Dropping Seeds for the Kingdom: A Writer's Invocation
If you have ever felt like giving up, then this one's for you...
Welcome, Dearest Reader, to MY WAY BACK.
I have a packed newsletter for you tonight, and it is FULL of so much goodness:
First, I have an inspirational essay to encourage creatives and leaders to keep going with stories from my classroom.
Then, I have amazing opportunities you don’t want to miss out on with TheWayBack2Ourselves.com. We’ve got HUGE NEWS about our literary journal and Cultivate 2025.
STORY TIME: DROPPING SEEDS FOR THE KINGDOM
1.
I want to tell you a story.
I taught teenagers for nearly twenty years, and it was the hardest and best work I ever did. Yes, I absolutely love this new calling as a professor, writer, editor, and community leader. It is beyond what I deserve! But there is still something about teaching in the classroom that tugs at my heart in the deepest way possible…
Maybe it’s because teenagers are magical and terrifying—and they tell you everything that’s on their mind regardless of the shock value. Not to mention, there is never ever a dull moment.
Or maybe it’s because I was truly needed every single moment. Maybe it’s because teenagers are bold, exciting, funny, and surprising, and they keep you young-hearted and on your toes… and maybe a little bit crazy, too!
Of course, I don’t want to romanticize my long days with young adults. There were admittedly many times when an upset student would lash out at me—whether it was as a profanity-laced outburst in class or in a more inventive or passive-aggressive way, like when they talked about me in the hallways with a snicker so I could hear them or vowed to “get me into trouble” with their parents (which they most definitely followed through on).
Regardless of how my crazy and beautiful school years went with my students, I was always deeply emotional when our time together came to an end. When you teach the same students—sometimes for years—goodbyes are never easy.
I often found myself ruminating about each student and whatever relationship we fostered. I would beam with pride, laugh with knowing, or smile with gratitude in most circumstances. But there were always a few that would torment my heart. For whatever reason, it was hard on us. I would often cry or lament about the ones who fell away or through my fingers as if I had done something wrong or missed some vital need along the way.
Then, there were those rare enigmas who sat silently for months and sometimes years and said very little. With those students—when they finally left my classroom after our time together—I was always perplexed, and I would wonder in my own insecurities if they enjoyed my class, if I had reached them, if there was something we did that meant something to them at all. No matter my efforts, they remained a mystery. And, being the sensitive intuitive I am, I would find myself wondering about these students many years after our time together.
I know it’s not an accurate way to assess things, but I did put great pressure on myself in those years to be everything to everybody. When I failed to live up to my impossible standards because of my own mistakes or limited capacities or by just not being what somebody needed in the moment, I would blame myself regardless.
Now that I am older and more mature, I understand things from a wiser and more nuanced perspective. I understand many things we do and say have more to do with us than they have to do with the people on the receiving end of our actions. I also now realize that sometimes teenagers take things out on you because you are actually a safe place for them, which is—in some ways—a back-handed compliment.
I only know these things because of the testing and stretching I endured—and the gift that is called time. These nearly twenty years humbled me. Broke me. Blessed me. Made me. And though they are in my past now, I will forever be shaped by my days in classrooms 236 and 925.