Wrestling with Writing & Other Thoughts

“Freedom risks its own abuse, thinking risks error, speech risks misunderstanding, faith risks failure, and hope risks despair. The risk of life is death, and man is man only by virtue of his risks of the future.” Madeleine L’Engle

Why are kids today so afraid of putting their own thoughts down on a page? Maybe because for generation upon generation they have fought against educators who have told them they are stupid or that their opinions don’t matter. Sure, in formal writing, many students don’t have the expertise to write with authority, but why are they scared to even attempt an interpretation of another’s words? Have we really put our young readers and writers in a position where they feel like anything they have to say will be easily dismissed by those who “know better”? It’s a sad thought I’m wrestling with this week.

I find that the best books I’ve read, the best T.V. shows I’ve watched, the best movies I’ve seen, the ones I want to read or watch over and over again, are the ones that pose questions without concrete answers. When I can read Dumbledore’s final revelations to Harry at other-world King’s Cross in Deathly Hallows four times and still be just grasping at the edges going “Huh?” in the end, that’s a good piece of writing. When I can watch a season finale of Doctor Who and, again, feel like I’m trying to keep sand from running through my fingers to reach an explanation, that’s genius on the part of the scriptwriters. Epically confusing movies are harder to come by, but I suppose this line of reasoning could apply to why everyone raves about Inception. I think as rational, thinking beings, we don’t always want to have things explained to us, or neatly tied up with a bow at the end. Maybe that’s why I’m not a big fan of Jane Austen. I want to read the book that I could imagine writing another chapter for. What if the Monster didn’t really die at the end of Frankenstein?

It might appear I just went off on a bit of a rabbit trail from where I started, but hold on a minute. There’s something to be said for encouraging young writers to explore thoughts that may or may not be correct. Sometimes there really isn’t a nice, neat, “right” answer. More often than not the blanks on my students’ homework questions are for the “What did you think…” questions. Literature, good literature, is open to interpretation. The beauty of a well-written book is that we can still wrestle with it 10, or 100, or 2800 years later. Madeleine L’Engle wrote Wrinkle in Time while she was struggling with some weighty theological and scientific concerns, looking for an explanation to how the world works. C.S. Lewis wrote A Grief Observed while grappling with his grief over the loss of his wife. J.K. Rowling wrote portions of the Harry Potter series while coming to terms with her mother’s death and her own beliefs about an afterlife. I write best when I’m looking for answers, shouldn’t our students learn this is okay too?

Several years ago I had a student who would come over to my house for help with papers. It was like pulling teeth the first few sessions. I sounded like a broken record asking her the “Why?” questions. She was afraid to offer her own voice.

“I’m supposed to respond to this book I read.”

“Okay, what did you think?”

“I hated it.”

“Okay, go with that.”

“I can’t tell the teacher I hated it.”

“Why not? As long as you can explain what you hated about it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, now why did you hate it?”

“I didn’t like the author’s tone.”

“Why? What didn’t you like about it?”

And so on from there. It’s completely acceptable to have a response in writing that goes against the norm. We need to teach kids to be confident in their own voices in all situations. A young person can respectfully disagree with their elders, and even the “experts.” They just have to learn how, and we need to teach them. The world is only getting darker, and if they can’t learn to take a different angle, even if it feels uncomfortable, they will not succeed out there. We need to let them question even the “well-established” facts. Was Alexander really great? What did you think about how that war turned out? Was Iago truly evil, or was he just a misunderstood product of his environment? Does DNA evidence preclude double jeopardy? And those are just a few of the topics being bandied in my classes lately.

I love to teach writing. I love to see the light bulbs go off in their heads. I love when the above dialogued student calls me asking if she can come over just so I can ask her the “Why?” questions. I love that my son asks me weird questions all the time. Now I just need to remember that while thinking may risk error, and speech may risk misunderstanding, the risk is worth the reward.

The Mercy's Conundrum

Sometimes it’s a little like being trapped in the highest tower of a medieval castle, having the gift of mercy.

The Bible tells us in 1 John 4:18-21, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. We love because He first loved us. If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from him: whoever loves God must also love his brother.”

Those verses are hard ones to hear this week, and they feel extraordinarily hard to practice in the current world of education, even in Christian schooling. It’s no secret that the world has tainted so much in recent years, so I suppose it should not be surprising that it’s put its stain even in places we thought were immune. The evening news has aired the stories of the sick, creepy teachers who have crossed boundaries with their students. It honestly turns my stomach every time I hear about these situations. Not only do I feel angry at those teachers and nauseated for those children, but I feel more and more chained and walled in myself.

I still remember interviewing for my current job and being clear about the fact that while I wanted to instill a love of literature in my potential students, I wanted to be able to have a ministry as well. Some of the best teachable moments I had earlier in my career had nothing to do with English. There have been opportunities to comfort a teen who has just lost a grandparent, to hear stories and offer encouragement in difficult home situations, to offer advice for college and to offer advice after they’ve gone to college. I’ve attended weddings and funerals on behalf of my students, and I’ve walked through a plethora of dating and relationship advice. We’ve had lunches and coffee dates and movie outings and family hang out time. I’ve been to Bible studies, sleepovers, senior trips, mission trips, and even flown to visit one or two away at college. Just the other night I spent an hour on Skype with one of my college girls encouraging her through some educational decisions. I couldn’t solve her problems for her, but I could listen and tell her how I struggled with many of the same choices when I was where she is now. These are the aspects of my job I truly love, or have loved.

In a more wandering blog a few weeks back, I pondered the aphorism, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” I’ve often wondered if I gave up on some great awe-inspiring pontential career by choosing to teach. Could I have really written the “great British novel”? Maybe, but then I realized that by choosing to teach and affect young lives I could possibly have a greater impact. I can have a hand in making others successful if I let go of my own desire for personal success, and in the end I think that’s more rewarding. It’s a little like parenting in that respect.

Encouraging thoughts, right? In keeping with 1 John 4? Maybe. Satisfactory for a Christian with the gift of mercy? Should be. Yes, it should be, but lately it’s not.

Back to my original analogy of the castle tower. The world by and large has said caring about your students is weird and creepy and can get you in a whole lot of trouble. The response of authority figures in the world of Christian education? We should be “careful.” We should still feel free to mentor our students, but only within certain limits. Ok, the intellectual, logical side of me gets that, I do. But the mercy side has struggled. How do you care just a little? How do you build up a hedge of protection that doesn’t keep scratching you in the face?

I realize the last couple years I’ve been erecting walls that have turned into battlements that have turned into high towers in a castle surrounded by a moat…with alligators. The drawbridge only occasionally comes down; the gates open a crack here, or a crack there. Otherwise I find myself stuck behind walls I’ve built with stones of wit, and at times sarcasm, and sometimes just not being very nice. I’ve allowed myself to be scared into a retreat that for a mercy, has become a virtual prison. It’s easier to just let a student believe you don’t like them, than to risk them becoming your friend and having the world question that friendship.

If the fear with love doesn’t come from God, why do we surrender ourselves to that fear? I’m not afraid of loving my husband, my son, my other family members, my closest friends…but I feel I need to remain mute on the rest. And yet, 1 John 4:21 is clear that God commands us to love our brothers, for it is how we show that we love Him. The mercy’s conundrum: tearing down the walls and loving purely, completely, wisely and safely. So far I’m failing horribly, but then again, “…His anger is but for a moment, and His favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning” (Psalm 30:5)

New Wisdom from C.S. Lewis...

"...one must take 'sent to try us' the right way. God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to fnd out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn't. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down." From A Grief Observed

Such a great analogy, I must claim it for my own. My/our walk with Ryan's brain injury has been a house of cards. When he was a toddler and preschooler I had built up this card tower of expectations and hopes for his life. In one week, eight years ago, that tower fell when he suffered his stroke. For months we carefully restacked the cards through care and therapy. After several levels were standing again, a wind came by and blew down a tier or two when we were given the seizure diagnosis almost two years to the day after the original injury occurred. The next steps were the harder to build yet and another level blew down five years in when we were told he had dyslexia. This level was one of the easier to rebuild in a way, but took a year of intensive reading therapy and learning some adaptive skils. A gentle breeze still wafts through every few months as we go from seizure free periods to having seizures again. Just two and a half weeks ago I lost a few cards as we discovered he was having new auras he hadn't experinced previously and in conjunction with heightened seizure activity. We're still replacing those cards as we try to get a grip on solving the latest relapse.

I think what Lewis's analogy doesn't fully carry out, perhaps because he is grieving death, is the importance of the rebuilding. Each time I pick up a card, or group of cards, and add a level or replace one that has been blown down, I am growing; Ryan is growing. I get frustrated, and yes even curse at times, when our hard work is destroyed. Then I realize that the foundations have at least remained strong for years. Our family loves each other and walks this road together. Our friends respond with prayer and practical help as the needs arise. In the end, and even now, Ryan is learning how to deal with difficulties in life and how to function in spite of them. My latest mantra has been, "I've seen the kids who go their whole young lives without hardship, and do you know what happens what the slightest difficulty arises? They can't cope." Ryan will be able to cope with the smaller inconveniences of life, and many of the bigger ones, because he has had to struggle since age five.

Do you have a house of cards? I think most of us do. I think for many of us it is our faith, but it might be something more tangible than that. What do you do when the cards fall? Do you brush them all off the table and give up? Or do you begin the ofttimes slow process of rebuilding? When the breezes blow, do you become anxious wondering if your tower will stand? Sometimes a part is meant to come down, sometimes the whole house collaspses. The important thing is that we build again.