Look what I brought home today. I think we've named them Scout and Jem. The dogs seem to approve. I had a bad experience with geese around Lake Morton when I was seven, so this was certainly not my idea. The guy at the feed store assured me that they would not attack me since they will have been around me their entire lives. And he said they could keep away bobcats. I'm hoping they can protect my vegetable garden.

I found $6 today on the sidewalk. I picked it up, looked around for anyone who may have lost it, and slipped it in my pocket. I've never been the kind of person who views lost money as my own lottery. My found money is someone else's lost money. I can never shake from my mind what someone else had planned for the money. This was especially true today because this money belonged to a student who probably doesn't have much to begin with. By the end of the day, the $6 was still folded in my pocket. No one claimed it. No one complained about losing money. In a little while, I'll be stopping at Target to pick up some educational games. That $6 will go toward one of them. It's the only way to ease my conscience.

My sister and I were talking last night about moments that changed us. The idea is that we all have experiences that change the core of our beings. We each shared only one last night, partly because we ran out of time as our conversation meandered, but mostly because it's just difficult to sort through our memories for those that really transformed us. Here's my Moment That Changed Me, #1 I grew up in a home with 2 mentally ill parents: a bipolar mother and clinically depressed father. By the time I was a teenager, I was filled with an unexpressed rage at my life's circumstances. I placed all the blame on my mother's shoulders and reached a point where I could barely speak to her. During the last night of a church revival when I was 15, I sat in the choir loft half listening to the sermon and half watching my mother in the congregation. I remember the pure rage boiling within me, questiong just what God had in mind when he placed me in that environment. There was no cho

It's 3 a.m. I just sent the last of the articles I've been writing to their new owner, and mixed with my relief that it's over is mixed with a gnawing feeling. So much of my time and mental power has been wrapped up in this project that I'm not sure I know what to do now. I have floors to sweep and papers to shred and laundry to fold and put away. There are lesson plans and a Powerpoint waiting to be completed. And I can't forget the *fun* stuff like crafts and business and more writing. It's just that the project has been a delightful excuse for neglecting my life. So I'm done and ready to move on to the next idea. Tomorrow I will be at a birthday party and shopping with my sister for the shower we're throwing. The invitations will go out tomorrow along with this treasure: It's still less than a month since the baby was born, so I feel like I'm ahead of schedule for a change. And I'm very proud of this work since it is my own design. So that

I first read Henry Blackaby's "Experiencing God" when I was a teenager. That book changed me, so I was really excited to learn about his new book on the resurrection. I've started reading it, but because my life has been so unbelievably hectic this last month, I haven't finished it yet. I still want to share it with you now. Here's the publisher's summary: What does the resurrection of Christ really mean for us? What does it reveal about the heart and mind of God? And what real differences can the miracle of the resurrection make in your life today? Discover answers to those and other questions as you examine God’s Word with this companion study guide to the book Experiencing the Resurrection by Henry Blackaby and Melvin Blackaby. Packed with practical notes, advice, and questions for reflection, this highly interactive guide—ideal for small group or individual use—shows you how to witness Christ’s resurrection in and through your life. Each chapter of the

There are moments in my life when I feel like a 13-year-old-boy. Like when I'm sitting at lunch with my friends and someone reading the paper shares a story like this one . Or this one . And even this one . That's what I did yesterday over my fake meatballs with cheese. We sat there and giggled to the point that we couldn't look at each other. That's just the way life works sometimes. Some moments are just too bizarre to reckon with, and some of us react to anything strange or new or confusing with a broad smile on our face and a chuckle in our belly. It's instinctual. For shame. Our encore will now include a name-burping contest and a plan to skip 3rd period.

My homeroom this year started out with 7 boys. I thought it was a misprint, but nope. There really were only 7 bodies in my homeroom. I considered this God's way of repaying me for last year's penance of have 2 rival gangs in my homeroom. But that's another story. Today, a co-worker of mine mentioned to our principal that she has 27 students in her homeroom. That may not seem like a big deal, but think about the work involved with keeping up with your own children's paperwork. Imagine that 27 times! The principal was shocked by the number, and my friend said something about my homeroom. The principal smiled and said, "Yeah, but two of her three blocks are off the charts. Let's give her a break." That may not seem like much, but with the days I've spent wrangling with these teens, it was like telling me I figured out time travel. 75% of my students are legendary in the discipline office. The fact that I can make them stand in a line or apologize when th

"I took back those 4 boxes of hair color this morning." "Why did you get those colors?" "I don't know. You mean you didn't like that color?" "It makes me think of someone, and when that person enters my mind, I don't even want to kiss you." "Okay." "I mean, what's your obsession with these colors?" "So what color do you want me to try?" "I don't know. It's your hair." "Wait. The options are blonde, brown, and red. Which one do you like best on me." "I just don't like that color. Why don't you try one of the other colors?" "WHAT COLORS ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" "I don't care. It's your hair. Do whatever you want."

My to-do list lately has looked a little something like this: Write 25 more articles for the real estate agent living in fantasy-land. Clean off desk in classroom. Wash enough underwear so you don't have to wear the 2-year old and 3 sizes-too-small stuff at the bottom of the drawer. Catch up on detention list. Call people for addresses for sister-in-law's baby shower. Crochet two rows on cousin's baby's blanket. Order take-out for dinner. Update resume and call principals at local schools. Buy gifts for cousins' children. Write 25 more articles for real estate agent who thinks she has brilliant ideas. Design sister-in-law's baby shower invitations. Make it to GRE test on time and score at least 1000. Count the change sitting in the computer fund can. Write analysis paper for grad school application. Make quilt for new neice. Somewhere in here I am supposed to clean my house, which for the record, now has a 1/2 inch layer of dirt across the entire floor, this we

I thought I'd share my classroom rules with you. Stay in your seat. (I’m not much taller than most of you, and I need to see the entire room.) Get your work done first. (It really is more important than finding out who is mad at each other.) Talk only to people in your group. (You are separated from certain people for a reason.) Use markers and pens only on your paper. (No desks. No skin. No other people’s work.) Use inside voices. (No one wants to hear you scream.) Keep your head up (At least pretend to pay attention.) Remember to eat in the cafeteria. (I’m not a waitress anymore, and I don’t want to watch you eat.) Show respect to everyone in the room. (No name-calling. No fighting. No touching. No throwing.) And for those of you who wonder what happens if you don't follow the procedure... 1. Ignore one of the classroom policies. 2. Roll your eyes when the teacher asks you to stop what you’re doing. 3. Talk during instructions. 4. Raise your eyebrows, slam your hands on a de

My mother and grandmother just left, and my house is back to it's typical quiet stillness, except for the occasional sound of dog nails sliding on the floor. I'm sad. This is the exact same feeling I'd get after each holiday or extended visit with my grandparents or cousins when I was a child. Even though I knew we'd see each other again, I'd sit in the back seat and cry most of the way home. That heart-in-a-vise-grip bawling that never seems like it will go away and makes you feel so silly when it finally does. And it does. Eventually. So here I am with way too much work to do and not one ounce of desire to do any of it. I'd much rather hop in the car and drive over to the beach where I could cry behind the cover of sunglasses and the pounding of the ocean waves. But life goes on, and my grandmother purposely cleaned my house so I could focus solely on the work she knows I have to do today. I wonder why it hurts so much, and yet I already know the answer. I gue

When most people hear that I am a middle school teacher, they sigh and give me that look. You know the one that goes along with, "You are such a trooper." Yes, middle school sucks. It sucked when I went through it, and that part has not changed. No one tells you before you walk in the classroom door that most of your day will be spent wrangling and pleading and praying that you don't say something that will be misconstrued by a parent or media outlet. I usually find myself laughing sometime during the day about what comes out of my mouth in the course of those interesting 7 periods. Here's some of what I said today: "Please don't kick boys in the knees. Ladies don't act like that." "Yelling is only acceptable at sporting events, to stop someone from running into traffic, or when someone is beating you to death." "I guess I just like them better. What kind of question is that?" "I asked you to please stop talking. I didn't

There is a legend in my family about my grandfather's first weeks after he left the Navy. The government was going to pay for him to go to college or learn a trade. He was undecided about a career, so he decided to dig ditches. That lasted for a week. He still don't know exactly what trade he wanted to learn, but he knew that digging ditches wasn't part of the plan for his life. Eventually, he became an apprentice with a locksmith, learned the trade, and became one of the most well known and respected locksmiths in the state of Florida. People still talk about the "Old Locksmith" who could open any safe. I've been thinking about this story quite a bit this week. My dream is to write full-time. I can so see myself sitting at the beach or in the middle of the woods with my laptop that I hope to own one day and an idea. With this in mind, I've been actively searching for freelance work. I accepted a job last week that has turned out to be more than I had in m