Humbled

I went.

The oldest and the youngest were scampering around with pre-funeral jitters, but then came Shoes, trying to round them up. He stopped when he saw me.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came for you guys."

We talked for a moment, then he went off in search of his older brother. I made my way toward the doors, and an usher asked if I were family. No, just a teacher. Then Shoes appeared beside me.

"Family and close friends in the first three rows," he said, gesturing to where I should sit.

Oh, dear God, I'm glad I went!

I really don't want to go.

The three brothers were sent home from school with headlice just last week.

I don't want to go.

I missed tonight; tomorrow's my only shot.

Three boys, all ungainly; one too big, one too small, the other with a mind that's ten years behind his body. The younger two are the ones I've had in class. My room still smelled after they left each day. I called their mom to express the need for new shoes for one of them, but that only solved part of the problem. Hair uncut, unbrushed; things falling out of it. Other students knew which chairs they'd used and tried to avoid those seats.

I don't want to go; don't want to hug them; don't want to be touched...

Don't want to face this futility. Don't dare to hope for a future for these boys--already misguided, but now, even less guided. I don't want to go to their dad's funeral.

I don't suppose they do, either.

Ignorance

The thing that pushes my buttons the most is getting ignored. I don't mean that the thing is getting ignored, but that I get ignored. Hate that. When I fought with my mother while growing up, the thing that made me maddest was when she closed me off. Talk to me; work it through; don't close me out...

It ticks me off when my students do that, and maybe that's more an issue of respect. With my mother, it was a sign of her not knowing how to deal with me...or a way of refraining from saying something she'd regret.

I still don't react well to it. The more tired and stressed I become, the worse and more disproportionate my reaction to...ignorance...is. It becomes one of those "world is crashing down on me" moments, which, really, it's not. Maybe it's an earthquake; maybe it is significant. So stand in a doorway, self. Crawl under a table. A bit of ceiling may fall down, but it's not the end of your world.

Why Being Single Is Fun

Elementary school's principal comes up to you on bus duty and asks if any magical relationships developed over the summer. When you respond in the negative, she mentions the single son of a friend, and offers to keep looking if he's not compatible.

Nosy neighbor across street approaches and clarifies that you're (still) single. "Howcome? You're a good lookin' gal. You get better lookin' with age!"

White-haired school custodian pauses in his sweeping and says, as a sultry Mr. Rogers, "Have you ever been in a line around some Spanish-speaking men, and heard them comment on how beautiful and sexy you are? 'Cause you will..."

Maybe that's not fun. Maybe that's just creepy...

An Error too Expensive to Fix

"I would like to buy a stamp..."

"A tramp?"

Oh my...

This year's LifeLight Festival wasn't as yee-haw as last year's. I'm allergic to dust, hay, cats, and whatever seasonal allergy is out there. Three of those seemed to be present in the cornfield where we were. Perhaps it was the hour it took me to get out of the parking lot that was the biggest downer. But there were highlights.

I volunteered for MVett, which meant that we ran errands around the grounds after my shift was done. The air had cooled, Michael W. Smith was singing, people were happy, and I was in motion. The world was grand.

The spot of my volunteerism was the Prize Tent, which led into the merchandise tent. It was an excellent place to sit, because oodles of people passed through. For some reason, if you're sitting behind a table in a tent, people think you know something. My favorite was the 7-ish-year-old who came up to me with big eyes.

"Have you seen my mom? She's wearing a green shirt and brown pants and she has brown hair and..."

There are over 100,000 people here, kid. "Does she have a cell phone?" I asked. "What's her number?"

The kid rambled it off, including at least two extra digits.

"Hold on. Write it down." She did, with the appropriate number of digits, and I called. The mother was grateful, and I had the kid stay at the table until she was picked up by family. How is it that I can feel maternal while taking care of someone else's kid?

The other favorite moments were when two different groups of kids came up with mud-splattered skin, footwear, and clothing. "I went into the mud. Do you know of somewhere where I can wash off?" MVett and I sent them back out the door of the tent to a spigot directly in front of them.

"You know where that mud puddle is?" I asked a confused one. "That's where the spigot is--it's what made the mud."

"Ohhhhh!"

Dingbats. But it was fun to help out.