This week I go back to work refreshed by a grand vacation. I have drunk deeply of what Thoreau called the “tonic of wildness”. He goes on to observe that “we need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander.” I have done this and am the better for it.

This summer I have been humbled by a mountain hike and blinded by the torrent of a rainstorm. I was shocked by the frigid cold of a mountain stream that swept around and by me, seeming not to notice my presence. Fireflies blinking lazily among the dark pines appear here, then there. I saw ancient trees felled by a force long since past and water hurrying over green and grey rocks. That water was far too much in a hurry to stop and notice me. Thoreau was right; nature transgressed my limits, and yet was not proud. Indeed it seemed not to notice my defeat. Those fireflies… they’re still there in the mountains of Tennessee. I doubt they feel my absence. Compared to the overall population of fireflies in the mountains, I only saw a few during my brief sojourn. The great majority of their luminous kind will never be seen by any human being as they pasture “freely where we never wander.”

I loved sitting quietly in the dark, watching them dance gracefully in front and above me; but I’m even more grateful for the ones I didn’t see. Those unbeheld fireflies are out there, quietly providing the context of life and nature within which I live my life. The terrible power of nature is striking its blow in my absence. Trees will be felled, rocks will crash with a terrific crack, and the water will freeze and thaw, all without me or any other human being to see.

This context is important because I’m tempted to think too much of myself. I entertain the belief that the world needs to know my opinion on some matter. I imagine I must be seen, recognized, and honored for my individuality. Nature does not even dignify the folly of my arrogance with a “no.” It transgresses the limits of my mind and body with an amnesic plodding, and (perhaps more importantly) pastures freely in my absence.

I don’t suffer from feelings of insignificance. God has a purpose for me and I do my best to affect the world in my small corner of it. However, it is good for me to be realistic regarding the reach of that influence. The world neither awaits, nor depends upon my opinions and thoughts. That’s comforting. And somewhere in the mountains of Tennessee those fireflies are blinking green in the air where neither you nor I see them. Aren’t you glad?

August is here; that means school begins soon. As a teacher, August is the time when I repeatedly hear (from well-meaning people) thoughts of sympathy that I must return to school soon. “Are you ready?” they query, usually with a note of sadness in their voice. It’s as if they expect me to bemoan the fact that soon the hallways of my school will be filled with teenagers and my days filled with my feeble attempts to teach them literature and writing. Here’s the truth: I can’t wait for it to begin.

Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the summer break. That second cup of coffee in my reading chair in the morning is pretty nice. I love going on fun and interesting vacations with my family. It’s pretty great to get caught up on projects around the house that had been relegated to the fringes of my busy schedule during the school year. But by the time I flip the family calendar in the kitchen and see August at the top I’m ready to return to school. I miss the students. I miss hearing about their successes and challenges with academics, sports, the arts, etc. They make me laugh with their wit and my heart ache with their troubles. I don’t miss the getting up early or the deadlines. I don’t miss grading papers or attending faculty meetings. I miss the kids.

I have a huge list of things that I need to teach them before the end of May comes around; but the truth is that the main thing I want to tell them (beginning on that very first day) is that they each have great value as a human being. If all they get from me is the truth that they have great intrinsic value as a human being, not for what they offer the rest of us, then that’s pretty good. I want to contradict the voices they hear that lie to them saying that their value is tethered to grades, athletic ability, artistic talent, physical appearance, money/things, etc. I want them to leave my classroom in May having heard another voice saying that even if they come in dead last in all of these things they are still infinitely valuable simply because of their humanity. I want them to know that they are not animals with protein-enriched brains and opposable thumbs; they are not machines; but that they are holy and invaluable… they are loved truly.

As teachers approach the beginning of the school year, our schedules begin to be peppered with training in preparation for the imminent arrival of our students. We get training on classroom and behavior management, curriculum, technology, etc. I’ve come to realize that every single training session is basically an attempt to artificially construct two things: 1. A love of students and 2. Content competence. The best teachers are experts in their field and love their students. I don’t think that this can be replaced or replicated with any discipline plan, instructional technique, techno-gizmo, or curriculum. Every new program is truly designed to replicate one or both of these two things. I guess that’s why I dread attending these trainings. Sitting there listening to a speaker tell me how to artificially replicate these two faculties of a good educator just feels like wearing clothes that don’t fit. I’ll go. I’ll sit. I’ll listen. But the reason why so many of these programs have limited success is that kids are smarter than we give them credit for. They can tell the difference between real love and a program intended to simulate love. They know the difference between a “good handout” and someone who truly loves and understands the course material. They aren’t so easily fooled. That’s one of the reasons why I like them!

Am I ready for the beginning of school? Oh boy am I!

“For we are His workmanship (poiema), created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them”.  Eph 2:10

Workmanship. What, exactly, does that mean? I could mow the lawn and that would be a product of my workmanship. I could work in a nail factory and the products would be my workmanship. The actual word used by Paul in his letter to the church of Ephesus is “poiema” from which we derive our English word “poem.” It’s actually the same thought.  Poetry…

Why do we (some of us) love poems so much? It’s an interesting topic for conversation. As a student and teacher of literature I’ve often pondered this question. I believe that it is through poetry that our feelings and philosophies are most succinctly articulated. Poetry can be beautiful or sublime, but good poetry is always vivid. Mind you, I’m not talking about any “Roses are red…” kind of stuff here. I’m talking the good stuff, the kind of poem that stays with you and haunts your thoughts. Good poetry makes you consider, or reconsider your most cherished beliefs and understandings of the world around you as well as your place in it and responsibility to it.

When Paul called us God’s “workmanship,” the thought he intended to convey in his choice of words is related to our word “poem.” You, yes you, are a poem. You are a living, breathing, walking, talking, sniffing, sneezing, laughing, poem. Consider the world about you. You know the one I’m talking about. The Monday world. The Monday world is the world of pain. It’s filled with people who don’t have the luxury of considering their feelings or philosophies because they’re trying to feed their kids. They’re worried about their son being involved with the wrong crowd or their daughter and “that boy.” The Monday world is the world inhabited by the single mom who is certain that she is trapped beyond hope in a cycle of poverty and the man who perpetuates, in his family, the scars left by his own father. It’s the world of anger, strife, malice, pain, and loneliness. We have all either sojourned into this Monday world or have been unhappy citizens of it. Either way, we come back to Paul’s point to the people of Ephesus. You see, he was pointing out to them that they, themselves were the answer to the Monday world. What would God say to these unhappy citizens of Monday? Well… He would say “you.”  Yes, you!  The one reading this blog. You are the words God has to say to a hurting world. You are God’s poetic words of love and hope to the Monday world. You articulate His answer to pain and regret. You speak the philosophy of Jesus on the phone, email, across the counter, through the drive-through window, from your desk, in the classroom, and from your car. You are God’s poem of healing to a hurting world. You are His poiema.

Pensees. Blaise Pascal tried it first in the 17th century. Well… I’m no Pascal (I’m really bad at math); however, I have read some of this thoughts and found them, well, thought-provoking. He never published the book he was working on, but his friends discovered his notes, numbered them, and published them under the title “Pensees” which means “thoughts.”

Oddly enough, I’ve actually had a couple of people who have expressed a passing interest in a few of my thoughts. For those of you who may be desperate enough or have time enough to kill to care about what I have to say, welcome. From time to time I’ll publish some of my thoughts here and I invite anyone to comment as long as we keep things kind and thoughtful (see what I did there?). Civil discourse is a wonderful thing. I can’t promise that I’ll engage in long threads all the time as I have to keep my day job and family is a pretty high priority too.

My interests regarding this blog: philosophy, art, religion and how these things intersect with everyday living.

Who am I? I am a child of God, husband of a wonderful woman (going on 28 years at the time of writing), father of four, high school English teacher. The rest will be disseminated  through my writing.

And so begins my blog.

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