PearlS | The Average Pearl

We’re colored people, and we live in a tainted place

We’re colored people, and they call us the human race.

We’ve got a history so full of mistakes

We’re colored people who depend on a Holy Grace

DC Talk

I took my dog and ten year old for a walk, the same route we take every night.
“Hey, look,” Jubal pointed as we rounded the park path.
“There’s new graffiti on that park bench.”
We paused to take a closer look. Our city is, one park bench at a time, becoming a billboard for disrespect and insubordination.

I sort of get it; I sort of don’t. Why are we at such a tipping point, why is the level of emotional response so high? Why did it take a video of a man stepping on another’s neck, crushing his windpipe, for people to be awakened to awfulness in the world?

What were you doing if you weren’t loving people?

How were you spending your time if it wasn’t loving people?

Why were you distracted by lesser things, when loving people was the main thing?

Did you always assume it was perfectly fine to live in a bubble and not make eye contact with people who don’t look and talk like you? Were your main concerns always for your own politics, people, and your comfort level? Was it the “quality” of schooling for your own children, the “safety” of certain neighborhoods? What caused you to be discriminating in your own self pursuits but neutral and uncaring when other people were involved? Why did you ever think it was okay to look out for your own needs but never the needs of others?

What were you avoiding while you waited for the tidal wave to come crashing down on your shore? How is it that the reality of hate in this world never darkened your door until now?

Moreover, why can we not see that this injustice stretches the entire world and not just the part covered in red, white, and blue? For the awakened, why haven’t you considered the other corners of your neighborhood? The elderly who are ignored in nursing homes. Children who are neglected to the point of child protective services stepping in. The illiterate immigrant, working her tail off to make ends meet while wading through laws and stipulations no one takes the time to explain. The rest of the world, the ones who die of hunger at an alarming rate of 25,000 souls a day. Orphans, folks who have fled guerilla warfare, families living in poverty. To be woke, to be impartial, to live a life that demands justice–it cannot spring up and die like a weed in the ground each time the media brings something terrible to our attention.
No– a noble life is a tree that bears fruit and bends and sways through the seasons.

When we moved away from our mountain life two years ago, our main goal was to expose our children to the real world, not one conjured up as an “American dream”, complete with toys and hobbies only accessible to the wealthiest. We pulled our kids from ski school and privilege and plugged them into a public school where they made up the ten percent with white skin.

It was intentional. It was sometimes uncomfortable. At our neighborhood park, my kids still ask their playmates innocent questions: What language are you speaking? Where are you from?

It could, after all, be one of several dozen. With my limited Spanish, I’m sometimes able to engage in pleasantries, but mostly we just smile and nod fervently, urging our kids to go up the steps and down the slide, together in this weird world where we cannot understand each other perfectly, but know the simple rules for getting along.

Our kids have only benefited from the experience, our conversations have only ever been open doors. God has erased our worries and expanded our love for people.

We have not saved the world. I am not saying we intend to, but we have learned to love our neighbor because we have learned who our neighbor is. We have learned there are people outside of our made-up “safe” zones that are worth getting to know.

There are still people who wield weapons unnecessarily. There are still people who wave flags that should be retired. There is still hate and oppression.
But we have chosen to not be stirred up by hate.

The world right now is begging us to engage and react–it tells us if we are silent, we are part of the problem. I disagree. My own family has been moving in a direction that is anything but passive. Quiet obedience to God is not inaction, even if that’s the vibe our world puts off. It wants us to toss in our two cents to play the game. A shouting match on Twitter, hackles raised, like two dogs ready to tear into each other. The world doesn’t want to wait for revenge; God says it is His and not ours to pursue. He promises justice for the poor and oppressed, but it will not always come in this lifetime.

Because of Jesus, because of His love that keeps growing inside us, our eyes have been opened to the ways we can act instead of our flesh instinct to react.

Our actions are definitive arrows of faith. This is also what we intend our kids to see as they grow up in a world that is so reactive: move in obedience to God rather than recoil in horror. Advance before there is pressure to retreat. Be bold examples of love, wade into the uncertainty, maintain a stance of offense, not defense. Stop looking to the left or right for clues on how to live, who is picking up rocks and where we all ought to throw them; instead, look up at the perfect Savior and follow His lead.

So what exactly can you do? How can a person bend their ear to all injustice, to follow the way of Jesus in a practical, non-hell-bent, knee-jerk way? Does it take scrapping the farm and moving to the city, learning a new language, immersing oneself in another culture, enrolling the kids in a minority school?

No, but you might end up there. The first step is truly valuing the life of someone who looks, thinks, and lives completely different than you. Ten years ago, we came to love a little twelve year old boy from Haiti through a child sponsorship program. For around forty dollars a month we invested in his future. We put our money–tight at the time–where our mouth was. Then as we were able, we did it again. And again. And again. God kept showing us what, and who, was precious to Him, and we walked in that direction.

That little boy, Fainelson, is now a man. He sent me a video a few weeks ago. He was singing me a song. He sang in Creole, and I couldn’t understand all the words, but it had my name in it. This black man, this precious child of God. My friend, my dear sponsored son, the bridge that prompted me to follow Love down every turn in the path.

Reconciling all the injustice in the world–Jesus can do it, to the glory of the Father. How wonderful when we get to play a tiny part in the story of redemption.

Could child sponsorship be your first practical step? Go to World Vision or Compassion to find out more.

Last school year, we took lemon bars to school. Again and again we made lemon bars and packed them up, as my first grader caught wind Mrs. C liked them. It might as well have been the only food she ate, so determined was Luke to supply her with an unending stream of goodies.
When we were missing her last summer, we mailed her the recipe for lemon bars just in case, as Luke noted in his letter, she might have to make them herself.

In a couple of weeks, she mailed us a thank you package. Luke couldn’t believe it. Kids like you are once in a lifetime, she said. But we knew it was the other way around.

It is only the beginning of summer, but I’m already missing teachers. I’m sad with how the year ended, how we had to return our books with masks covering our faces and gloves on our hands. We did not hug teachers goodbye or thank them with one last tupperware of lemon bars. We didn’t get to assemble “summer starter packs” –magazines and gift cards to Chipotle, a fancy insulated cup, Fanta in a bottle. Our plan for one last fun surprise was turned on its head because we were all trumped on a boring Thursday in March by the surprise ending of our school year.

I recently had an interesting conversation with a person I love, one who does not share my affinity for public school. He was adamant, he repeated over and over that public school is nothing more than a daycare for kids whose parents ought to know better. That learning and loving is better–best!–at home, not something that can be replicated away from the family home. There’s no magic in public school, he said, just like there’s no magic in any type of schooling. He argued that parents who care make all the difference, that no “canned curriculum” would ever be a recipe for academic success.

I didn’t disagree with him. I have to admit, this year wasn’t the smoothest sailing for us even before the novel ‘rona sidelined us. We had our misunderstandings and grievances. There was a phone call from the principal, an email from a teacher. We transferred a kid to a whole new school. But it still hurt to hear him discredit and dishonor the establishment that feels more like family to me than I can express.

I remember every teacher who has ever loved me. I say that with the most sincerity I can muster–it is as true as the sky is blue.

My first grade teacher marched down the hallway belting out, You’re a grand old flag, you’re a high flying flag! And she expected us all to sing along as if the cavalry was returning. She packed me and twelve other kids into a passenger van every Wednesday so we could go to church and practice our Christmas musical. One time she picked me up in her convertible and we drove an hour to the Lake to play bumper boats in the pouring rain with her granddaughter. I never knew a grown up could be so charismatic and fun. When she laughed, she tossed her head back, salt and pepper curls bouncing, like Heaven itself ought to be let in on the secret. She was music. She didn’t have to love me, but she did.

My kindergarten teacher read to us while we sat on the lettered carpet, practicing untying and tying her shoes. She let my family move into her house for a week after our house got flooded. She was out of town, and she called my mother to offer the place as a temporary living arrangement. We thought we were on vacation–we sat in her air conditioned den and watched old Superman movies and took showers in softened water for the first time in my life. There was even a tiny TV in the kitchen, the impressive things nine year olds dream about. Even at nine, I couldn’t believe she let us actually live in her house. She still writes me a Christmas card every year. She didn’t have to love me, but she did.

Those are just the first two teachers I ever had. The next eleven years were no different, filled with faces who loved me. A red-nosed grandfatherly P.E. teacher who called me Sugar. Art teachers who encouraged messes and creativity, then tacked our projects up in the hallway, proud as peacocks. I had an eighth grade social studies teacher who wore the Starburst candy wrapper rings I made him. An English teacher who talked me into Speech club, the best surprise hobby I never knew existed. My music teacher, who bought a card for my birthday and had the whole class sign it–she didn’t know how difficult it was for me to show up to high school every day. In her loopy handwriting, she assured me my voice was just right to sing Alma del Core as a solo, even though I didn’t have a stitch of self-confidence or vibrato to my name. One assistant coach called me an “athlete”–laughable to every ninth grade teammate who knew me, but kind, generous promise to my late-blooming, uncoordinated body.

Teachers are people. They are the best kind of people. They notice what parents don’t. They are sometimes the first and only people who tell kids they are worth believing in, that here and now isn’t all there is to life. They encourage and discipline, they establish routine, accountability, and reliability–and many kids have none of this at home. Teachers witness growing and maturation, and somehow they know just the right words to set off small avalanches of hope.

I will concede–not every teacher is patient and exceedingly kind. As our world revs up its social distancing, as tensions rise and personal lives become political statements, there are potentially more teachers in the pot who are there to make a point. Their manners of educating kids are flavored with unpalatable social views or immoral behavior. Not every teacher has my best interest in mind, nor do they share my worldview. I’m aware of tension and I am tuned in to potential problems. I can still say, as a parent (and up till now), it is worth the weeds to hit gold.

It isn’t realistic to say every teacher will change your life. But it’s likely that one might. This is the chance I’m willing to take on public school.

This is why I’m so sad for the future of public school with masks and minimal contact. Our district’s tentative outline for the fall includes staggered starting times, daily temperature reads, disinfecting between classes, limited class numbers, bagged cold lunches in the classroom instead of hot cafeteria meals. Music, art, library, P.E.–all will be modified, limited, or eliminated for fear of spreading germs and sickness.
Last night, we practiced some homeschooling (because nothing learned at home can ever account for anything but homeschooling, j/k) and did the math: As of now, coronavirus is attributed to 111,367 deaths in the US, .03% of the population. One-third of those were elderly folk who died in nursing homes. Thankfully we know this is not a kids’ disease.
I’m not sure what this means, exactly. It was good to stay home for awhile and keep our germs to ourselves. But I’m afraid the ripple effect will be devastating to the public school landscape.

Returning only partially to school is not enough for teachers and students to build rapport, let alone beef up or revisit the academics lost due to Covid remote learning. Surely there are a thousand other considerations, too, but I am saddest to lose teachers. I’m sad to lose the hope of what teachers do and how they enrich the lives of children in little and big ways, everyday. Like letting kindergartners scoot close enough to the shoes of the teacher to practice tying and untying. Or singing silly songs and marching down the hallway. Day in, day out building safe relationships, teaching kids by example how to be awesome adults.

I love teachers. I don’t know what life will look like without them. I don’t want to know. But it’s very likely we will face this scenario, because I will not force my kids to wear masks to school or sentence them to a socially distanced life.

I’m curious to know what other parents are thinking. What are your school options for the fall? What are some wonderful experiences you have had with teachers? How has public education been a lesson in love? To teachers, I ask: How will new guidelines impact your success as a teacher? What can parents do to speak up in support of teachers and staff in a time like this?
We see you, we love you, you have changed our lives. Send me your address and I’ll mail you a summer starter pack.
And here’s a recipe for lemon bars. For now, you might have to make them yourself.

Lemon Bars
Crust:
1/2 pound salted, softened butter
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 cups flour

Mix together, press into 13×9 pan. Bake in preheated 350 degree oven until lightly browned, 15-20 minutes. Let cool while making filling.

Filling:
5-6 large eggs at room temperature
2 1/2 cups granulated sugar
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest (4 to 6 lemons)
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 cup flour

Beat together well, pour slowly onto crust. Bake 30-35 minutes, until bars are set. Let cool, cut into squares and dust with powdered sugar.

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen.