My story in song

You know how, in cartoons, the characters are running full speed ahead when they see something interesting and try to stop? You hear screeching and see dust billowing and watch as they hop-hop-hop on one foot while the upper torso tries to head in the other direction? Well, it was kind of like that.

I was moving quickly (running would be inaccurate, here) past an auditorium toward the lobby bathroom when something caught my attention. Wafting out of the auditorium were the familiar strains of a tune I know well. My peripheral vision picked up a sleek black shape on stage and two men studying it - one seated, one standing. Involuntarily, my body shifted directions and I froze in front of the open door, mesmerized. For a second, until I remembered where I was running. Or not running.

I returned to the lobby to hear pages 5...6...7... still being pretty flawlessly performed on a beautiful piano to an audience of none. And I thought: 'I can do that.'

I can play Rhapsody in Blue. All of it. I can tell you where on the page this part is happening or what's coming next. I can finger along with the music that's floating in the air. I can hum the orchestra part. Or at least I could. At one time.

At one time, I memorized and performed a 20-minute concerto, more than 30 pages of music. And not just any concerto. It was Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. You may remember it from the American Airlines commercials. I remember it because it is burned on my brain, and lingers in my finger memory. It's now filed away under "glory days."

Sitting in that lobby with strangers, I felt really special, like a celebrity in disguise. No one in that room knew my secret - that a long time ago this frumpy-feeling housewife crocheting in the corner stood on stage and took a bow after performing the awesomeness that they were listening to at that moment. So, naturally, I started wondering if I could still do it. And I started wondering what secrets the other people in the lobby were keeping...what were their stories? Were they concert pianists, too? Or maybe Olympic gold medalists? Or alligator wrestlers? Instantly, everyone in the room became people of interest.

Too often, I undervalue myself, or at least my gifts - and oddly, that's usually because I don't feel like I fit the physical mold of a successful, worthy South Floridian. My clothes are generally beat up and old, my body is carrying a little extra right now. I drive a mom-mobile and I get really excited about good deals. Oh, and I'm wearing a bulky mouthguard right now that is impairing my speech. (Think Gopher from Winnie the Pooh). But I know I'm not alone. How ridiculous it is for people, with these incredible stories and amazing hidden gifts, to have our identity so closely tied to our physical appearance? What must God think when I forget the fact that he gave me so very many abilities and whine about the body (and sense of style) that I didn't get?

I believe God put me in that lobby at that time to remind me of my story, and of who He made me to be. He put me there to remind me that everyone has a story, and story is so much more valuable than labels, price tags or clothing sizes. He has given each of us a gift - how much more fulfilling would our lives be if we developed those instead of chasing a flawed measure of success?

So I came home, and I tried to play Rhapsody. With a little fiddling, I got the first measure back - with the music, I'm sure I can do it all... but the point is that music is a part of my story, the secret that those closest to me know about. And those are the ones who help complete that story. If you're one of those people, thank you for the role you're playing!

At what point does this become a "disorder"?

At 9:30 every Thursday, I enter my daughter's classroom.

A few of the students (including my own daughter) look up to subtly acknowledge my arrival. Then they keep working.

I love this.

Then the teacher quietly gets up, hands me a stack of projects to complete, and returns to her group of reading children.

I love this, too.

I survey what needs to be done and my brain immediately starts putting things in order. These need to be pasted. These need to be cut. These need to be laminated. Staple these. Copy that. Put that stack away. Within seconds I have a plan that maximizes efficiency, and I go to work. I don't know if anything satisfies me more than busy work done efficiently.

Or, for that matter, anything done efficiently. Today I got to visit the school's reading book room and I found it magically soothing. Shelves and shelves of neatly labeled bins containing books ordered by letter and number. Nothing out of place. Nothing sloppily shoved into a spot where it doesn't fit. I enjoyed putting those books back so much that I contemplated offering my reshelving services to all of the other teachers. It was then that I wondered if I had a problem.

Well, it might have been when I left the library that I noticed an imbalance. Getting from the library to the classroom involves crossing a courtyard using paths that require me to walk the long sides of a triangle to get from A to B. That makes me grouchy. All that work to be efficient, and I lose 20 steps because of poor sidewalk planning.

My errands are done in geographical order. If I can't fit one efficiently into my route then it waits until I'm heading that way. My chores are completed the same way. If I'm vacuuming, I'm vacuuming everything at once. If guests are coming, cleaning gets done at the last possible minute, because I know that's when I'd do it anyway, and it's inefficient to do it twice. I don't exercise unless I know I have time to finish an efficient workout in which my heart rate is elevated for the right period of time. And I try to do it when the girls are wanting to play outside, because it's more efficient for me to exercise while watching them, than to exercise and THEN watch them.

And I'm always the one with a suggestion - "why don't you..." or "you know if we did it this way..." and I'm unsettled when they choose the less efficient option.

So, I don't know if this makes me crazy, but i do know that it increases the amount of pressure I feel to get things done. When "down time" registers as "wasted time," it is pretty hard to enjoy.

Am I alone? I know Cool Dad is with me...

Evolving...

Well, it happened.

Everyone warned us that it would. It is the concern most widely expressed by most of our Christian friends when we have the "Public School" conversation.

Our daughter was exposed to (you might want to be sitting down for this...) evolution. (cue dramatic ba-ba-BUUUUHHH music)

Technically, she was introduced to something akin to the big bang theory.

It didn't happen in the way we would have expected. It wasn't a teacher reading from science curriculum or another student engaging her in a heated debate about faith or telling her she was stupid for believing in a Creator God. It was sneakier than that: she brought home a reading book. It explained the origins of the earth.

As she read Earth: The Water Planet aloud to us my mind started racing. First, I was annoyed. "Come on," I thought. "She's a first grader. It's a reading group book, for reading. Not a science lesson. Couldn't the teacher have chosen something less controversial?"

Then I started planning my attack. How would I appropriately express my concerns to the teacher? Did I want to become THAT mom? What are my rights in this situation? Can I request that my child read a different book if this particular science isn't a part of first grade curriculum?

When I heard these thoughts in my head, I changed course. We knew this would happen. We expected it. We weren't afraid of it. Maybe we didn't expect it this early, or this covertly, but it did, and my up-in-arms mentality was sounding too much like the image we are trying to overcome by simply being Christ-followers in a public school in the first place.

So, we talked about it. I pointed out phrases like "scientists think" and "scientists are not sure." We talked about why they "think" life began 3.5 billion years ago, or why they "believe" the earth is 4.6 billion years old. I asked her what she knew about the beginning of the earth, and what might be missing from this book.

And guess what? She got it.

We read Genesis 1 and discussed how maybe God DID use exploding gases and compressed matter and whatever else the scientists think was involved. We talked about how, if you don't believe in God, you have to figure out some way to explain how we got here. We held up the Bible, and we held up her book, and we asked her to point to the one that is always true.

And she understood. She was able to grasp that man tries, but cannot always be true - and so when man's word disagrees with God's word, we go with God's word.

I don't think she's scarred for life. I don't think she experienced any kind of crisis of faith. If anything, I think it was a tremendous opportunity at a very young age to experience a little testing. She had a chance to think critically about something important, and to learn to respect differences of belief while still sticking to her guns.

Crisis averted.

Chloe, before

As a teacher - or teacher's aide, which was my position - you're not supposed to have favorites. But I did, of course.

I had Chloe.

Chloe was this goofy, smiley little 3-year-old. She was sweet to everyone and intentionally funny. She had a gorgeous head of dark wavy hair that framed her precious little heart shaped face. I never could decide whether it was her huge, round brown eyes or the smile that stretched from ear to ear that most enchanted me.

Chloe came from one of those too-good-to-be true families. Her parents were a little bit older and seemed to have plenty, which, in this particular school usually meant that pick up, drop off and most other parental duties were performed by a member of the family's staff. But not Chloe's family.

Chloe's tall, thin, beautiful mommy was at pickup every day, squatting down to greet her baby as if it had been days since they'd seen each other. Chloe would see her mom and virtually explode with joy, jumping up off the circle carpet to run into her arms. The scene was the same first thing in the morning, but with daddy and Chloe sharing special morning rituals.

In addition to them just being the nicest people you could hope to know, Chloe's family were Gators. BIG Gators. Bull Gators, in fact. They never missed a home game, because Chloe's dad had his own plane, which he'd had painted orange and blue. We made the Gator connection early and I couldn't help but feel like that made me one of their favorites - just like Chloe was mine.

When I left late in the year to have my first baby, Chloe's mom was one of few parents to present me with a gift - a beautiful smocked dress from a store that I have dared to enter maybe twice in my life. It's in the box of baby things I just can't give up.

I haven't seen Chloe in 6 years, but her family's infectious happiness still inspires me. In fact, when we named our own Chloe, I hoped that a little of the name would rub off. It was impossible for me to think of Chloe as just a name. No, Chloe was a word that called to mind my favorite preschooler, and that meant so much more.

So when Matt came home last night and asked if I'd heard about "the plane", my heart sunk into my stomach. He went on to say that a Bull Gator's plane had gone down in the Everglades on the way from Gainesville to Ft. Lauderdale.

Not the Barbers, I said, with tears instantly filling my eyes. Please not the Barbers...

But it was the Barbers. All of them lost, presumed dead in a fiery Everglades crash.

All, except for Chloe.

Chloe, now 10, stayed home to go to a sleepover while her mom, dad & brother went to the game. It was a decision that left her behind, forever.

I have to be honest, I am wrestling with this one.