Not knowing the context (or even the validity) of this picture, it’s hard to comment, but that didn’t stop these people. At the time I posted this, there were already 188 comments. Some of them heated.

Like these:

 

IMHO, that’s honestly a student’s failure to study! That’s such a simple mathematics problem and he couldn’t even get the first step correct?

Then again, why attach a McDonald’s application form. He’ll probably not be able to use the cash registers!

Being bad at math in no way qualifies you as a “failure.” Everyone’s different/ has different aptitudes – this kid could be really good at languages or art or sports or a number of things besides flipping burgers.

Not to mention jobs like those at Mickey D’s tend to be major time commitments and can often contribute to kids doing poorly at school.

I fully believe that if they’d had great teachers from the beginning, only kids with major learning disabilities would fail. You’d have some do better than others, sure, but failing? No.

If you fail – it is the teachers fault… the teachers failure to teach.

Not really. You can’t just sit there in class and wait for the teacher to throw knowledge in you. As a student, you have responsibility too.

When did “F” stop meaning “Failure” and start meaning “It’s OK, maybe you just need a hug.” Come on, guys, this is bullshit, and the teacher is being tough but motivational. Stop treating kids like they’re babies, and make them accept some personal responsibility. Good job to the teacher, and to the kid who got the Mickey D’s application, that’s your future if you don’t start putting some effort in, yourself.

Save for when I was screwing off, doing lots of drugs, and not taking life seriously, every F I got was a kick in the pants to stop resting on my laurels and get the education I was after. I understand that giving out Fs sucks, and if it’s the kind of kid who won’t get it, then she won’t get it. But if she’s the kind of kid who will understand, then she’ll look back and thank you for it.

Bullshit, for a couple of reasons:

1. Who (bad words) is ever going to use calculus unless they’re going to spend the rest of their lives doing advanced mathematics? This kid is probably required to take this ridiculous, unnecessary class, and he’s failing probably because he sees no way in which he will ever use what he’s learning. And he’s right about that.
2. Not everyone who fails at advanced math will end up working at McDonald’s. Get off your high horse and get rid of your (more bad words) elitist attitude.

 

 

Sure the picture and idea that a teacher would do this is interesting and somewhat amusing. But what really strikes me here are the sheer number of comments, and passion behind them. Many relate personal experiences, feelings and ideas.

It’s a great reminder that what I do (or don’t do) as a teacher can hit hard and run deep.

Alright, it’s like this:

So-and-so did you wrong. Really F’d up right? And it sucks. But time passes, and the pain and ick of it sort of wear down to a dull edge.

It still sucks. But life goes on, right?

Every once in awhile, however, something happens and it all comes rushing back–along with all the pain and resentment.

Not fun.

People say, let it go. Move on. Forgive. Be happy. No big deal. Build a bridge and get over it.

They’re right, of course, and you know it, but you can’t help yourself. You keep picking at the scab. You search for answers. None come. You hunt for reasons, but they stay hidden.

Soon the dry scab’s off. Blood seeps from the old wound and forms a drop which falls to the floor.

Or maybe it’s a tear.

Whatever.

But what if it was like this:

You’re in a band, right? And you’re jamming with your pals. And everything’s good. Until . . .

Jackass over here hits a wrong note.

Totally not what you expected. You thought he was better than that. Much better. So this doesn’t make any sense.  None at all. It was such an easy note to hit.

What do you do?

Search for reasons? Hunt for answers?  Try to make some sense of this?

It was one lousy note. The song was pretty good up until then. Do you stop? Try to figure it out?

Or do you keep jamming?

Obviously, you keep jamming.

Maybe you look up. Jackass (I mean Al) greets your gaze apologetically. The song moves on. And by now the bad note is long gone–along with (by the way) all the good ones.  And the beat goes on.  So you let it.  ‘Cause you’re jamming, and it’s good. And you’re kind of pumped because you’re getting to the part of the song where you have a solo–and you rock.

You rock-on.  Literally. 

And the only note that matters is the one you’re playing right now. There’s no time to look back, no time to look ahead much. The beat urges you ahead. The notes fly from your fingers, from your guitar or keyboard or trumpet–from your soul.

Yet each note rings for only a moment.  Then it’s over.  Gone.

Such is the nature of music. Such is the nature of life. Each note fills the rhythm–but the rhythm pounds ahead. Regardless.  Nothing is carried with it. Everything is left behind.

And the fun is only what’s next, what’s next, what’s next.

And it’s sooo damn good that way.

You catching my drift here?

Now, if Al continues to play the wrong notes, you’re going to have to make a decision, right? Maybe he’s not taking this as seriously as you are. Maybe he’s not willing to do what it takes to be able to play with you–at your level.  Maybe he just wants to Fuck around. You know, you can cheat only so long but eventually your bad habits catch up.

Maybe Al is happy playing the small gigs. The smoky, crappy, bars. Maybe you’re looking for something with a little more class. Maybe you just want to play really good music.

Whatever.

Anyway–if that’s the case, you may have to cut him, right? Go your separate ways.

But if it’s just one note. Or one bad gig even. I mean–what the hell right? We can all make mistakes. We can all have an off night once in awhile.

Right?

So the rest of the members of the band aren’t as talented as you.  Not as “good”. What are you going to do? Try to figure out why he or she missed that last note two, five, thirty beats back?

Or are you going to keep jamming?

How’d that headline grab ya?

I bet (though you may not be aware) it got “grabbier” after that one little word—the smallest one–“or”.

As if you can’t to both. Like you have to choose.

It’s like this: When it comes to matters of faith or spirituality (or whatever you want to call it), I think there are a lot of “non-Christians” that see it this way–that Christians aren’t rational. They’re not logical. When it comes to a Christian’s faith in Jesus Christ, there is no room for debate. In short, Christians are driving with blinders on.

BELIEVE:

• It is easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get to heaven,
• Jesus is the way the truth and the light,
• No one can get to heaven but through Jesus,
• You need to pray,
• Go to church,
• Do good works,
• Spread the Word

or . . . well . . . sorry but you’re probably going to Hell–don’t say I didn’t tell you so.

Consider:

Regardless of whether you believe Jesus was born of a virgin, is the son of God, or conquered death–I gotta believe he would have totally dug Seinfeld.

Good comedy cuts to the truth, exposing chinks in the armor. It says what we’re thinking–especially when we don’t know we’re thinking it. Great humor drags seriously entrenched attitudes, paradigms, and frames of reference to the public square for a good flogging.

And we laugh.

C’mon, despite the slight exaggeration, don’t you know someone with faith like Puddy’s?

How about this exchange about Elaine’s preference in men:

Jerry: So you prefer dumb and lazy to religious?

Elaine: “Dumb and lazy” I understand.

And, really, I think that about sums it up for most non-Christians I know. They just don’t “get” it.

‘Course neither do many Christians (ie Puddy). Sorry, but many sign up, then call it good. You know, they go to church, listen to the sermon, sing the hymns, stand, sit, kneel, memorize all the stuff. They learn the stories and do their best to be good people, but never really consider the metaphor.

Because when you start to play around with the metaphor, you have to take the red pill–and then the rabbit hole gets pretty deep.

But that’s not so much what I wanted to talk about today.

I just thought I’d mention it . . .

What I wanted to share today was how I’m trying to teach Jesus’ lessons to my kids–without strapping on the blinders.

Because I’ve been on both sides of the fence. I was born a Lutheran. My parents made me go to Sunday school, confirmation and all that. We prayed before supper (if we didn’t have company). And we prayed the Lord’s prayer before bed. But we never really discussed it. We just did it–I think because that’s how my parents grew up.
So, naturally I didn’t take much stock in any of it. I might even go as far as to say that I rejected it all thinking religion to be okay for the weak or hypocritical–but not for me.

Recently, however, I’ve found a current of peace and strength so deep, so calm . . .

To quote the song, “Dive,” by Steven Curtis Chapman:

There is a supernatural power
In this mighty river’s flow
It can bring the dead to life
And it can fill an empty soul
And give a heart the only thing
Worth living and worth dying for . . .

. . .The river’s deep,

the river’s wide,

the river’s water is alive . . .”

So there you have it. A little transparency so you know where I stand–sort of.

And here is just one example of what I’m doing with my girls. Together, we say the Lord’s prayer before bed. Just like I did when I was a kid. And they like it. If I neglect it, they request it. I think they like the sameness of it. The ritual. It’s sort of like a way to anchor the day. Wrap it up. Call it good.

But then I like to mess with ‘em.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

“What do you think that means,” I ask.

“What, Dad?” a little exasperation in her voice.

“who art in heaven. What does art mean? And what about hallowed be thy name? What’s all that gibberish?”

And so, over time we’ve gone through it. Bit by bit. Verse by verse, we’ve picked it apart, we’ve clarified, and we’ve asked if it makes sense to say “Our Father and forgive us our trespasses” and whatnot if we are saying the prayer alone. So now not only do they know it by rote memory, but the eight year old can paraphrase it.

Which, I think, is a good first step.

Tonight it went this way,

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,

Give us this day our daily bread and forgive . . .

“Hey wait a second,” I interrupted (again).

“Now what Dad?” Emma’s on the top bunk so I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her eyes rolling in her head.

“We should be saying this prayer in the morning, not at night.”

“Why?”

“Because it says, “Give us this day our daily bread. This Day. But this day–you know today–is done now. Why are we asking for what we need for today when today is done?”

Silence

“Dad . . .”

“Yeah?” I said.

Silence. It was a long pause.

“Are you picking your nose again?” I finally said.

“No!” she giggled. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we just say the rest tonight, and . . . you know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

Sometimes it’s nice not to think so much.

Our girls have a routine and checklist that they work through every night before bed. One of the things on the list is to get out the clothes that they are going to wear in the morning. It’s a good routine. The girls ask what the weather is going to be like and they plan accordingly. Sometimes they’re not sure about a particular match or color or something, but we’ve been at this long enough now that they pretty much take care of this themselves.

This morning there was a bit of a hitch. The third grader’s shorts were a bit, well, short. Nothing skimpy by any means–fine for bumming around the house or with friends, just not really appropriate for school. Lisa pointed this out to Emma on her way down the steps. Emma, however, was confused.

“Dad?”

They both looked to me for validation. Luckily, this time I had an answer.

 

These pictures came to me via email this morning from, ironically enough, my mother.

I think that was her way of reminding me that Mothers day is fast approaching.

My mom–queen of subtlety.

I found this recently. The context is pre-vacation for a couple of my students. I’m not sure where they were going together but I remember it being far enough that they needed a plane ride.

I think this list was written by a girl that was staying behind to the girl or girls that were going–if you catch my drift. It’s a list of things to do on the plane and upon arrival, so the title’s a little off.

So here goes. Enjoy it. And then if you like, I couldn’t help but yammer on at the end because, for some reason, the last item triggered the reflective, pseudo-philosophical idiot in me.