Thursday, September 25, 2014

No part too little...

I am a thinker…overthinker. As the new song lyric states: at times “I think I thought myself to death.” Spending that much time within the confines of your own cerebral labyrinth requires periods of recovery…time to shut the world off and just snuggle with my demons.

I remember often as a child the times when I would go off and seek the solace of solitude. I could escape into the pages of a book…or would go on a hike through the forest above our family cabin. I wasn’t mad…I wasn’t sad. Herein lies the paradox…I didn’t need to be left alone…I just needed to be…

I remember the countless hours I spent playing alone…amazed now at the capacity of my imagination…the attention to scripting the setting and plot of my play. I knew even then I was a writer…seeing the adjectives in every detail…alive with sensory information…in tune with everything around me. Where some kids only saw the surface, I saw the interconnectedness…the synergy and complexity of nature…the hidden layers of stories waiting just beyond reach.

Every day, everyone is vying for a piece of your time, energy, interest, affection, attention, etc…as kids rarely ever saw it. As adults, some still fail to see it. As I have grown, I have come to terms with the fact that while often inspiring and beautiful…the skill to see behind the curtain or under the mask…is exhausting and often draining…particularly involving human relationships.

I realize as I come back to this blog, that it is closely resembles my inner psyche. Though the timeline is a little more drastic. If you know me well…you know that I fade in and out of contact with the world…even those closest to me. It is a quality that is rarely understood and most often taken as offense. Few truly understand that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Thank each and every one of you for the role you have played in my story…past, present, or future…no part too little.

For those of you I have offended. I ask for understanding.
For those of you I have hurt. I ask for forgiveness.
For those of you I have neglected. I ask for grace.

For those of you I love. I ask for nothing…you have already given me everything.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Aftershock...



It is well after midnight. It has been an exhausting day. And yet I can’t close my eyes.

Some of you have no doubt heard of the recent suicide of a local teen. Some of you have ties to the family, school or community that is suffering an unimaginable loss, even if you may not realize it. Monday evening staff members from a local school received a phone call from their admin team that no one should have to receive regarding the tragic death of one of their eighth graders. My heart, prayers and thoughts go out to them as they navigate this loss within their building and community.

I felt led to share the personal impact that this event has had on me as a father and as an educator and how I have already seen it affect my community..my family. If you know me and work with me, you likely have already seen some of the impact, but may not have even realized it. This message is nothing more than my heart grieving alongside the friends, family and school community as they live through this tragedy. God grant them peace to rest in your comfort, understanding to accept the unknowable, and strength to take face tomorrow…

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“Why?” It’s always the first question that crosses our minds when we hear of suicide. The next thought is: “I can’t imagine what his parents are going through.” And as reluctant as we are to admit it, that is followed by: “Thank God it didn’t happen here.” Except that this time it did…not here exactly, but close enough to catch the aftershock.

It isn’t really important when I found out, or even how. I’m embarrassed to admit that it didn’t really sink in until tonight, once I could get through the busyness of my mind and my responsibilities at work and at home. Now that I look back, I’m embarrassed even more that it didn’t sink in earlier, since my work and my family have been indirectly affected.

I don’t know any of the details…I don’t want to know any of the details. What I know…is that a thirteen year old boy is dead. His family is in shock. His friends are devastated. His teachers are speechless. All of them are blaming themselves. Wondering if they missed something…wondering where they failed. “I should have…” or “if I knew, I could have…” or “I wish I would have…”

While I talked with kids and teachers and parents at conferences, I realized that what we have is so precious. Not just life…but the interconnectedness of the human experience…the fragility of the human psyche…and the delicate balance of the human spirit. I think about my friends that worked directly with this kid. I think about the funeral I attended last year of a former student of mine that suffered a similar fate. I think about his family. I think about my friends and students and families that have narrowly escaped living this nightmare. I think about my students…I think about my own kids. I think about the impact I have on them. “Would I have noticed…?”

Let me tell you about my morning: This morning as I pulled into the parking lot at school a local radio station DJ interrupted his own broadcast to address the issue of this suicide. He expressed his sympathy. He encouraged other teens to seek help. He gave hope and inspiration to change. On any other day, I would not have heard this portion of this broadcast. However, today my 13-year old son was slow getting ready this morning and I wait for him before I left the house. I was frustrated and annoyed at him. Typically he hits the ground running before I can even park the car, but today he stayed to hear the end of the DJs statement. By the time I left the car, I was no longer frustrated and annoyed. I was grateful for him and all of his eccentricities.

By the end of the day…I forgot it all. He and I got in an argument. He yelled like he typically does, then he got quiet when he is “done” talking, but then…he broke. He was trying so hard to hold in the tears. When I told him there was no shame in crying…he melted. In case you can’t tell…this is WAY out of the ordinary.

He broke from the pressure…the stress and anxiety of trying to catch up on work he has missed from absences at school, not being able to finish his football season due to a concussion, social pressures and trying to fit it with his friends, and (what I should have noticed, but didn’t) the impact that this suicide had on him.

As I processed everything with him, he shared that some of his friends had known the kid. There was a big argument on Facebook about why the kid did it. There were accusations and speculation as to who was responsible. As I read between the lines, I saw the realization that, one of his biggest fears, death is much closer than he thought. I saw the vulnerability of him trying to make sense of it all.

As I put together the puzzle presented by the perception of the pubescent male brain, I found myself embarrassed yet again. That I should have known. I should have seen. That I should have been more understanding. That it could have been him…

Hence why I can’t sleep…

Why? We may never know…

What are his parents going through? The unimaginable…the worst possible, painful, piercing anguish possible and then some…

Can it happen here? Any time, any day, anyone…even here…

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Logophile...

My journey with words has been one filled with joy and wonder, excitement and passion...

Growing up, words were secondary only to church; and often they were interrelated. As I reflect on my history with reading and writing, the first thing that came to mind was the importance my family placed on education as a whole. My father is a school administrator, my mother and little sister are elementary school teachers. But it wasn’t that influence that shaped my early years as a reader...neither parent joined the profession until well after my addiction to words had taken root.

My earliest memories include reading...period. My father was in school to be a teacher and worked on the grounds crew at the college. My mother was a bookkeeper for the college cafeteria and wouldn’t become a teacher until I was in sixth grade. Even though they weren’t teachers yet, the influence was there somewhere, somehow. I was reading at age three and vividly remember “See Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run.” I have no memories of the struggles and frustrations of learning to read…and maybe that is a curse...I’m the first to admit that I have little empathy for beginning readers, just ask my daughters about when they were starting to read.

As I grew older, all I ever remember was books, books and more books. I read adventures about frontier explorers, wagon trains, horses, dogs, etc. I read anything I could get my hands on. I lived for Scholastic book orders...Christmas presents from my maternal grandfather were always books (not that I would have ever read the ones he gave me, but I appreciated the sentiment)...my paternal grandmother was always reading despite having no high school education... When I was eight I remember moving into a large farmhouse that had a built in library under the stairs. It was my own private cavern; my own escape into fiction (it was this influence that led me to create a similar room for my girls under the stairs on our current house). I’m not sure where my parents bought all of those books, or where they disappeared to for that matter...but I do know that the written word was far from scarce.

The Christmas of my third grade year I received the Encyclopedia Britannica complete 26 volume set. Granted it was second hand and printed almost thirty years prior...but it was the world at my finger-tips. I used to hole up in my room and spend hours reading, skimming, scanning, perusing those pages. Every time I go into the used bookstore I can still smell that same sweet smell of my encyclopedias. From my bedroom in rural Idaho I could visit Italy, or New York, or Australia...I could walk alongside Napoleon, George Washington, Julius Caesar...

And from there my love of the written word grew exponentially...and my nerd quotient along with it. I vividly remember researching books I wanted to write, creating character sketches, setting scenes in distant times and lands. By sixth grade I was an avid writer in addition to my insatiable desire to read. I laugh now when I think back to the stories I wrote and their stark similarities my obsession at the time, the Hardy Boys...everywhere I went I saw the potential for a mystery caper.

My mother encouraged me every step of my clinical compulsion...taking me to the used book store...encouraging me to write my stories. I wonder if she ever realized the extent of my addiction...that my closet became a veritable writing workshop complete with desk and chair...with notes and pictures and maps pinned all over the inside walls. I couldn’t walk by a box of books at a garage sale without rummaging through them.

My next treasure would forever shape my future. Tom Clancy; a name I was far from familiar with at the time. I remember seeing the paperback in the box...bright crimson...RED STORM RISING. I will admit that it was a difficult book to read. I struggled to forge through the military jargon, analyze and characterize the various acronyms...and somewhere along the way I lost the storyline in the book. However, I was hooked...I was hooked on military history more than ever...I was hooked on Tom Clancy...I was hooked on the Cold War...I was hooked on the Soviet Union.

I have to depart for a minute to explain a major hang-up I have with reading. I find it incredibly boring and impossible to reread a book. Once I have devoured the book into my subconscious, the film strip inside my head races in fast forward…faster than I can read and the books are simply spoiled. I talk to students and colleagues and friends all the time that are rereading books for the “seventh” time. I simply cannot fathom that as a possibility.

That being said, Red Storm Rising was the first book I remember rereading. It was a couple years after my first bout with Tom Clancy. Since then I had purchased nearly every paperback he had in print. I used to pack them all in my suitcase to go camping even though I would only read them one at a time...what I thought I was going to do with five novels over 500 pages on a four day camping trip is beyond me. But I took that bright crimson book and reread it...I soaked up the terminology, and most importantly, I understood the storyline.

Throughout high school and even into college the impact of that first Tom Clancy novel was dramatic. I read every book I could find written by Clancy, including the non-fiction military history/tactical books. I studied the news of the newly democratic Russia with an intense passion. I read Alexander Solzhenitsyn for fun…and not his novels. I remember scouring the library card catalog (my students never believe there were actual cards) for anything about Soviet history. I stumbled across the Gulag Archipelago, the accounts of Stalin’s purges and the KGB’s reign of terror throughout the USSR. I remember noticing that the book hadn’t been checked out for fifteen years. And I remember being more than offended when my history teacher asked me, “Are you seriously reading this?”. Of course I was. I even chose Solzhenitsyn as my topic for my author study during my Senior year of high school. I went on to college and took Soviet history. A group of my friends made a short-lived attempt at learning Russian (that could be a great story for literacy frustration later). While interests have shifted and my OCD tendencies have been “harnessed”, I still secretly mourn the fact that the USSR is no more...that I couldn’t be a spy...that I’ve never been to Mother Russia, though perhaps someday in the future.

There are so many other stories I could tell that have shaped my philosophy on reading, and I’ve barely touched my experiences as a writer. My habits as a reader have grown and developed, probably not for the best...I can’t read in a distracting environment if I’m reading for fun, and it is a fairly slow pace at that...I have to read in a distracting environment if it is for school or homework (I blame my ADD and my hyper-focus when forced to concentrate)...I tend to be reading anywhere from four to eight books at a time (a trait I have unfortunately passed onto my eldest daughter), thus it takes me forever to finish one, however, my recent membership in a book club has focused my energies a bit...I have been known to read while driving…I know…I know…

The major reflection for me at the end of this brief history is that I cannot imagine life without the written word...I cannot imagine not being able to understand everything I read...I cannot imagine not being able to write my thoughts for future generations. Literacy, in the most traditional sense, has been the basis of my entire life. I desire to impart my love and passion to anyone I come in contact with...I am constantly asking my students for recommendations for books...I conduct writing workshops at home for my daughters...I purge my emotions through occasional journaling and infrequent blogging.

I want, more than anything, for my students to have a positive experience with reading and writing. I want to inspire them to find the story that ignites their passion. I want them to know that finishing a book isn’t the destination, it is simply part of a never-ending journey...

Monday, August 2, 2010

When I grow up...

What do you want to be when you grow up? The dreaded question you face throughout your childhood. And of course, in my line of work, I’m guilty of putting 12 year-olds on the spot. Even my own daughters have faced my gauntlet: Jadyn wants to be a vet. Makenna wants to be a forensic anthropologist (she’s come a long way since she proudly announced at her kindergarten graduation that she wanted to be a princess when she grows up).

So what did I want to be when I grew up? At 6, I was “Mr. D. Almost”, ornithologist extraordinaire. Somewhere around 14, I wanted to be a photo-journalist. I proclaimed when I was 15, that I was going to be a police officer. When I was 16, I was headed to the PacNW for Navy ROTC and a triple major in political science, international relations and history…I know…specific (I think, looking back, that goal was modeled after Jack Ryan…at least until I blew my knee). During those teenage years I used to get asked: “You going to be a teacher when you grow up?” After all it is the family curse: mom and dad both. I proudly replied, “Nope, I don’t want to have to deal with kids like me.” And of course…what do I do now? I deal with kids like me on a daily basis…I still joke that I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

But when I truly reflect on what I wanted to do (past tense) and want to do (future tense) and where I am now (present tense)…I wouldn’t be who I am now without one childhood dream: Indiana Jones is my hero (right after my dad of course) and I wouldn’t be me without his influence.

I couldn’t tell you how old I was when I first watched an Indiana Jones movie…although I know I covered my eyes at several points (same points I made my daughters close theirs). I remember reading Young Indiana Jones books. I remember desperately wanting Indy’s hat…and getting one close enough to work. I remember making a bull-whip out of landscaping twine…and I remember snapping myself behind my own ear with it. Indiana Jones shaped my childhood and my future more than any other fictional character…

I can’t blame Indy for my passion for history. As a struggling writer, even as early as second grade, I was slogging through an historical fiction manuscript set during the Spanish-American War (NERD ALERT!!!). Side note: Guess what my senior thesis was about? YEP—Spanish-American War. My love of history was innate, even though I think my dad secretly hoped it would be science related. What Indiana Jones offered me was a romanticized picture of what history could be. I wanted to search for treasure and travel to exotic locations.

As my passion for history increased, so did my knowledge base and exposure. When we got cable, my time was split evenly between basketball on ESPN and the History Channel. I admittedly got annoyed when mom and dad would get home and immediately change the channel from my documentary back to Sportscenter…I had already seen today’s highlights. I knew that history was more than a hobby, somehow it was going to be a larger part of who I was to become.

Some point after I blew my knee out and I knew I wasn’t going to join the Navy, I remember refocusing my goals. I was accepted at NNU, and what was my major? History Education. I had my sights set on grad school with the ultimate goal of following Indy into the ranks of collegiate professorship. I’ll never forget the day the Army recruiter called my grandmother’s number instead of mine. She didn’t tell him that I couldn’t join for medical reasons; she proudly announced to him on the phone that I was headed to college in the fall and stated, “we’re going to have a history professor in the family.”

Of course my life has changed…my goals shifted…I am not a history professor. I am proudly an educator; marked with the family curse. But I still hold hope that I will somehow realize my childhood dream of being like Indiana Jones. After all…I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up…and I have a lot of time left before I do…

Lost Lake...

Every year my daughters look forward to our traditional camping trip in June. Prior to the divorce my girls had limited exposure to the great outdoors. And now...each summer we load up the car and head for the hills. I can't imagine a summer without a week on the shores of Lost Valley Reservoir.

I remember little precise details of my own childhood here. Unlike today when my family pulls in RVs and trailers I remember a veritable tent village. Late night campfires with grandma's only rule: no flinging flaming marshmallows. And the occasional ride in Uncle Gary's canoe.

But, of every memory, the one that has never faded is of my cousins and me speeding toward the lake on our bicycles and riding as far into the lake as we could go. Somewhere there are pictures of our daring feats. Probably the ironic thing for me now...is to look at the lake and laugh at how ridiculously simple our fun was.

In my mind, as with many other memories I'm sure, I had created this grandiose image of us flying through the air off of a dock or jump, crashing into water too deep to walk in, saving our bicycles from certain eternal sleep at the bottom of the lake with heroic flare and strength. And all I can do now is shake my head and laugh.

My daughters can touch out to about 20 yards. The floor is so muddy and mucky that my youngest lost a flip flop last year. There is no way that my romantic memories of the great bike adventures can be true. In fact I'm sure the challenge was to see how far into the muck we could peddle before the mud swallowed the tires and completely stopped our momentum.

Tradition was officially passed down from generation to generation this year. I’m sad that I missed it…wish I could say I wasn’t there…I was…sleeping off my cold. I got to see the videos of my daughters and my nephews riding through the camp—straight into the lake. My heart was warmed…

I can’t wait until next year…I just have to remember to load my bike…

Friday, April 9, 2010

Blackberry Smiles...

For two glorious years of my childhood I lived on the Oregon coast. I still love the rain…it calms me…though rarely do we get rain like that in Idaho. The smell of the ocean…the stench of the lumber processors…the feel of the sand on my feet…and the taste of fresh, ripe blackberries…just a few of the sensory emotions I will never forget from those days.

I think the house was green…I was in kindergarten. We hadn’t lived in the area long and would eventually live in three houses in two years. Dad had gotten his first teaching job at a small Christian school and we uprooted from the only house I’d ever known and ventured a million miles away…at least it felt that way. Whatever emotions I had about leaving my old home didn’t stand a chance one I tasted my first fresh blackberry…and I was lost in a trance staring at a wall of fresh berries guarded ever so carefully by their own thorns…

It wasn’t unusual for me in the height of blackberry season to be found at the blackberry patch in the back yard. Even before school, I would wander out to sample the deep black berries that were bigger than my thumbs. I can’t remember why this particular morning was any different…don’t remember if I just disappeared out back or if mom sent me out to pick berries to go in the cereal (it wasn’t unusual for the bowl to only be half as full as my little belly).

Regardless of the reasons…I found myself standing at the edge of the berry patch…looking at the three-step stairs that led down toward the middle where the best berries could be found. But…being the season…and the fact that this wasn’t my first trip out back…most of the berries were gone in that area. Soon I was mesmerized by the untouched treasures that sat just out of reach…I ate my way into the middle of the patch…off the steps…and at least five more feet into the thickest brambles and thorns to be found. The bucket of berries was only half full…my stomach was nice and full…and I’m sure there was purple juice on my face from ear to ear…

When I had my fill I turned around…ready to go back into the house. Though I wouldn’t see the movie for years…looking back my memory equates that moment with the scene in Honey I Shrunk the Kids where they look back at the house and it is miles away. There I was…five years old…and stuck in the middle of a blackberry patch…blocked from getting home by the thorny branches I let close in behind me on the way in. I’m pretty sure I started yelling for help…I vaguely remember my dad asking, “what in the world are you doing all the way in there”…and soon I was safely back in the house eating my breakfast…with more berries of course.

Where I failed as a five year-old…I wasn’t aware of my surroundings…I had no exit strategy. Saved by the love of my dad, I have no recollection of any negative emotions…though I am sure there was an element of fear. What I remember to this day, is the succulent taste of fresh Oregon blackberries…

At times I have challenged myself…sometimes, I’m learning, at my own expense…to always identify an exit strategy to any situation I enter…to exercise caution and prudence. But to some degree for the rest of my life I have run head-first into the brambles and thorns without an exit strategy and found myself trapped. Granted I have survived many situations in my life based on my awareness…physically and emotionally…of the dangers that surrounded me. But I will be the first to admit that there have been many times I was no different than that five year-old boy…yelling for help. And sometimes…it isn’t the fear that I remember…it is the sweet flavor that stains my smile…

Sunday, April 4, 2010

My dad killed Jesus…

Easter brings back some fond memories…I’m sure I’ll write about some of my other experiences behind the scenes of the local Easter pageant at some point. I took the girls last year and was surprised how much it had changed…but how much of it was just the same as I remembered it…Somewhere I think I could probably find the video spot…maybe…but I couldn’t help laughing today, Easter Sunday, as I thought about some of my memories of those days.

As a kid, Easter season was a family event…though honestly I really don’t remember my little sister being around much. When I was little, I remember going up Golgotha with my mom for the crucifixion of Christ…I was awed by the power of the Roman soldiers …I’m sure I should have been scared…I mean it isn’t every day you see Satan walking down the back hall, just out of makeup.

Honestly I loved being a part of that program…I was proud of all of my family for our participation…and I took great pride in advertising our involvement. Looking back I find it humorous…Mom was in the choir…I was in the children’s choir…my aunt sang a solo…and my dad killed Jesus…

Over the years of my childhood, Dad had several different parts he played…he helped me off the roof to be healed by Jesus…he ran spotlights…he helped one of the crucified criminals with the dry-ice machines…but the part I will never forget was the time my father was an executioner. It was severely ironic to see my father…one of the meekest men I know…pushing Jesus and the criminals through the crowds up Golgotha…and the dramatic silence of the first time the hammer struck the nail…

I admit…that it was a little shocking the first time I saw my dad crucify Christ. I knew that the crucifixion was fake…I watched it in practice year after year. I knew how the crosses were raised on hinges…but I didn’t know how the executioners made the nail-pounding sound so real. I got the chance at some point to see the block they used to simulate the nail strike that cued the crowd into silence (mostly).

I was struck by the symbolism of the event…that Christ died to cover our sins in his blood. But I couldn’t get over the irony that my dad was one of the guys that killed him. My dad is one of the most sensitive guys I know…and I love him for that (another article soon on that subject)…never could I ever have imagined Dad even playing that part.

Later in life I found the humor in it and loved the shock value when I'd say my dad played an executioner…and even now it makes me laugh. I was confused when Dad gave up that role in order to join the spotlighting team. But looking back I completely understand…how can you expect to be considered a good Christian and go to heaven when you make a habit out of killing Christ every year? I can only imagine the thought at the resurrection…”now I have to kill him again tomorrow…”

He is risen; He is risen indeed…in spite of my father…