A request you can't deny

A prayer I pray a lot, especially lately, is "God, show me what you want me to do." Note the word choice there--show me. Yes, I'm from Missouri, which indicates one of two things depending on which story you believe about the origin of our state motto: I am either slow on the uptake and need to be shown everything to understand it, or I want proof before I will act on something. In my prayer life, it's a little of both. I admit to being a bit dense sometimes when it comes to making decisions. For instance, I was battling with a particularly sticky situation when a friend came in and, with common sense, parted the murky waters I was wandering lost in. The light bulb indicating my EUREKA! moments is apparently more of a flickering candle than, say, an incandesent wonder.

Not all of us can be like the Centennial light and keep burning nonstop for 109 years...but who wants to be right and wise every single time for that long?

So I keep asking God to show me paths I'm supposed to take. Just show me the way, God, and I'll go. No questions, no hesitations--just go. Big words for a fallible human. You see, I already know a destination God has for me (or at least, I believe it's one). He has laid a particular writing project on my heart. It's not a fiction piece or a really cool poetry project. It's nonfiction. You would think that writing creative non-fiction wouldn't be such a difficult task for me. I specialized in it in college. I love writing in this genre. It's rather what the project is about that has me balking. A year ago, I accepted the charge and knew I was being called to write this massive project. I had already a few small pieces to form a base with. I was strong in my faith and several years past the harrowing sections of my past that would feature in this book. I had perspective. I had praise for a God Who had brought me out of such darkness.

I also had intense fear. My conversations with God were more like desperate arguments than prayers.

Um, I'll write Your book, God. Sure. Just not today.
It's really emotionally intense, God. I'm stressed right now and can't risk it.
I can't publish that. It could keep me from getting published in other arenas.
I can't put my name on that. It'd be linked on my resume.
What college will offer me a full-time position knowing that part of my past?
You've given me a way to minister to people through my current church. If they find out about my dark past, they may not allow me into their lives. I could be ostracized like I was before in different places. Are You wanting me to risk Your will with this book?

I love how I try to point out logical fallacies in God when doing so is so incredibly illogical in and of itself. Fighting God is a completely pointless thing. All I am doing is hurting myself.

A bum hip is only one tragic excuse away...

God knows I need to put this part of my past finally to rest. Writing about it will let me do that, allow me to move from victim to victor. Writing about it will allow me to touch other people who are suffering with the same problems I was, give them hope, let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and it's not a train). Writing about it will allow me to educate others who don't understand the types of darkness that we humans can become so rolled up in that we do things that we would never do otherwise. Writing about it will allow me to see the truth in myself and come to terms that I did make mistakes, I did learn things, and it's ok to be a person who "used to be" severely messed up. I can let go of the anger and the shame by putting words on a page.

I know all of this. I'm still afraid, still ashamed, still trying to protect myself from being so vulnerable.

This is where--did you see it coming?--faith comes in. If God is the One Who gave me this mission, it's not for my destruction. It's for me to have a future, to have hope, to find him (Jeremiah 29:11-14). God's not going to put me on a path, give me a sense of purpose to do something for Him, and then let me be completely ravaged. Yes, I'll face spiritual warfare again. Yes, there will be consequences. I may lose some friends. I may lose some opportunities. I may even lose jobs. In the long run, though, I know God isn't going to abandon me. I know what I do for His glory, to further His kingdom, will be successful. I don't have to worry.

I need to be brave and expose my heart. I need to remember Who is in control and submit to His authority. To do otherwise is to insist I know better than God. I may be crazy, but I'm not that insane.

Americans have given their lives in response to an ad from a fictional character. How can we expect any less from a request from a very real God?

Decisions

Anticipation tastes like good dark chocolate: complex, a little unexpected, but with sweet rewards at the end. My literary equivalent of 70% Madagascan cacao is currently swirling through my mind as I type. Today the 60% completion mark on in-depth edits is finished. I can see the finish line looming ahead, the knowledge that a read-aloud edit is almost here, and then...it's ready for submission. As much as I love working on this text, I'm ready for it to be out of my hands.

I click down to the next chapter, full of perky blue, yellow, and purple highlights. It's one I marked through my first revision process as needing a lot of work. Some of the edits are easy. I take out unnecessary adverbs, reform passive voice sentences, and fix a few typos. My fingers stall on the keyboard as I look at the next paragraph. What am I going to do with YOU?

I read it over in my mind and spot a head-jump to a different character. I change the description of emotion to a reflective facial expression. It solves the problem, but it's my go-to solution for my problems with popping suddenly from one character's mind to another's. I do it too often and the repetition is annoying even me. I insert dialogue instead. I read it out loud. I change the inflection of my voice and read it again. I groan. It's too interpretable.

I insert a few qualifiers around the quotes, giving some gestural clues. It's better, but seems wordy and clunky. I try using punctuation to show pauses--pauses reflect emotion. Then I remember that ellipses (...) are considered unprofessional. I use them all the time. I substitute em-dashes occasionally where a pause is really needed. Now it looks like a prose version of "Because I could not stop for Death--." I erase some of the dialogue. Now it's stilted and unrealistic. I delete all the dialogue and switch to a play-by-play of the character's thoughts. It's boring and feels like I'm trying too hard. I liven it up. Again, it's stilted and unrealistic. A lesson from a published author flashes through my mind of how suspense scenes, ones that build up action and increase the pace, need shorter sentences--long sentences slow down a reader. I cut down the sentences dramatically. Now it sounds choppy and simplistic. I want to throw my laptop across the room in frustration.

Anger management is a lot easier when you can rationally think about the costs to replace necessary items beforehand...(although with how old this set is, it probably only costs about $20 nowadays).

My novel is my brain child--as much as I love it, I also know it needs a lot of guidance and tough love to stand on its own in the sometimes-cruel world of publishing. Karen, Ben, and even gothic minor character Sunny Daize seem so real to me. I want them to shine in all their fallible brilliance (none of them are "Mary Sue" characters). It seems as much as I am a good writer, I am also a terrible one. I keep thinking with every page I scribble over, "This is going to work. This is going to endear the reader...or maybe not. No one is going to want to read this! No one is going to be unable to put this down!" I'm starting to feel incredibly bipolar.

An author's love-hate relationship with writing brings a whole new definition to two-faced; although, with all the characters living vivid lives in our heads, we already have multiple personality disorder, so being just two-faced is probably a step in the right direction.

Change is never easy. The whole time we're changing, we're constantly second-guessing ourselves. Is it really worth it? This isn't fun or simple. Was my old life really that bad? When we're talking about changes for a Christian, we get compounded with guilt. Guilt that we aren't changing as smoothly as we "should." Guilt that we are resisting the change. Guilt for failing to be successful. Guilt because we can't seem to move on.

While feeling guilty can be both a good and bad thing (a blog entry for another day), the crux of the situation seems to be about acceptance and faith. In order to deal with my failings, I need to remember on a logical, rational level that as long as I am on Earth, I will be a fallible human. I will sin. I will fall. I will try to change and I will have setbacks. It's not an excuse to sin (check out Galations for Paul's opinion on that subject), but it is a fact that I have to accept. Trying to be perfect, or expecting myself to easily conquer my sinful nature, totally diminishes--if not destroys--the need for the cross. If I could do it on my own, what's the point of having Jesus? I can't do it alone. I need faith. I need forgiveness. I need patience--but I know better than to pray for that one. :)

When I turn back to revising during the scant free moments in my schedule today, I need to have the mindset that it's ok to struggle. It's ok that I've rewritten a scene eight times and it's still not flowing right. I may just need to set it aside until I get the idea I need (like it's taken me four months to come up with the perfect name for my antagonist). I may need to wait and ask a fellow writer to help. I may need to just keep trying and appreciate what the struggle is teaching me about the craft. I may need to just pray and depend on my Father's wisdom instead of my own.

It's not easy. It's not simple. It's going to cost.

All the good things do.

Awkward Steps...

I'm going to date myself with this post. Prepare yourself.



Remember that Sesame Street game, the one with the cool song, "One of these things is not like the others...one of these things is just not the same..."? The object was for children to notice patterns, develop cognitive skills. Since they personify practically everything from shoes to goldfish to cupcakes, I wonder if the writers for this show ever thought about what it's like to be that one out-of-place item.

It's a feeling I think everyone experiences from time to time, but one that I struggle with a lot. Satan knows it's an easy button to push for me. When I feel awkward or uncomfortable, my extroverted personality does a 180 and I either try to fade into the background (hard to do when you are over six feet tall) or withdraw, even to the point of leaving/running away.

Hey, it's not easy blending in with spiral-print purple vinyl!

Knowing that I "don't belong" is just one tiny step away from rejection, or so Satan tells me. That these are lies doesn't always sink in...and my pattern of behavior holds.

Just yesterday I "escaped" from the church I've been attending since January. I've talked about this issue of feeling as though at any moment some preschooler will walk up to me and point, "That's the one who doesn't belong!" (Ok, maybe not anything quite that dramatic, but the point's valid.) I looked around the sanctuary of visiting people and couldn't think of a thing to say to anyone or any way to join in on a conversation. I felt lost and craved the safety of being alone, in my car, listening to an audiobook or thinking through the scenes I wanted to write for my new novel. In my fantasy worlds, I control things. I'm never awkward. I never say the wrong thing--or if I do, I can rewind and try again with no penalties. There's no one to accidentally offend, no one who can really hurt me, no one to give me a pity smile as they try to understand what on earth I'm talking about. In a way, I'm God. It's a powerful place...and ultimately a lonely and empty one.

Apparently this girl is not only lonely, but also double-jointed (or about to realize her back HURTS).

My fantasies are good in that they become Christ-driven stories for me to write, but escaping into them too much just takes me away from the blessings I could be receiving from the people I love. It'll take time for me to completely trust my new church family, but so far, they've accepted me. I've found ways to help them...and the rewards for getting involved and taking risks have been incredible. Why did I do the Magic Schoolbus thing and "take chances, make mistakes, get messy!" with such fallible people? At those times, I was trusting God to love, protect, and guide me. Ouch. Guess what I wasn't doing last night. Ouch again.

Hey, Bob? We're going to need the industrial-sized version for this boo-boo.

It's amazing that, with such an awesome, powerful, sovereign God, I have such problems letting Him take over all the time. It's not like I ever do a better job than He does. I suppose letting go, even to Someone you trust and love, is not a one-time decision but a daily--or even hourly--decision.

So...here goes trying for a stronger faith first in my God, one step at a time. God, guide me, and help me remember just how much I trust You.

Although I may not have scored high on the trust meter with God, I just earned massive cool points by posting a pic of Indiana Jones on my blog. Go me.

How to get out of a speeding ticket...

I have been pulled over a total of two times in my life. The first was a state trooper who stopped me to make sure that I knew I had a headlight out (I had bought a replacement bulb and was driving home so I could repair it...amusing timing). The second happened last night...but it wasn't so innocent.

In the town I live in, there's a back road I travel nearly every day that winds past a hospital. The speed limit sharply drops from 35 to 20 mph on a downhill curve by the emergency center. It's a tough thing to do, but I'm used to riding my brakes down the road. Last night, however, I apparently didn't hit them as hard as I usually do, because when I was halfway-past the hospital, I was still at 25mph. I saw the cop car in the parking lot just ahead. The first thought in my head was that he'd stay there for someone driving much faster--and after all, my brake lights were clearly on, so it was obvious that I was slowing down. I have *NEVER* been pulled over for speeding and RARELY ever drive more than five miles over the limit. This couldn't happen to me.

A few seconds later, the cop pulled out behind me. His lights turned on. My stomach twisted like a frustrated teen trying to work out a Rubic's Cube. Panic and reason battled for control of my thoughts, eventually working out a 50/50 split that had my hands shaking but my voice steady. I busied myself pulling my driver's license from my wallet, searching for my registration, and trying to find my most current insurance card (I never throw them out for some reason, so it took a good few minutes to find the one that wasn't expired). The police officer, a guy I didn't know--shocking for my hometown, actually--walked up to my window, asked for the paperwork, and retreated to his car. That minute was one of the longest minutes of my life. I was in trouble. I hated being in trouble. It's one thing to admit you were driving a little fast. It's another to have to literally pay for it.

The officer approaches my car again and hands me back my paperwork.

"Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?"

I nod. "I'm guessing it's because I wasn't slowed down fast enough. I was hitting the brakes, but apparently since you pulled me over, I was still over twenty."

"I clocked you at 26."

I nod. There was no point arguing it. My old car had a faulty spedometer, but this one was fairly accurate as well as I knew. Now that I was thinking about the details, the needle had been resting above the long line marking the legal speed limit.

"So...do you think I should give you a ticket?"

My face must have shown just how confused and surprised I was at his statement, but his face remained impassive. Should he give me a ticket? What kind of question was that? How was I supposed to answer? For a moment, it felt like I had just been Punked or put on some crazy television hidden-camera show that would showcase a real American reaction when put on the spot. There was a correct answer to this, but it wasn't black and white. I wasn't purposefully driving too fast. I have a clean driving record. I know just about all the police officers (except this one, of course) in town and could have easily played the "friend" card. It wouldn't be lying to point out any of these things. I had excuses I could claim, too--I was tired, had bad allergies, the sun was actually in my eyes, etc. Dozens of "cover stories" raced through my mind, sorting themselves by believability and potential persuasive power. I opened my mouth after making a fast choice that seemed natural and right.

"Well, obviously I don't really want a ticket, but I understand if you have to give me one. Techically, I was breaking the law when I passed you. I'd appreciate a warning instead, but if you feel you should give me a ticket, that's fine. I'll pay it."

The words had barely left my lips when I heard a voice screaming at me inside my head. Did I really just suggest to a police officer to ticket me? How was I going to pay for it? What would my mother, who has shouted from her soapbox for years about how speeding tickets were the stupidest tickets anyone could get because they were completely avoidable, say when she found out? I had little idea what all was involved in paying for such a citation, either. Would I have to go to court, or would this be as simple as mailing a check to the appropriate state office? What about the points on my record? Loudest of all, had I completely lost my mind?!?!

In the sense of the world's opinion, I had lost at least my common sense. Using an excuse or trying to downplay the event would be the most logical choice...assuming that my goal was to get out of the ticket. That would be anyone's goal. At that moment, though, even though I knew I would have a hefty financial and emotional price to pay, I just didn't want to lie or bend the truth or "come up with something." Maybe I was more afraid of getting caught in an excuse or even, had I chosen to do so, a white lie. Maybe I figured in the long run that this wasn't that big of a deal.

I'm pretty sure the streak of extreme truth was more of a sign of my strong(er) walk with God. I did what He would want me to do--be honest.

Apparently I wasn't the only one surprised by my answer. The officer looked closer at me. "Excuse me, but did you just say you were ok with getting a ticket?"

I smiled. "I guess so, yeah. I mean, I can't really deny that I was going a little too fast." My shrug at the end hopefully conveyed what I couldn't find words to say. Although this is going to really be uncomfortable, it is the right thing to do.

The officer took a step back and smiled at me. "Well, then. In that case, Ma'am, you have a nice day."

I blinked at him, mutely watching him nod respectfully as he went back to his cruiser and talked briefly into his radio before driving off down the road. My shock permeated every inch of my being. It worked...and I hadn't even been trying.

Doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing to do. What makes it harder is that even if we do the "right" thing, there's no guarantee it'll work in our favor in the end by other people responding in kind or the situation coming to a satisfying close. If I had pulled out some of those excuses or "variations" on the truth, there's no way to know for sure if I would have been as successful in avoiding the ticket. My experiences with persuasion and knowledge I have of other people's encounters with cops tells me that I probably would have been ok using the not-so-squeaky-clean methods. What I gained yesterday was not just relief after a close call. I also gained self-respect and joy that God took care of me for doing His will. He would have provided the money if I had a ticket to pay, and directions for doing it properly so my name wouldn't end up in the newspaper under the police blotter.

So today I drove down that road...very, very slowly. God blessed me once. Next time, I might have more discipline in store than a simple warning.

Death of a Vice

I was so thrilled and proud of myself. After double-checking page and word counts, it was official. I had finally reached the 33% completion mark on revising my novel. It hadn't been easy trying to squeeze in time between my two jobs, grading, helping out at VBS, softball games, and watching the final Captain Phil episodes of Deadliest Catch (ergo, my new I-need-a-cry series). I had been pulling out the purple binder while sitting on the bench between innings, while students wrote out corrections to their rough drafts in class, while waiting for appointments to show at my outreach office. Hitting the 1/3 mark was incredible...and I wanted to celebrate. I popped onto Facebook and proclaimed my accomplishment in my status update, adding "Who's going to buy me dark chocolate pomegranate candy to celebrate?"

If you want to try some, ask me when I first open the bag. I may not share if there's only a couple left.... :)

A friend congratulated me, then added this juicy bit to her comment. "Oh, and I heard that there is, on average, about 8 insect legs in every bar of chocolate. I'm not sure if that's true, but I figured you would know."

Oh. My.

You know God has a sense of humor when he orchestrates things so I'm currently munching on said beloved candies when I read this little notice. Bugs. In chocolate. That was completely disturbing.

The only non-disturbing option to Bugs in chocolate.

I mean, bugs are nasty. They carry diseases. Their legs have little feelers on them that would tickle the roof of my mouth as I chew. I used to catch grasshoppers and crickets to feed to salamanders when I was a young teen. Those bites on my palms, but instead alongside my tongue...it's completely nauseating and gag-worthy, to say the least.

If you find this spread appetizing, I am *NEVER* eating at your place.

Of course I drop my celebratory candies and sweep them into a drawer. "I am a reformed chocoholic," I proclaim to the room and to the world of Facebook, sure that with that sort of visual image, I won't be able to consume the sugar-milk-cacao mixture ever again. Ever. I've seen the errors of my mass-produced consuming ways.

Until later that night when I give in to temptation and munch happily through an offered Reese's cup. It's not a chocolate bar...therefore no bugs, right? I cling to my huge logical fallacy and enjoy the heaven that comes from every woman's best friend. Before too long, I'm back at my drawer, digging for the fruit-laced goodies, and hold a belated celebration for my writing prowess.

Eating chocolate isn't the only bad habit I have that has some fairly vicious potential undercurrents. Pushing myself so hard that I end up exhausted can lead to me falling asleep at the wheel, becoming apathetic, or lowering my immune system so I get sick more often. Forgetting to spend daily time with God makes me more vulnerable to Satan's attacks, taking my focus off my Heavenly Father and letting me be overwhelmed by the world's problems and selfishness. Those bug legs aren't restricted to being harrowing experiences...they can be incredibly harmful, potentially lethal. I can pretend all I want that there are no side effects to my actions, that everything will be ok simply through the force of my stubborn will. It's not going to change the fact that eventually I will have to come to terms that I am not in control of the world and there are always consequences for actions (or lack of them).

Psyching myself out of my love affair with the melty good stuff isn't the answer. Understanding my limits is. Am I really ok with the knowledge that there are probably a few ground up fly skulls in the chocolate chips, or maybe should I turn to the strawberries I washed clean for my sweet treat of the day? Am I really ok with adding yet another project to my to-do list, or maybe should I let someone else help serve who isn't juggling so much? Am I really supposed to watch Season One of NCIS for the fourth time instead of really studying, say, Genesis?

In the end, it's going to take more than just a close encounter with a thorax to get serious results--mindsets and habits are really hard to change. Baby steps are still steps in the right direction. So, maybe I'll start just buying one dose of chocolate goodness every two or three weeks instead of whenever I'm "in the mood." I'm thinking these babies might help me wait for several days before I want anything sweet again....

Vile maggots that melt in your mouth, not while nested in your hand. How comforting.

Let me be busy (or else I'll eat cake)

I was working away in the kitchen of a friend's house as she, her husband, and her children bustled about to prepare for a birthday party for the eldest girl. I had arrived a little later than planned (mostly due to *lots* of emergency responders on the highway--welcome to Fourth of July mayhem), but had instantly gotten to the business of stringing decorations, taping streamers, and coaxing sheet cakes out of uncooperative glass pans. When the mother was attacked by a wasp, I shooed her and her children inside while I armed myself with Raid and went on the offensive (anyone who knows me knows that my instinct is to run, scream bloody murder, and hide in the bathroom when stinging insects are around).

This is not a good picture of a wasp. This is a ruined picture of a flower. *shudders*

The cakes were just about finished with my haphazard decorating skills when the first party guests arrived. Before long, the house and yard were full of kids and friends, of whom I knew about half pretty well.

Instead of letting things fall to someone else to finish, though, and beginning my socializing, I stayed in the kitchen. It was easy to justify for a little while. There was a pile of tropical fruits to cut up and arrange. Counters needed to be wiped down. There were my dirty prep dishes to wash--I can't make a mess and "leave it" for someone else to clean when I'm a guest in someone else's home. A hundred little details needed my attention and I stayed busy in the small area of the kitchen. The father of the birthday girl thanked me nearly every time he passed by, although the last time he just muttered, "You work too hard, girl." I just smiled and rinsed off a serving tray.

I do love to cook and bake. Preparing food for people makes me overflow with joy, and while I don't always enjoy cleaning, I don't mind it most of the time; periodically I even get a little anxious when I see something messy and know I could help clean it up (funny how that only occasionally kicks in at my own house). I love to serve people, help them with their needs, and make their lives better. Easing the strong vibrations of stress and tension that flowed from the parents before the party made me feel helpful, important, and wanted. I didn't need anything more than the look of relief and sincere appreciation in the mother's eyes as she looked at the finished projects over a bandaged finger and her calmed-down baby. It was fun for me to help design decorations and help corral children. It was powerful being the one who could step in, get the important work done, and be the calm and serene one in the midst of mini-crises (especially because if this had been my party, I would have been freaking out, too). I kept very busy...until everything was done.

The bad thing about a hefty to-do list for an event is that eventually it will be completed. I stood by the sink of clean dishes, eying the fully-stocked table of food, and thought "Well, now what?" Most people would have then thrust into the party, talking with others, finally grabbing some food for themselves, and generally have a great time. I felt awkward and froze. My safety net was the kitchen. Suddenly I didn't know how to talk to people. Being rejected hadn't been an issue when I was fumbling my way through slicing a watermelon.

My results with the stubborn melon and an oversized knife were a bit prettier, but this is so much more impressive on the entertainment factor.

After thirty minutes of standing around and pretending I had things to do, I eventually maneuvered myself to a place where I could gracefully exit. Guilt twanged a bit in my core (or was that hunger? Besides a few chunks of pineapple, I hadn't bothered to eat--too busy, other people wanted that food, etc.) as my car rolled away, the first to leave. I knew that I wasn't likely to get into a confrontation with anyone. From what I had learned over the past five months, I was surrounded by loving people. As soon as my usefulness was over, though, I felt every bit of the outsider, the "newbie" interloper who just doesn't fit in. I'm too young or old, smart or ignorant, liberal or conservative. A voice in the back of my mind pointed out just how much I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb...and eventually people tire of the offensive element and push/cut it out. I knew it was Satan whispering these lies to me. My faith is stronger than it has ever been. I knew better. I still ran.

You don't have to be a Carrol fan to realize that very memorable characters suddenly taking off at top speed tends to be noticeable, and a bit of a drag.

I can list a whole host of great reasons why I felt like this. I can justify every reaction, blame my misgivings on an ugly past that rears its head more than a bucking bronco. It's not going to change my behavior, my feelings, or my fears the next time I accept an invitation to a party or assist during a church event. The problem is deeper than just understanding the why behind it. I have to fight that reason. I have to change. I have to take more risks and be vulnerable again, no matter how many times I get hurt.

Funny--I suddenly feel too exhausted to move.

Timing

I had come in to the college an hour before I had to teach. After weaving my way through the empty student computer lab, I walked the couple yards to the employee work room where I usually held my office hours. I left the door open in my haste to get to work--I hadn't refreshed my memory on the story I had assigned in my American Literature course, and while I could have bumbled my way through well enough, I wanted to be well-prepared. Forty minutes passed and I was only 3/4 done with the in-depth analysis. A loud conversation drifted in through the room and my eyes stilled on the page. The students' voices were instantly familiar. One was quite loud, a girl lamenting to a guy about the email she had received a few days earlier.

"...and then she replies and says, 'Well, there are a few techniques I can show you, but it would be better if we could go over it in person.' Like that was going to help me, and now I'm completely lost and have no clue what to do."

The snippet confirmed exactly who the girl was--a student in my morning class...and she was talking about me. She had missed the previous class, and while she had claimed in the email to have been ill, I was told by one of her friends that she hadn't finished her paper and had elected not to come to class because of it (I still give the student the benefit of the doubt, but the other story rang true with the girl's personality). Had she come, she would have realized that all of her classmates were struggling and I spent the entire class period helping them revise and strengthen their papers--using techniques that worked much better for an in-person demonstration. To be honest, I could have described the methods to the girl in the e-mail, but I wanted to work with her one-on-one and encouraged her in the e-mail to make an appointment when she could for us to go over the material. She hadn't.

Leaving my prep work behind, I walked to the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and looked at the young woman. "Well, if you want, I can help you right now." Both the girl and the male classmate looked up with the expected expression.

Even plastic and acrylic can cry out, "Uh-oh."

The smile on my face had some underlying cheekiness to it, although I schooled my features to be as professional as possible. I had busted them, vividly proving the old addage that people should be careful what they say--someone could be listening. Since I knew I had done nothing wrong or inappropriate, I was more than willing to tease the young students. After all, I could have responded very negatively, and there was certainly some tension in the room. The male student transitioned from shock into amusement after ascertaining that I was not upset. The young woman remained angry and frustrated.

Heloise's Hint: back away slowly and offer chocolate/coffee/vice of choice.

She began ranting, still loud and angry, about how she didn't "get any of this stuff" and she was only in the class for financial aid purposes. She wanted to drop the class and it was "too hard to understand the reading." She burst into tears. I sat down next to her, my mood instantly changing. The subtext was screaming into my mind as though her thoughts came equipped with a megaphone. I'm stupid. I can't understand this. I never will. No one will help me. I'm beyond help. I feel trapped.

The other students in the room silently turned back to their computers or left the room, letting her have the modicum of privacy available in the public lab. I knew asking her to come to the office wasn't a move that she would respond well to, so I let her express her fears and frustration through the tears and occasional rants against the class. As she spoke, my mind flitted to a memory of a twenty-year-old woman who had stood before an older male professor. Her tears blocked all but the fuzziest appearance of the man as she admitted her inability to understand the grammatical structures he had talked about for a week. She felt stupid, alone, and trapped. Especially stupid. Although flabbergasted at the emotional response, the professor kindly gave up part of his lunch hour and stood in the empty classroom, demonstrating point-by-point the essence of a copula and antecedents, eventually stumbling across different ways of explanation so the young woman could finally grasp onto the definitions. I've never forgotten those concepts since that day.

All but ignoring the other students in the room, I sat by her side and waited until the emotional malestrom ebbed. I handed her a tissue, then reassured her that literary criticism was often hard to understand but she could do it. We discovered that a great deal of her problem was reading comprehension and worked together to decipher a 19th century essay. The time ticked past the point that I was to begin class, but I ignored the clock. At the moment, I had more important things to do.

When it comes to priorities, sometimes we just gotta smash the critters.

As a professor, it was my responsibility to start class on time--I had policies on tardiness for my students. If this had been just a week later, my boss would have been also in attendance for my semester evaluations. I was supposed to do something, and I chose not to. I knew that the ten or fifteen minutes it would take to finish encouraging this young woman back onto a positive track would not be the end of the world for the rest of my students. The young man she had spoken to would surely explain the situation, so no one would leave. They were all adults and perfectly capable of starting the discussion without me--or at least entertaining themselves (they chose the latter. Big surprise.). There was no way I would leave until I knew she was able to work on the paper on her own again--even if it meant she would miss the first half of class in order to have that precious time to do so.

Hours later, I started thinking about Jesus' parable about the lost sheep.

In this depiction, the sheep's black. Think about that (and not so much that Jesus oddly resembles Tom Cruise here).

Jesus said (in Luke 15:3-7, if you want to look it up) that he would leave the 99 to find the one lost lamb. I remember thinking when I first heard this story that it didn't quite make sense. Shouldn't he be worried about the big flock, too? Who's going to watch over them while Jesus goes looking for the single lost lamb? Is one lamb really worth the danger he could be putting the others in?

The point of the story isn't about the 99, though. They're fine, they're safe, and they can take care of themselves for the time being (note that He said He left them to look for the other lamb, not for infinity--this isn't abandonment but a shift in priorities; also, since God is omnipresent, He never *really* leaves...but that's a blog for another day.). Jesus is saying that He will pursue those who are lost and alone, afraid and frustrated. For a moment, in a very small way, I ministered to that student in a way that God ministered to me. By taking the time to really care, listen, and invest in her progress, I showed that she was important to me and I was willing to put the others, who were prepared, on hold in order to catch her up.

I'm not saying that "the greater good" isn't a good policy or that I should always pause my teaching for a single straggler (that is also what one-on-one conferences are for). I can't realistically afford to do this every single class period. I can, however, give her enough hope and faith in herself and in my attention to her that she can succeed even in an American Literature course. Maybe this will transfer to the rest of her college classes and, perhaps, to her life in general. Only God knows how far the ripples of this moment will reach in the pond of her life and in the lives of my other students. My prayer is that it will spread good to all involved...and lend a little sanity to an insane world.