Category: reflections

reflections · school · thankful Thursday

How A Teacher Keeps Her Optimism

Lindsey P. BrackettLeave a comment

 

When I left my classroom two years ago to stay home and raise babies and blog stats, I didn’t expect to miss teaching much.  I didn’t expect that this time every year, I would get a little wistful for new pencils and Expo markers and highlighters.  I didn’t expect that this time every year, I would miss the anticipation of readying my classroom for a new group of silly, rambunctious, and yet, ambitious young teenagers.  I didn’t realize that even though I had left the classroom, that my teacher optimism, that beautiful gift teachers have to believe every new year will be better than the last, would remain so deeply embedded in  my heart.

You see, it never occurred to me that I could miss teaching because by the time I left, I had allowed myself to be so beaten down and discouraged that I had no hope the next year would be any better.

 

Teaching is an ironic profession.  In the same day that you can spend all your extra planning time helping a student organize their backpack and locker in order to find three weeks of lost homework, you can sit at a conference table with parents and have profanity hurled at you for not giving enough of your time and energy to have made that same student successful from day one.
One thing that drove me away was the feeling that I wasn’t doing a good enough job raising my own children, because I was so afraid to fail at raising someone else’s.
A teacher’s career is filled with accolades and rewards, but that career is forged in the fire of expectations from lawmakers and parents that are often unrealistic and unachievable for our current system.
Teaching today is an intense, data driven, marathon.  There is always some new piece of technology or curriculum on the horizon.  Textbooks are becoming obsolete, and classrooms are equipped with laptops and iPads.  Email is the new parent contact, and weekly, if not daily, updates of grades and reports are expected.
When I was teaching middle school, I could use my 90-minute planning block to attend a parent conference, help write an Individualized Education Plan (IEP), analyze benchmark test scores to determine our Response to Intervention (RTI) tiers, administer a make-up test, pull novels for my students’ next library check out, and grade half a dozen essays.
There was nothing easy about it, but one thing that made my days worthwhile, and kept me going through eight years and five certifications, were the all too rare times a parent was supportive.  When a parent took the time to acknowledge the work I was doing to bring education alive for their student, that’s when I knew I was in the right place.
So, this fall when you take your student to Open House, when you meet their teacher for the first time, when you attend a parent conference, or chaperone a field trip, go out of your way to thank your student’s teacher for all they do.
It’s those few and far between accolades of support that fuel a teacher’s optimism, that reminds them, indeed, every year can be a little bit better than the last.

 

 

linkups · motherhood · perfectly imperfect · reflections

When All You Want is Perfect Pancakes (and Maybe a Perfect Life): Behind the Scenes

Lindsey P. Brackett3 Comments

I was supposed to make grits casserole.  (Which is this amazingly delicious way to eat grits and has been known to win over even the most cynical of skeptics and really it deserves a shout out on the recipe page.) But someone had eaten all the cheese.  Maybe it was Amelia during snack time or Joshua for lunch or maybe I just overestimated what could be done with one 16 oz block of cheddar in a few days.  Either way, I had to toss that plan and since I’d promised my husband a hot breakfast before he left for work, pancakes seemed like an easy out.

Except that lately my go-to recipe is Pioneer Woman’s sour cream pancakes.  Guess what?

Yeah, there’s no sour cream either.

So, I didn’t figure this was really a problem, I would just make the old standby that my mother whipped out in fluffy stacks by the dozen on Saturday mornings up until recently when she traded her spatula for a spork and the Appalachian Trail.

Buttermilk pancakes, no problem.

Also, no recipe.  Mama doesn’t write things down; she just cooks and then shrugs and says, “You know, it’s like biscuits but not exactly.”

Not exactly is the point.  I know where I went wrong.  I overestimated the flour and while it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world, for some reason yesterday, when all I wanted to do was be able to make a simple batch of perfect pancakes, it was the end of the world.  Maybe I should back up and admit that I was crying before I even started this process, and when my confused husband wondered what in the world I could be so upset about at 6:45 a.m. before the children were even awake, all I had was tears and fumbling explanations about email and being tired and how I just wanted something to turn out right.  For some reason, the past week had just been hard.  No reason, really.  Just one of those dips into the valley of despair that colored everything gray with frustration.

He ate those thick and chewy opposite of light and fluffy pancakes anyway.  He kissed me goodbye and urged me to have a good day.  I dumped the rest of the disaster in the trash and started over.

With a recipe for Farmhouse Pancakes I found on a quick Pinterest search.

This time I followed directions.  I didn’t second-guess or substitute or waver.  I simply did what I was told and earned the promised result: the perfect pancakes I was aiming for all along.

I know I treat my life like that failed batch of pancakes sometimes.  I want to just be able to dump all the mess-ups in the trash and start over with a clear and easy set of directions that fulfill my longing for perfection.

But there’s no simple recipe to follow that will guarantee me a life free from all the stress and fatigue that makes me imperfect.

If there was, there would be no need for grace.  No need for unconditional love.  No need for forgiveness.

I’d love to tell you that I cried a little more, prayed a little harder, and spent the rest of the day thankful for my revelation.  The truth is I loaded them up and took them waterfall hiking on a nearby paved trail because I needed to walk away from the mess of the house and the press of those four walls.

I’m sure people thought we were sweet.  There were probably some who thought I was either brave or crazy for bringing them here by myself.  But the truth behind this picture is it reminds me that even when I follow directions, the promised result can take a lifetime to achieve.

After all, that glorious waterfall’s still pressing on trying to find its way.

I might make perfect pancakes tomorrow, but a perfect life?

I’m learning that there’s no such thing as a perfect life.  Really, the perfect life has a lot of imperfect moments framed with a whole lot of grace.

Linking up with the Behind the Scenes community over at Crystal Stine’s today.  Check it out and be inspired to tell the truth behind the picture.

crystalstine.me


faith · Friends · reflections · writing

How A Community Loves #ardenpiper

Lindsey P. BrackettLeave a comment
photo courtesy of Abigail Washington
Recently, I have truly realized how blessed my family is to have become part of this community of people who share zipcodes and drive-thrus and festivals and one another’s lives in a way that means more than just simple local residence.

An already emotionally heightened time of change, this past month has reminded me over and over that we are only gifted one day at a time.  In May’s first few weeks, I was part of those who strove to bring comfort when sorrow came.  Then, in its last, I was on the receiving end of that comfort when my husband was hospitalized for a heart condition.  Through it all, I saw this community love one another in amazing ways.

Dictionary.com may define community as a social group of any size whose members reside in a specific locality, share government, and often have a common cultural and historical heritage. But it takes more than a physical location to compel us to hold one another when tragedy abounds.  It takes more than a sharing of government to bring us to our knees so that those mourning might be covered over in unceasing prayer.  It takes more than cultural heritage to bring meals after births and sickness and deaths or to rock babies in a nursery so parents can attend another baby’s funeral.

For me, the past few weeks have proven that community happens when a simple ordinary act becomes an extraordinary act of love.

I felt this in the hospital when people showed up to simply sit or buy me a cup of coffee and talk about anything besides what was happening.  But the most amazing act of community I have seen happened on the morning of Arden Washington’s funeral when the word went out we should paint our nails blue in memory of her beautiful blue eyes. Social media picked up the feed, and our little community of mothers loving one another spread all over this county and beyond.  It was so simple.  Blue nail polish, that’s all.  But it was a tangible communication of love and support.  It was evidence of community.

That night, I gathered my daughters close and painted nails and toes a shade of Caribbean blue. I let them stay up past bedtime, and we whispered prayers for our friends and talked about how Arden’s blue eyes are looking at Jesus now.

Sometimes there are no words.  For days, I had struggled to find some elusive phrase to offer comfort, but in the end, there were none.  What there was, instead, was a bottle of blue polish and a community that loves.

Sometimes community is a neighbor who cuts the grass when you can’t. Sometimes it’s extra car seats so there’s room for just one more.  Sometimes it’s the ER doctor who hugs you and knows your name because you taught his children. Sometimes it’s the local florist who knows exactly the perfect shade of pink hydrangea to send.

Sometimes it is one simple shared act of extraordinary love.

This post originally appeared in my community column on June 7, 2013 in The Northeast Georgian.