Senseless

My neighbor's dog is deaf and blind. She used to have hearing and vision, but age has taken its toll on this "short person in a fur coat."

We've known this beige, wide-eyed shih tzu for 12 years. Her name is Dusty Miller, and she's comforted everyone in our family at one time or another. When my father lay weak and helpless on what would become his death bed, Dusty curled up at his feet. When my sons had a bad day at school, they went down the street and scooped up Dusty. 

Now Dusty finds the most enjoyment being in familiar surroundings because she's minus two of her senses. We carry her up and down stairs and guide her in safe directions when walking. 

Tonight I took Dusty out to "do her business" so her "mommy," Anita, could do some business of her own. As usual, I steered her around obstacles and out of harm's way, nudging her onto grassy surfaces so she could do her thing. I watched with great interest as Dusty circled and sniffed and even poked her whole face into the earth beneath her. 

She was compensating for what she didn't have, calling on her senses of touch and smell to make up for those she lacked. 

As I've mentioned before, I'll be attending the Greater Philly Christian Writers Conference at the end of this month. I'm working hard on the second draft of my novel, Belabored, but to be honest, it's not coming together as I would like. I've requested information from expert sources to make the book ring true, but it's a waiting game. Other people have lives and to do lists also, and my priorities aren't necessarily at the top of those lists. Oddly enough, the world doesn't owe me anything, and it certainly doesn't have to spin on my timetable. 

So what's a girl to do? Here I am, trying to serve the Lord, using my talents to shed light on a very important subject (abortion), and I'm running into stop signs. But we don't sit at stop signs endlessly, do we? We pause, evaluate our surroundings, and use our best judgment to move ahead when an appropriate amount of time has passed. 

That's just what God's been guiding me to do. Instead of waiting for material I don't yet and may never have, I sense He's instructing me to move forward with what I do have. I have a manuscript which needs revision. So I'm revising. I have a conference for which I can prepare. So I'm preparing.

Like Dusty, I'm figuring out how to work around my deficiencies, and not let them render me senseless.

"If there is first a willing mind, it is accepted according to what one has, and not according to what he does not have." 

2 Corinthians 8:12

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Weeds 2

Morsels for Meditation...: Circles

Digging Deep

She pulled me out of quicksand. She reminded me that of course the world is full of turmoil and of course it's going to hell in a hand basket (literally) because the one who's behind all its workings hails from there. But she also reminded me that "greater is He that is in [us], than he that is in the world" (1 John 4:4).

My friend Robin is good for what ails me. This week I'm doing her a small favor, and she just did me a huge one. 

Yesterday I posted how sad I feel that someone I love is doing the unthinkable - she's burying her son.  Later in the day, I learned some other distressing news that shook my faith in a big way. 

But it only shook my faith in human beings. The God of the universe is still right where I left Him.

Don't misunderstand. It took me 24 hours to figure out that the gospel hasn't changed just because someone I trusted let me down. 

Did you catch that? Someone I trusted.  

What unriveted me was the fact that, yet again, I placed my faith in the wrong arena. It doesn't belong in man. It never belonged in man. Man does what man does, and will continue to do. Man sins.

Christ does not.

But where does that leave me, trust wise? I mean, am I supposed to go through the rest of my life never trusting anyone, any situation, worst of all, myself and my own judgment?

Yeah. Yeah, that's about right. But don't stop reading because there's a happy ending.

I've often joked that the only thing predictable about me is my unpredictability. I rarely do things the same way twice. I smile at old episodes of Columbo (if you're too young to remember that 70's crime show, it's worth hunting down on Netflix), where often the addled-seeming cop catches killers because the murders they stage contradict their victims' habits. Columbo's strategy would fall apart if he were investigating my life. Many of my habits are the opposite of habits, which is why I lose my keys on a regular basis and can never remember where I put things in the refrigerator.

Similarly, the only thing trustworthy about human beings is their untrustworthiness. If that sounds cynical, so be it. Christ rebuked the religious leaders of His day for turning God's law into a "living document" that changed with whatever wayward whim their hypocritical hearts felt like following. Paul called out the Corinthian church for their abysmal record in the holiness department. The Bible doesn't close its eyes to humanity's fallen state, so why should I?

The question, then, becomes, what do I do with this life? 

At times, I feel like hiding my head in the sand. Other times, I hang it in shame that I share Christ's name with so many who besmirch and defile it. In all honesty, my own spiritual walk has crooked angles, just like any other believer's. My failings may not always be obvious or newsworthy, but I'm not fooling almighty eyes.

The only thing I can trust is the one who never sinned and promises to guide me into all truth. That means that, while human minds and actions are flawed at best and evil at worst, I have a direct pipeline to infinite, good wisdom. "Good" meaning pure and clean. Enriching. Edifying. Perfect. Divine. And that wisdom belongs to someone who carries me even when this world tries to lay me flat.

In the meantime, I'll keep sharing God's truth with little folks and reminding older folks that the truth they once learned is still true, if more than a bit tarnished by its bearers. I'll do my best not to be overcome with evil, but to overcome evil with good (Romans 12:21), realizing that Christ's sacrifice at Calvary did and still does trump His doubts at Gethsemane. In short, I'll try to dig deep into the infinite pockets of "wealth" God has entrusted me with to make other lives a little richer. 

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. 

Hebrews 13:8

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Falling in Love with the Salesman

Grief 2

Today my dear friend is grieving the loss of her precious son. 

Hence, I am grieving.


As John Donne observed, "any man's death diminishes me" in a very real way. Somehow, we feel the truth of Donne's statement more when it hits close to home.

I'm going through all the usual stages of disbelief and raw pain. 

What? I just saw her a few weeks ago! Everything was fine then. How could this happen? How can I help? What can I do or say that will show this person how much I care? 

Then, like a jolt of electricity, There but for the grace of God go I.

I had an argument with my own son this morning. Not a very important argument, surely not worth all the fuss I kicked up. Not worth leaving in a huff as I did, being sure to do my best to make him feel like a worthless piece of garbage. 

Surely not worth that. Nothing he could do warrants that kind of treatment.

After I got the news, I picked up the phone and called my son and told him just how much he means to me. I think he understood. I hope so.

This week, I'm doing my best to teach first graders about the God who loves them so much that he sent His only son to die for them. Working in education as I do, one develops sort of an eye for kids who may be headed for trouble. A little too willful. Doing their own thing. Rebellious. Too old too soon.

I try not to label children based on their behavior - people did that to my kids when they were growing up, and it angered me - but there are warning signs that just jump out at you. I find myself thinking, "Lord, don't let me hear that insert name here does insert dangerous or life-threatening behavior here once he sheds his baby fat. Don't let me read about this kid's missteps or unnecessary death down the road. Keep Satan's hands off this child!"

Families are breaking up and society's breaking down. Too many kids aren't escaping the fallout from the world they're growing up in. I pray the kids I'm teaching this week at Liberti Church of Newtown Square's Vacation Bible School will take with them the life-altering news that there's more to this world than this world. 

And I pray their all too human instructor will be able to look past naughtiness and see instead hearts that Christ died for 2,000 years ago.

"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." Proverbs 22:6

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Grief

Weeds 2

To date, I have well over 100 pages and close to 50,000 words strung together for my novel, Belabored, which I hope to pitch to hungry agents and editors at this summer's Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference.

That is my plan.

It may or may not be God's plan.

It most certainly is not Satan's plan.

While some may protest there's no such thing as evil incarnate, I would posit that it stands to reason if there's a God, there has to be His opposite.

I mean, didn't Newton prove that?

Satan is not someone I spend a lot of time dwelling on, because I consider my time more productively spent focusing on the one who bested him at Calvary, and promises to best him again at the end of time as we know it.

Still, he's a force to be reckoned with, and not someone I'd care to go toe to toe with in my own strength.

Yet, that's exactly what I've been doing for the last month or so.

While my novel is most certainly progressing, it's also stalled in many areas. The writer's curse, I suppose, is an ugly conglomerate of waiting, procrastination, discouragement, and bad self-talk ("You, the next Harper Lee? Come on! Really? Your book's nowhere near finished, and you think you're gonna pitch it this summer?").

As I huffed and puffed behind our old-fashioned push mower recently (yup, we're one of those families), I marveled at how my sons manage to get a nice, clean cut out of those overtaxed blades. They seemed no match for the stubborn dandelion weeds that simply refused to bow to my wishes. Furthermore, I couldn't help but notice that the ones I did manage to sever were back in full force a mere 24 hours later (either that or they had some pretty fast growing relatives who showed up to mourn the loss of their kinfolk).

Now, that is just wrong.

I mean, when someone spends upwards of an hour cutting the grass on a hot, sticky day, she expects the lawn to look mowed for at least the better part of the next day.

Not happening.

So I got out there with my clippers and tried to tidy things up.

Then the rains came and, well, you know how that goes.

No matter how hard I try, those tenacious weeds aren't going away.

In the midst of those pesky interlopers, though, stand some pretty stalwart little flowers. I'm not a gardener (my idea of planting is throwing some perennials in where I have an opening and hoping for the best), but even I know the difference between a bloom and a weed. This is some sort of wild flower robed in virginal white and adorned with tiny little blossoms, none of which would bend their elegant necks to the blades of my mower.

Did you catch that? They hung in there, despite the cutter's best efforts.

The thing about mowers is, they don't distinguish between organisms. They hack up both beauty and beast in one fell swoop of their mangling teeth. So it really comes down to the plant's tenacity as to whether or not it's going to survive.

I'm thinking I have to choose whether to pattern myself after the flower or the weed. Either way, Satan's gonna come after me. But being allied with the master gardener gives me a distinct advantage over the weeds.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Weeds

Morsels for Meditation...: Tenacity

Impasse

I've been experiencing an impasse lately, on many levels. I guess it's been obvious I've been off the radar for months, but there's been a good reason for that. I'm writing a pro-life novel called Belabored. I finished the guts of it over the winter, but there's still a lot of work to be done in the way of revision and fact checking. I'm sort of in a holding pattern, waiting for interview responses and still trying to find sources whose brains I can pick to ensure the book's credibility.

I think this is the flip side of writer's block. I'm going to call it writer's wait.

I don't mean to whine (well, maybe I do - the post is called "Impasse," after all, so I may as well explain how I got there), but this waiting stuff really is for the birds. I'm a pretty proficient waiter, having waited for things like marriage and motherhood and scads of other milestones and non-milestones much of my life. In fact, it's only in recent years that I've learned how to turn the waiting into productive action, sometimes disguised cleverly as prayer and inaction. 

Then there's the matter of worry. My family experienced a serious crisis recently, followed by several disappointments of varying shapes and sizes. I don't do setbacks very well. I generally like to do something once and have it stick, so to speak. I get annoyed and frustrated when things don't go as planned. No crisis I've ever known has stuck to my timetable or played by my rules, so the aforementioned events have upset my equilibrium and played havoc with my emotions.

I found myself at a point of "where do I go from here" this past weekend. I complained to my son, who offered a listening ear and no small degree of comfort, as he always does (bless his 18-year-old, about to graduate and go into the big, wide world unfettered by Hovercraft Mama, heart). He immediately plucked Captain Janeway and Commander Ryker, two Star Trek Christmas ornaments who sit atop our doorways, from their regal perches, and ordered me to draw strength from those compelling characters. He then did what he always does, offered his services around the house, even though he's got a wicked case of Senioritis, with AP exams and finals right around the corner. 

Bless his heart.

But I was one hurting, discouraged puppy, and needed to take a few more steps. 

During the worst periods of my life, I've found great help in counting my blessings. In so doing, the clouds somehow part and make way for some pretty significant sunshine. 

So I took paper and pen and started scribbling. By the time I was done, I had a sizable list, not least of which was the fact that we weren't harmed or robbed when our back door was left open all night recently! Oft unnoticed things like safety and security, Providence and provision, take on greater importance when committed to print. 

Maybe that's why I'm a writer.

It also didn't hurt to take the day off and "play" with my youngest sister, Roz, who obligingly bought me frozen yogurt and helped me goof off while her dog, Sadie (everybody's blessing), gave off peaceful vibes and made everything seem better. 

I still haven't figured out how to avoid stress while keeping up with the news. I'm sure that's part of the problem, but I'm no longer willing to shut my mind to the great problems of the day in order to keep a phony grin on my face. Frankly, I'd rather force my features into a half smile while realizing this world's not my ultimate home than hide my head in the proverbial sand, as I did for too many immature years.

Today is the National Day of Prayer. My friend and I will be showing up at some events and making our voices heard alongside other believers who also refuse to pretend everything's fine. We'll continue to rise early most mornings to lift our voices to heaven, trusting that the one who hears those prayers will also answer them. And we'll commit to the great concepts of the Serenity Prayer, which help us figure out what's our business and what belongs to God.

 I'm beginning to see a break in my impasse.

Stupor - Almost

There, that got your attention, didn't it?

The brutal facts are as follows: I had a rough week on a number of levels, none of which are life threatening, thank goodness. Still, annoying, time-consuming and, did I mention annoying?

So when I came home yesterday, my son asked what I planned to do with the open evening looming before me. He knew the answer before asking the question. Seeing his mother propped up in the recliner, spoon in one hand, peanut butter and two bananas in the other (yup, that's my idea of a binge now that I've sworn off sweets after the scale and I had an ugly tête-à-tête), he saw the handwriting on the wall.

"I'm gonna watch TV!" I announced with the tone of a cirrhosis-livered sailor threatening a two week bender.

My son knows me. He knew what my plans should have been, as I've been bragging all month about how Belabored, the novel God laid on my heart, is almost finished. He's been dutifully tracking its progress and spurring me on, bless his almost 18-year-old heart. But he also knows when to shut up and bring me another jar of cholesterol.

Thus, I commenced my four hour vacation with Jack Klugman, AKA, Dr. Quincy, the crime-solving coroner. He and I stayed put in my living room until the call of nature forced me to abandon my easy chair.

Once upstairs, I realized I had a choice. Being in no mood to dispense pearls of wisdom to as yet unknown readers of my would-be novel, I knew writing was out of the question. Still, I've been putting off reconciling my check book (another fascinating Friday night option), so I sat down and did that. Then I decided to ring up the phone company and get frustrated over their unwillingness to hand over a new cell phone for nothing but the simple joy of keeping me satisfied. I argued with them for about 45 minutes, vociferously proclaiming my good customer status and insisting it wouldn't break them to waive the $40 start up fee they now charge for upgrades. They didn't see it that way, but I did manage to heap a new resentment onto my growing list of complaints for the week. It's always nice to stay on top of things.

When all was said and done, I had paid bills, filed the PHEAA application, responded to old emails, and changed my sheets. I didn't do anything rash like make a meal for my son so he'd have a nice homecoming after a long day of school and work (I didn't want to get too carried away). But I'm pleased to say that those mundane chores, in an odd way, cleared the decks for me to get back to writing today. 

I'm learning that sometimes just doing the next right thing can, in my case, lead to the next write thing.


Check out Newsboys' Rescue

For more like this, check out: 

Morsels for Meditation...: To Whom Shall We Go?

Morsels for Meditation...: The Mom Thing

My Ethan

Check out David Crowder's How He Loves. 

I don't usually start out posts by referencing a song, but this time I have no choice.

We sang this in church today, and I found myself tearing up. Not because of the lyrics, because the world is brimming with phrases that send chills down my spine. Not because of the artist, who wears his disheveled look like an old satchel and croaks out words with the vocal finesse of a bullfrog. Surely not because I was overcome by some temporary emotional rush, for if that were the case, the overwhelming sense of gratitude would have dissipated rather than grown stronger, as it has, over the course of two decades.

I wept because I have lived the truth behind the words.

Eighteen years ago, I was facing single parenthood and dreading it. I had no clue how my little family would survive, and less than the requisite mustard seed of faith needed to believe God had a clue.

And yet, all these years later, I stand amazed (no, let me amend that, I need to sit down for this revelation) that my heavenly father did just what He said He would do in verses like: 

"I have been young, and now am old; yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his descendants

begging bread." ~ Psalm 37:25

and

"A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation." ~ Psalm 68:5

Perhaps the most daunting piece of my situation was the fact that I was raising not only a preschooler, but also a newborn. Five-year-olds can go off to kindergarten, so at least Mom can count on half a day to accomplish little tasks like earning a living. Five-year-olds can feed themselves and put on their jackets and dial 911 if Mom succumbs to exhaustion. 

Infants can't do any of those things. My Ethan hadn't even been born yet when I realized something was way wrong with our family picture, and he was only six months old when my nightmare became reality. On top of these difficult beginnings, he wasn't the easiest child to raise. One of his earliest full sentences was uttered in reply to my request that he perform some Herculean feat like taking his plate out to the kitchen. In wide-eyed wonder, he unashamedly declared, "I wouldn't wanna have to work!"

Things got worse before they got better. It quickly became apparent that my bright child (who, because of his superior intellect, I had high hopes of advancing right from pre-school to first grade – yeah, right) was neither gifted nor interested in becoming gifted in the wide world of social interaction. Not only did he not fly under the radar, but I have voluminous email files from teachers and principals who didn't know what to do with a student whose bluntness was exceeded only by academic laziness. We darkened many a counselor and therapist’s doorstep. I sought out role models among family and friends to point him in the right direction. All these people and programs helped immensely, but at the core was a heart issue.

My Ethan has a stubborn streak, honestly come by, which informs and drives and makes him hard to reach at times.

That stubborn streak is also the very thing which will make him a fantastic teacher or lawyer or street cleaner, for all I care, as long as he aims it in the right direction.

Anyway, as I was reveling in Crowder’s music this morning, it struck me that one of the biggest ways God has shown his love for me was in giving me this second son, when it was all I could do to manage the first, and providing the family and resources (I still shake my head in wonder at the unexpected ways He provided resources, but that’s another article) and sheer, white-knuckle perseverance needed to move this little pain in the butt from point A to point B.

And let me tell you, this guy has most definitely landed on point B. I could regale you with stories of his accomplishments, but I don’t want to be one of those moms. Suffice it to say, he’s not the same kid – er, make that, young man – he was even a year ago. He’s someone I look forward to spending time with. Someone I can rely on. Someone who knows all my flaws (heck, he put some of ‘em there!), and loves me anyway.

Someone I’m proud to call much more than my child – rather, a very dear friend, and the greatest evidence I have to date that not only is there a God looking out for me, but also that He loves me enough to sometimes give me more than I think I can handle.

                                       Ethan Zechariah Williams, 2014

For more like this, check out: 

Morsels for Meditation...: Baby's Breath, Maturing Marvels

Morsels for Meditation...: Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

February

I know, I know - it's only January. But bear with me, as the Lord laid something on my heart today about these dreary winter months. For me, the worst one by far is the second month of the year, so I'm focusing there.

A deceptively warm February 40 years ago saw my beloved father experiencing a near-fatal heart attack. I can never forget learning, after enjoying an overnight visit with a school friend, how my mom, hands full with three minor children, no job or even driver's license, elected to leave me an extra day in the company of relative strangers while she dealt with the crisis. I remained there, blissfully unaware that my dad lay critically ill while I dressed Barbie dolls.

Fast forward 20 years to February 1991. I shivered on a cold gurney, awaiting surgery which would remove the remains of my unborn child who had died before ever leaving the womb. Although the calendar said I was only 14 weeks pregnant, this baby already had a name - Abigail - and a huge place in my now broken heart. In short, I was devastated. I remember desperately waiting for the calendar page to turn so I could shudder off the cold, bleak month that had claimed my daughter's life.

In February 2003, my precious mother took her last breaths, following years of frail health. Metastasized cancer diagnosed the previous fall caught us all off guard, and swept her away from us in less than three months.

While it stings to revisit all this sorrow, I find great comfort in recalling God's mercy during those desolate periods. In wandering through each pain-filled song of my life, I find ample evidence of amazing grace rippling through every aching chord.

After Dad's heart attack my sister Jane, whose goodness is rivaled only by her practicality, bought Mom driving lessons, rendering her less dependent on her ailing husband. Dad remained with us, mercifully, another 30 years, longer than any male in his immediate family, although his health was irreparably damaged. He was blessed with good quality of life, thanks to the grace of God and the benefits of 20th century medicine. He lived to see all seven of his grandchildren grow out of diapers and into their school years. The realization that we almost lost him made him that much dearer in our eyes.

While nothing could bring back my Abby, family and friends rallied to bind up my wounds. My sister Jo Ann, herself ready to deliver her second child, realized the seeming unfairness and understood why I couldn't bring myself to visit newborn Madelyn when she arrived March 1. Instead of insisting I celebrate my new niece, Jo and her husband Scott, whom I consider a brother, sent me a glorious begonia with coral blossoms that reminded me life could still bloom even in the starkest winter. For her part, my sister Roz took me out for an expensive haircut, with the thought that a new look might bring a smile to my tear-streaked face. Best of all, the following February found me weeks away from cradling my own darling Aaron, who made his entrance March 16, 1992. Five years later, almost to the day, his precious brother, Ethan, came on the scene. February, indeed, gave way to marvelous March.

When Mom was in the last stages of her illness, Jane packed up her suitcases and nursing skills and boarded a flight home across the country. She made it in time to tend our mother and say goodbye. Roz's husband Tom, also more brother than brother-in-law, came to the rescue, hauling Mom's debilitated body up when she would slip down in her hospital bed. In the aftermath, I cried on the phone with my counselor while emptying Mom's closet. That dear lady wouldn't take a cent for our phone session. A neighbor who had never before been kind cleared snow from our driveway, and others we barely knew sent flowers and showed up to her memorial service. We didn't get through unscathed, but neither were we forsaken.

In every season of grief, almighty arms held my family and me high above an abyss of uncertainty and pain. Those arms aren't going anywhere anytime soon. 

"The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath 

are the everlasting arms."

Deuteronomy 33:27

Disappointment

I experienced a disappointment of sorts this past week. It set off the opportunity to clomp around with a chip on my shoulder, feeling irritated and wronged. The Lord, I muttered to myself, is playing games, dangling carrots He has no intention of letting drop into my expectant mouth. 

On top of this disagreeable development, I returned to work after a long and satisfying winter break (in my youth, we called it Christmas break, but that was back when society still smiled on nativity scenes and religious expression). Note, I'm not cuing violin strings to tremble for a spoiled state employee who enjoys long summer hiatuses. I'm merely stating the fact that it's tough to go back after vacation, especially as my job assignment is of a variable nature, and changes are the norm this year.

All that said, the other night I had what I think may have been a mini-panic attack. I felt my heart fluttering and emotions swirling. I could sense my jaw clenching and blood pressure jumping in the presence of family (who had nothing to do with the situation and were just being their sweet selves). I knew I was in a bad place. I decided to go to a quiet space and just deal with the agitation gripping me. 

I sat down and talked with the Lord. I asked blunt questions He may not have appreciated an underling voicing, and wrote Him letters of annoyance and complaint. In short, I poured out my frustration and resentment at His monumental gall in trying to train me in the boot camp I signed up for when I asked Him to save me.

You know what? Nothing changed. The carrot still wavered, although at a certain point I made a conscious decision to stop reaching for it. Work was still challenging, but I'm pleased to report the Lord met me each day on the job and together we completed the week (in fact, many aspects were quite rewarding). 

Nothing changed - except me.

"'Call to Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, 
which you do not know.'"

Jeremiah 33:3

For more like this, check out: Heel Heal Part 2

They Just Want a Bow

For those who don't know, I work in the educational realm, assisting students of varying ages and walks of life. An interesting incident happened one Christmas, which confirmed a fascinating phenomenon I first observed years ago. In the spirit of peace on earth and good will toward men, I revisit the story now.

I had received a gift from a grateful teacher, which she had

adorned with an attractive but ordinary holiday bow. Taking notice of
the decoration, one of my students pleaded with me to give it to her. This particular young lady was something of a challenge, trying the patience of both peers and professionals through negative, attention-seeking behaviors. Thinking quickly, I outlined some behavioral expectations she would have to meet for the duration of class in order to win the desired prize. At the end of the period, having risen to the occasion, she proudly displayed her trinket.

Another student, whose disruptive behaviors belied a mass of insecurity manifesting alternately in tears and bravado, begged for a holiday bauble that he, too, could show off. I had to regretfully tell him I had no other. He assumed his "I don't care" stance and swaggered out into the hall and his holidays.

These happenings took me back almost 10 years ago, when I was assigned to a class of seniors reminiscent of the "sweathogs" of Welcome Back, Kotter fame. Many of these kids were troubled and unruly. One student was perpetually absent, so I struck a deal with him: come to school every day for an entire week, and receive a reward. To my surprised delight, this tattooed, biker-bearded teen met the challenge one week, and looked to me for his winnings. Unprepared, I searched around in my bag of tricks (similar to Mary Poppins' carpetbag, my over-the-shoulder tote houses everything from school supplies to first aid items, and quite a bit in-between). I could come up with nothing but a rumpled sheet of stickers of a cartoon character popular with the nursery school crowd. To my utter amazement, this 250-pound truant broke into a Grand Canyon-sized grin. He snatched up the stickers and with them, all the stock I had put in his "tough guy" braggadocio.

Like most kids I've met, this guy just wanted a "bow." Not a Christmas bow, but a token of self-worth. The burly bruiser he passed himself off as gave way to the little boy inside, who needed to be accepted and loved as well as held accountable.

I've been handing out stickers ever since (and silly pencils and themed erasers and whatever odds and ends are hiding in the bottom of my bag). The occasional wise guy who scoffs at my goodies frequently melts when he sees his peers lapping them up. The gifts are incidental; the value affixed to them is the attraction. The smallest bit of recognition gives an excellent student a well-deserved accolade and an underachiever something to shoot for.

Seems like a no-brainer to me.

For more like this, check out:

Dusty and Chewy: They Just Want a Bow Part 2