Charles V

something to consider, from Charles the Wise, King of France: Je parle espagnol a' Dieu, italiem aux femmes, francais aux hommes, et allemand a' mon cheval.

Be a Hero, Give Blood.

I came to work yesterday, sat through the first class, came into the library for my second class and overheard the janitor chuckling about kids puking. "Oh great, flu season has hit." Turns out, no, the flu has not overrun this high school, rather, the bloodmobile. I'm a good citizen, I like knowing I helped somebody somewhere with my O+ blood. I knew my students were watching a movie during their third class and I didn't have to be in there to aide, so I went to the gym, signed up, got rushed to the head of the line as faculty and no more did I finish reading the booklet, they called my number. Back into the cubby of cardboard I went. [Sidebar: These questions don't apply to me. None of them. Not one of the 120,947,784 questions they ask. My opinion is if they asked me if I've had sex, I'd say no and then they'd only have to ask me about visiting Timbuktu and whether I've been injected with bovine growth hormone, and I'd be hooked up to that baggie and on my way to becoming a hero just that much faster.] I had the best finger stick I've ever had. It was near painless. So painless I thought she'd have to do it again to get enough blood, but she didn't. What a pro.

So the talkative young nurse stops chewing her gum long enough to find my vein with her finger. I have done this enough to know I need to look away or I get queasy. In goes the needle, smooth but foreign and burning like whiskey on a cut. She tapes it down, opens the tube and my blood goes whooshing through it into the bag. I try to read. I can't turn the pages with one hand. I put down the book and look around. The kid next to me is passing out. They drop her head down, lift her feet, and take out the needle. She's done. Poor thing, and she was so close to being a hero.

That word, hero, gets me thinking. I'm a hero and all I have to do is sit here, thinking about standardized tests and the student who passed out? I almost forget that I'm giving blood except for an occasional dull ache in the crook of my arm. This scripture from Isaiah comes to me:

But he was pierced for our transgressions,

he was crushed for our iniquities;

the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,

and by his wounds we are healed. (53:5)

One needle in one arm. 7 minutes and I'm back to business as usual. I'm not a hero.

Three heavy, long, wide spikes, pounded through the bones of his hands and his feet. 3 hours and there's no more business as usual. He's dead...3 days later and it's a new business, a business unusual.

I'm no hero. I'm not even a good person, on my own. In fact, I find that the good I wish I could do, I don't do and the bad I would avoid, that I do. Wretched girl that I am, who will save me from this life dominated by sin?!

I don't need a hero, I need a Savior.

The Cool Club

I was in Indiana a few weeks ago, visiting Gateway Woods. I spent most of my time holding Josiah and talking to Kurt and Kristen. I also stopped by the East House and talked with Mark and Tammy about 'The Gift of Mercy (available in your local AC church foyer or by sending a letter to Ed Schwartz c/o Bluffton AC Church, Bluffton, IN--I don't know the zip).' Mark gave me a copy and told me how it was changing his and tammy's lives. When I left East House, I could hear shouts of children behind the white building to my right, where the treefort is. I headed that way.

Up in the tree fort, Tyler was bawling out one of the kids for bringing her aunt and uncle to his hideout (they were just talking on the picnic tables below, not bothering him). I climbed up to where he was and greeted Abry and James, who were sweeping leaves and dirt with brooms. I asked if Tyler had his own broom. They said no, he's the boss, we're workers. Good grief. Anyway, I smoothed things over between Tyler and the girl below and set about pushing the dirt out of the fort with Abry and James. It was fun. I felt 4 again. Until...

Tyler, who had been crying (he cries when he's really worked up, not a sissy cry, but more like his blood gets so hot that his tears boil up out of his eyes. I used to cry like that alot when I was his age. It leaves the worst headaches after you're done though. C.S. Lewis, in The Horse and His Boy slips in this bit of wisdom, "crying isn't so bad of itself, but rather, when you're finished, you still have to decide what to do."), sniffled and said, "Could you leave?" What?

"Could you leave, please." Why, Tyler? "Because, I want to tell them secrets and I can't tell them with you here." Oh. Well, in that case, by all means, I'll get out of your hair. Bye Abry, bye James. Just out of curiousity, why can't you tell the secrets with me here? "Because you're not part of the cool club." Hmm, who IS in the cool club? "Joel, me, Abry, James, lots more, in fact, I forget because there are so many." If you forget how do you know I'm not in it? "Because you're not cool."

That hurt. Anyway, I left, went home, read 'The Gift of Mercy,' and tried to forget that I'm not in Tyler's cool club. His uncle got married last weekend, and I refilled coffee at the reception, so I stopped at his table on my rounds and asked if I could be in the cool club. He told me I had to ask Joel, because he's in charge of who gets in. So, I swallowed what little pride I have and asked Joel to be in the cool club. (Sounds like 5 grade all over again, doesn't it?) He said he'd think about it and get back to me. I said, just tell Tyler when you decide ok, because if I tell him, he might not believe me.

I'm in. I am the Associate of Knowledge in the Cool Club. I am the Cool Club's nerd. I was promoted to Associate of Knowledge after I complained about my title of "Lackey," a shallow victory.

I've discovered something in the 4 days I've been in the Cool Club, but Mark Twain beat me to the punch. "I wouldn't want to be in any club that would want me as a member."

Sigh, the grass is no greener here. I am no cooler.

Sesame Street Life Lesson # 71

This weekend, I had to write a report about how my first grade tutoree is learning to read and I had trouble focusing. To abate the temptation to watch tv or go to bed, I made an emergency run to the Teacher Materials Center at Milner Library and grabbed an armload of children's music. It worked, I finished my assignment in no time--and not only did it work, I found this nugget of wisdom hidden within all that insanity:

You've Got to Put Down The Ducky

If You Want to Play the Saxaphone.

Just think about that for a minute. You'll get it.

And when you do--oh, when you do--life is good.