn when the hubby poked the belly jiggle and both of us giggled like little kids in the jello commercial.
• I’m still dealing with the “I don’t want to go to college” sting.
• People don’t feel bad about spilling drinks at my house.
• I have a lot of friends, because if I’m going to lose a race I may as well have fun.  So while I’m in the back I am chatting away with all the other people that are as slow as me.  It’s o.k. that they are probably 30 years older than me.

In other words, one way of praising God is allowing the positives to be stronger than the negative. We have a choice in how we view our lives.  That is one  of the many reasons why Facebook is effective, it gives us one more chance to see the good in our lives and share it.  And, that’s what Abby said too.  So this time when I read the article I got to say, “I do that!” And believe me, that does not happen too often.

Fortunately, I remember my middle school days.  Maybe it’s because I teach one mile away from where I attended middle school.  Either that or it was because the whole delayed puberty thing scarred me more than I realized.  Regardless, it is a time to behold because the memories are unlike any others from other stages of life.

In a recent facebook reunion all of us recalled the time our 7th grade teacher declared us, “The worst class ever.”  Ever? that’s going to make it difficult for those that want to best us. We laughed about it.  Which is the biggest form of irony for me. After the online conversation I realized, those past and future little darlings that I  will teach are going to laugh, in the years to come about how they tormented me!

But I also remember we weren’t that bad on purpose.  It wasn’t like we had secret meetings about what we were going to do to make the teacher lose it. Seriously.  Case in point: The Square

Charlie Daniels playing his fiddle

Dancing Incident.  Before kids danced in a manner that required disclaimers and permission slips,  the official dance was the square dance. Every year in p.e. we had dance lessons and it was the time held, only American dance, the Square Dance.  We didn’t want to dance because there was hand holding and boys. However,  we did it because this was Catholic School, and if you didn’t God would be mad at you. You think with that mindset, we’d be good all the time.

For roughly an hour three times a week, for two weeks we’d dosey doe and allemande to Charlie Daniels singing “The Devil Went to Georgia.” He sang about the devil trying to take somebody’s soul, but lost it in a fiddle competition.  A totally appropriate song for Catholic School.  By the end of the second week we were good. I mean really good. We were over the having to touch hands thing and I do believe a couple of angels were in there having a good time with us. Then Sister Delbert, the principal came to observe, the worst class ever, dance.

This was back in the day when records had two sides.  On one side was the edited version, on the other, was the real version of the song. Sister Delbert walked in to hear Johnny tell the devil, “I told you once you son of a @#%&! I’m the best there’s ever been.” No lying all the time we practiced we listened to the side that said, “son of a gun.” The nun walks in and Charlie Daniels starts cussing? I slept with the rosary that night.

Dancing was done for that year, and possibly until our class promoted out of the school, and it was time to play soccer. This is one of the many experiences that gives me a keen insight.  Looking at things from the kid’s perspective,  I understand what they mean when they say, “Mrs. B., really, it isn’t what you think!”