Dear English Class

Dear Eighth Grade English,

I'm sitting here, wondering if you have any idea how much I've loved being your teacher. Only two school days remain, and our classroom is a (mostly) quiet buzz of your voices singing school-house rock grammar songs, quizzing each other on poetry terms, and playing your favorite vocabulary game of sparkle, in preparation for your English exam.

I'm trying to grade your tests, and help return library books, but I find myself distracted by memories of the school year. The window is open and the fresh scent of warm earth rushes in, reminding me of the hot days last fall when this first began.

You may not have known it, but I was so afraid to be your teacher. Some of you were taller than me, and others knew way more than I did about grammar. Suddenly I was supposed to be the final authority on how to spell a word, when for the past five years, the spelling tests I'd given contained words no more difficult than, "dog" or "kite". I felt unqualified and naive, not sure how to motivate students without gold sticks and a treasure box.

You told me later that I'd earned a reputation that first month of school, not for being nervous, but for being strict -writing a student's name on the board if they dared whisper to a friend, and handing out lunch detentions like candy. I once confiscated a (very juicy) note that was being passed and gave the offenders the option of having their note read aloud to the class, or promising to never write a note in my class again. They chose the later, and my reputation was sealed. "Mrs. Jones is so strict," was the word on the street, according to one of my coworkers. What you didn't know was that my heart was pounding when I gave my first lunch detention, and that my mind was racing to decide if your signaling to a friend across the room technically counted as talking, and should result in a check-mark, or it that was unfair, since I hadn't specified 'no signaling', while at the same time trying to explain eight different kinds of pronouns that I barely understood myself. You did make my life challenging at times.

But, oh, how you made me laugh. When we acted out "The Diary of Anne Frank," many of you revealed your previously hidden acting talents, and you begged me to let you play Mrs. Van Daan and wear the fur coat, or Mr. Van Daan and get to "smoke" the pipe. A few of you may have caught onto how much fun I was having deciding who would be married to whom each day. The real drama, though, came toward the end of the play when you fretted over who would have to play Anne and Peter in the scene that they kissed! I saw the relief spread over your faces when Mr. and Mrs. Skidmore joined us in English that day, to play the parts of Anne and Peter.

After a few months, we worked out a deal. You'd realized by that time that I was strict for your own good, and I'd realized that maybe you could handle getting up to get a tissue without asking for permission.  (I'm sorry if I treated you a little too much like six year olds at first.) We came up with some classroom rules together, and decided on a set that we all felt was fair. Some of you continued to receive detentions, but I like to think that you at least felt more ownership over the rules, and your choice to break them.

I don't remember how it came up, but one of you wanted to know which section of 8th grade English was my favorite. My vague answers provoked an intense competition between the two sections of English and I received notes, chocolates, flowers, and the best homemade cookies I'd ever had, all in an effort to win the title of "my favorite class." While neither section was satisfied with, "I love you both the same, but for different reasons," you came together and got me back on April fool's day with a fresh batch of cookies and a note that read,

Dear Mrs. Jones, 

The two eighth grade English classes have decided that we both want to 

be your favorite class. So, together, we baked these cookies for you. 

We hope you enjoy them as much as we did when we tasted them.

Love,

The Blue and White Eighth Grade English classes

It was actually April 2nd when I tasted them, so it took me a minute to realize that there was something horribly wrong with them, and I later learned they had been made with a few extra tablespoons of salt, chili powder and garlic! I like to think I had the last laugh, though, when I walked into class, thanking you profusely for the cookies, but regretting that before I'd had a chance to eat them, Coach R's dog ran into the staff room, and gobbled them all up! By the way, the dog was now at the vet with a terrible stomach sickness and they weren't sure he was going to make it...I couldn't hold the joke in for more than a few minutes, but the tears in Hannah's eyes and the guilty looks on all of your faces were enough to tell me I'd tricked you back.

You'd learned at this point in the year that if you wanted to get me off topic, at least for a little while, all you had to do was ask me for a story. Perhaps it's because I have such fond memories of my eighth grade English teacher telling our class stories. Whatever the reason, I was almost always persuaded to spend a few minutes telling you a story when you asked. You were also always eager to hear entries from my 8th grade journal. You couldn't believe I'd written about thinking that a guy other than Mr. Jones was cute. I saw the recognition glimmer in a few of your eyes as I read to you about feeling left out at times and wondering who my real friends were. I hoped that hearing bits from my journal, and laughing together over some of the entries would persuade you to take your class journals seriously.

I even stood on a chair one day and begged you to keep your 8th grade journal forever because someday it would be nice to look back on. And even if you never wanted to look back on it, you might marry someone like me, who would give anything to be able to read the 8th grade journal of my husband today. So, on Fridays, we journaled. You responded to prompts like, What matters most to you in life?, Is lying always a sin?, What are you thankful for?, and the more popular, What are you not thankful for?, What do you wish you could change about yourself?, What do you daydream about?, and What do you wish your parents understood about you?

Do you know how touched I was by your journal entries? You responded with such candor, and honesty. You wrote about the challenges of living life oversees, of the transitions you've gone through, struggles with your faith, and friendships. Kaden, you made me laugh with your "confession" about the plan you had to run away to Italy with Ian, Fabio, and David, while others of you made me cry with the sweet honesty in your entries.

You also wrote letters, often to our first grade pen pals in Arizona. Hudson, I could not believe that you requested a pen pal named Steve, continued to talk about "Steve" as if you already knew him, and when the letters finally did arrive, lo and behold, you had indeed been paired with a little boy named Steven! Though Steven later requested, "Please do not call me Steve," you guys wrote some fun letters and I was so proud when you wrote Steven and asked him if he knew who Jesus was, and copied some verses, including John 3:16 in your letter.

Thank you, eighth graders for teaching me how to be a middle school English teacher. Thank you for helping me figure out how to turn on the projector and plug in the speakers. Thank you for working hard to pay attention and earn class points. Thank you for working even harder to make me laugh. Thank you for opening your hearts to me in your journals. I don't think you'll ever fully know how much you've touched my life.

I can think of no better verse to leave you with than Philippians 4:1: "My dear, dear friends! I love you so much. I do want the very best for you. You make me feel such joy, fill me with such pride. Don't waver. Stay on track, steady in God." (The Message)

I'll miss you guys.

Love,

Mrs. Jones

Guest Post: My Mama

Dear  Kate,

What an amazing two weeks we have had. I have fallen in love with your little part of the world, honey. Who wouldn’t? You asked me for my impressions a couple of times during our trip and I thought I would jot them down for you.

It all began with a grand impression when you kicked  off our arrival with a soul filling drive over hill and dale as we stood up through your car sun-roof (and Jordan drove very slowly and safely) to experience the full effects of the apple blossoms at their peak of bloom and fragrance. Everywhere we glanced there was another hillside covered with flowering trees!

Another day, ambling down country roads touched something deep in each of us as we encountered bleating baby goats and sheep…bleating at times a little excessively as you lured them into their electric fence…(totally by accident).

I loved our hike through the Black Forest, and it struck me so powerfully that these were in fact the very same woods through which Little Red Riding Hood and Hansel+ and Gretel traversed during their own flirtation with danger. Though I don’t remember reading that they had a close encounter with a wild boar (or maybe just thought they heard one once).

I easily and eagerly fell into your life’s rhythm of getting your bread from the bakery everyday and taking your basket to walk to the market to pick up your fresh produce (Is there a village more suited to Kate Jones than this?)

 It took me a full 10 days to realize that kucken and streusel were not in a breakfast food category, but rather desserts…

Who knew? Who wanted to know?

Several things about those living in Kandern inspired me. One was the high value put on gardening. No matter how small a space, it was made beautified by something in bloom. Every corner, nook and cranny had been cared for in this way.

I also noticed and was inspired by Kandern’s (or more accurately Germany’s) elderly. Of course there were able bodied people of all ages bicycling and walking all the time, but what I loved was how the elderly got out there on their canes and rolling walkers walking the same paths they had been walking all their lives, and likely that their grandparents and great grandparents had been walking all their lives. They didn't seem afraid to fall or to be walking alone– they seemed driven to walk and get outside. And they walked long distances!

Remember the dear man we met upon arriving at Sausenberg Castle? (that castle the we drove to?)  I was blown away that he had actually walked there... from Lorrach! I love that the walking trails all over the countryside have connected these villages for hundreds of years. This is just a way of life here! It's an old way of life that holds on to things of value like spending time outside walking and gardening. I saw many, many people eating and laughing together outside on old tables with plastic table cloths – it didn't look like a Martha Stewart Living magazine – it didn't have to. It was real and the connections were real, and that’s what made it beautiful. I’m sure I am making it much better in my imagination than it really is. But that’s ok – I was on vacation.

It is obvious upon arrival in Kandern that the buildings you see are old (and beautiful). I think that this undergirds a way of life that is old (and to me, beautiful). Living in a village you never have to leave and in which you can walk everywhere; to church, to the market, to the bakery, to school, to your grandparents. It slows life down a bit; you chew on it longer, savor it more. This was very attractive to me. I walked around Kandern a lot looking at the funny shaped houses and gardens – never sure whose garden belonged to whose house.

But whose ever garden it was was very invested in it – they were beautiful! I had so much fun walking all over Kandern while you guys slept in. The cemetery was amazing – a garden in itself – people actually went to the cemetery and took care of the plots – at least during Holy Week.

And in my mind I made it be that the people who watered (with the watering cans at the cemetery for this purpose) valued those who went before them and had a sense of the importance of personal and family history – it mattered – it wasn’t disposable.

On our last night I felt it again as we went up the hill to the war memorial. It was a beautiful place to see the sunset – but I was also drawn to the other side of the hill overlooking the village of Kandern. It was very poignant to me sitting in the shadow of the monument which had a long list of names of those killed at war…an identical list exists in the town square in our Lake Bluff – sons, brothers, husbands and fathers– all who died – all who were deeply missed by those in their respective villages…

I loved what I saw and felt in Kandern; there was a life there that felt deeply connected to the village – I felt it and I loved it. So my darling, these are my impressions of your wonderful village as seen through my rose colored glasses. Thank you for a wonderful trip to a very special place that touched my soul.                    

I love you,

Mom.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Austrian Scones

For the past few months, I've had this nagging feeling that my blog was missing something...I think it really hit me after I wrote the recent post about what Germany sounded like, and thought about writing a post about what Germany smelled like. I'm an "S" on the Myers Briggs personality test, and from what I understand, that means the five senses are really important to me and I experience life largely through the aesthetics of my surroundings. So, that naturally led me to think about what Germany tastes like.

It's no secret that, for me, Germany tastes like bread. Whether it's a soft, buttery, braided roll, a thick, salted pretzel, or a cute little brotchen, crusty on the outside and (preferably) warm on the inside, Germany has a bread for you. And lots of bread for me. How I will ever go back to eating gluten free after this year remains to be seen, but Germany tastes like other things, too.

For us, Germany tasted a lot like frozen pizza the first month. We were too overwhelmed to do anything but turn on the oven--and even that took a surprising amount of effort. How hot is 200 degrees Celsius, anyway? What do all the settings on our oven even mean? And, oh yeah, the directions on the pizza box aren't in English.

But alongside the frozen pizza, Germany also tasted like yummy homemade meals created by generous new friends who insisted we not bring anything. (And that was probably for the best in our seemingly endless jet-lagged state, barely able to leave the grocery store with food, much less identifiable food that tasted good.) In the first two weeks of our arrival, we probably had ten dinner invitations. I couldn't get over that sweet, tangible way people reached out to us.

Since then, Germany has started to taste like new recipes, for a variety of reasons. Not every food we used to get in the states is easily available in Germany. In case I haven't made it clear, crunchy granola bars are notably missing from this country, as are good salsa and good tortilla chips (according to Jordan) and chocolate chips. And sometimes, even if I can find the same foods, they are more expensive, or just different than I'm used to. My avocado choosing abilities have gone out the window since moving here, which has been tough, because I LOVE avocados. (And on that note--feel free to skip this part if you aren't into avocados--but I think picking out avocados calls for different skillsets depending on where you live. Each time I've made a major move, it's taken about a year of adjustment before I hone my avocado picking skills to perfection again. What would be a perfect avocado in Florida will be far too mushy in Colorado! It's maddening. In Germany, the ones that feel "perfectly" ripe, have already turned brown inside and are starting to rot. And yes, I know the pinterest idea about popping off the little nub to see the color underneath that will tell you if it's past it's prime, but did you read my post about the German grocery store? You aren't supposed to touch the fruit unless you are going to buy it! There are plastic gloves available if you absolutely need to squeeze a pear or sniff a peach. I usually try to stealthily squeeze an avocado while doing the one thumbed nub pop off, but it's hard. Maybe the stress is what's causing me to lose my skills. Anyway.)

Another reason my recipe repertoire has changed, is that my thoughtful friend, Julia, gave me the book "Bread and Wine" which is filled with sweet stories and yummy food ideas. And finally, being in Germany has connected me to new people who have new recipes to share. So, these days, along with some of the usual standbys, I cook things like ratatouille, crepes, and enchiladas (a challenge with the lame salsa, by the way).

But the point of this post is not to talk about dinner foods, or even avocados; it's actually to tell you about the yummiest of treats I discovered how to make this winter. I was introduced to these scones by my friend, Katrina. She is the much-loved history teacher and vice principal of the middle school here at BFA. She made these scones for a staff breakfast and was kind enough to share her recipe. Though she doesn't recall where she learned to make these scones, I have dubbed them, "Austrian Scones", since Katrina grew up in Austria, and that's just the coolest.



My friend Johanna (who is pictured baking with us) and I love these scones so much that when we get together to work out, we usually just end up baking and eating them instead. Jordan loves these scones so much, he keeps asking me when "we" are going to make them again. To be fair, I think he learned that language from me--ie "Could "we" take out the trash today?" "Maybe "we" can change that light-bulb soon?" Personally, I've had a soft spot for scones ever since working at a tea house in college. Really, my love was for the clotted cream, the scones were just an acceptable vehicle for stuffing cream into my mouth. All five of my roommates also worked at this tea house from time to time, and we took turns spying on our boss as she prepared her secret clotted cream recipe, but we never did succeed in getting it. So, I would recommend just whipping up some whipping cream with a bit of sugar, and it will do the trick.

So, with that, I give you my very first blog recipe, Katrina's Austrian Scones. It's even in cups and Fahrenheit, not grams and Celsius, so consider yourself lucky.

Ingredients:                 2 cups flour

                                    ½ cup sugar

                                    2 tsp baking powder

                                    ½ tsp salt

                                    1/3 cup butter

                                    ½ cup whipping cream (I sub almond milk, but cream tastes better, obviously)

                                    1 egg

                                    1 ½ tsp vanilla

                                    cranberries, white chocolate chips, other “mix ins” (the white chocolate is key)

                                    1 more egg for glaze

Directions:

1.    Preheat the oven at 350 degrees F.
2.     Stir together flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.
3.     Using a pastry cutter, “cut” in the butter. (This part is hard, don't give up).
4.     In a separate container, stir together the cream, egg, and vanilla.
5.     Mix the wet into the dry ingredients. You may need to use your hands to knead the dough.
6.     Add in the cranberries and white chocolate chips.
7.     Spread on a floured surface. Form into a circle and cut into triangles. (Makes them look very authentic).
8.     Beat the other egg and brush onto the tops of the scones. (Optional, but again, adds to aesthetics).
9.     Bake 15(ish) minutes.
10. Enjoy with clotted cream or jam.

What Germany Sounds Like

Yesterday I came home to a new view outside our bedroom window. Our neighbor chopped down his tree, and in doing so, gave us a lovely cut of sky previously hidden by an enormous evergreen. The absence of the tree changed more than our view. No longer does a choir of birds began rehearsal at 4:30 am outside of our window. I'm afraid the tree housed several apartments of birds who have now been displaced.

For a while I thought it was only our corner of Kandern, but our friends, Ben and Mary, visited from Denver last week, and Mary remarked on how many birds there were in Germany. I began to realize that birds were chirping all over Kandern at all hours of the day and night. I suppose this is part of living in a forest. Or at least the Black Forest.

This got me thinking about the sounds of life in Germany and how people connect their experiences with sounds. You know how sometimes a song comes on the radio and stops you in your tracks and suddenly you're back in college again and you haven't felt that feeling since...the last time you heard that song? I'm sure there are songs that will someday remind me of Germany, but there are other sounds, too.

And try as I might to give you a picture of what life in Germany is like through stories and pictures, I can't explain it fully without telling you how Germany sounds. So, in honor of the poetry unit we're doing in English class, I give you my free verse poem (and some pictures) about what Germany sounds like.

Germany sounds like birds, laughing and reveling in their Black Forest home.

Germany sounds like church bells, consistently tossing out musical confetti on the hour.

Germany sounds like barking dogs-though each is legally allowed only half an hour per day.

Germany sounds like the rev of a manual engine that I still have not tamed.

Germany sounds like quiet, while shopping in stores I used to expect to play music.

Germany sounds like, "Choos!", the sing-songy farewell after every bakery transaction.

Germany sounds like the river, running loudly through town.

Germany sounds like buses, running even louder.

Germany sounds like middle schoolers singing through the halls, "Let it go! Let it go!...The cold never bothered me anyway."

Maybe next week I'll tell you what Germany smells like! :)

Why My Monday Afternoons Are More Exciting Than Yours

There are some opportunities in my life that I never imagined I'd have. Teaching middle school being one of them. Teaching 6th grade health and presenting the puberty talk to a group of giggling girls was another. But even more surprising than both of those, is that for the past six months, I have been a part of the middle school strategy games club. Well, not just a part, but the teacher sponsor. Every Monday afternoon, I spent an hour and a half attempting to conquer the world, or rid the earth of deadly diseases, or just trade two sheep for an ore so I can build a settlement with a handful of awesome middle school students.

How did this come to be?...I asked myself the other day. I used to scoff at my guy friends in high school who spent hours "settling". Trading wood and wheat and bricks and building roads and settlements just didn't appeal to me. The game "Dominion" sounded way too intense to be fun. And to be honest, I didn't really know about any other games. Except one. There was that one strategy game that my father began training me in at the age of eight. Risk.

Risk was a staple of Saturday afternoons at the Terrill house. Mom was never that into the game, but when she started dinner, Dad and Cody and I would pull out the original 1975 game board and divide up the countries. Dad advised us on who to attack, how many dice to roll, and how many men to deploy at the end of each turn. (It probably looked more like someone playing chess against themselves, but at least Cody and I thought we were playing.) After ten solid years of Risk training, I went off to college, where I played a handful of times. Several years ago, we bought my Dad the updated version of the game to play on family vacations since his was starting to fall apart. But it wasn't until I was asked to sponsor Strategy Games Club that I encountered a game of Risk like none I'd ever been a part of.

 First of all, I have learned that many middle schoolers are not as concerned with the rules as they are with other things, like winning, or the snacks. And I'm all for being laid back, but I've also developed an appreciation for the German way when it comes to following rules. Thus  a battle commenced inside me between wanting to follow the rules and force others to follow them with me, verses recognizing this was not a class I was teaching and trying to be more easy going, like the students, and focus more on the snacks.

Perhaps this was just a version of Risk that I'd never played, but we began, curiously enough, by trading. The dealer passed out all the cards and soon the boys were calling out, "Who wants Brazil?" "I'll trade Western Europe for South Africa!" I refused to trade, thereby not completely giving away Australia (every good Risk player knows that whoever holds onto Australia always wins the game). The gentlemen with whom I was playing took full advantage of the trading rule, though, and most of them ended up with a complete continent to themselves before the game officially began. We were then instructed to place ALL our extra men on the board. It was complete chaos--impossible to tell where one country began and another ended. Impossible to even see the names of the countries.

This was not a huge problem for me, and I obviously owe that to the extensive Risk training I received when I was in middle school. Yet I worried for the boys, some of whom had never played Risk. I should not have been surprised to discover, though, that most of my fellow players already knew the names of the countries. And not only that, but they had lived in several and also spoke their languages.

Teaching at BFA this year has changed my perspective on many things large and small. It's fascinating to see how the students here bring such unique viewpoints because of the various places they've lived. They look at a Risk board, or world map, with a familiarity most of us only have for our native country, because of their global mindset. My role as Strategy Games Club teacher sponsor is coming to an end as it becomes an elective the last quarter, but I'm grateful for the new perspective I'll have each time I play Risk, both in global awareness, and in the optional trading rules.

P.S. Vadim ended up winning the game that day by putting all his armies on his home country of Ukraine, and plowing through Europe, into North and South America, up through Africa and Asia, and finally conquering Australia.

Doubts Part IV: The Surprising Conviction

The funny thing about these doubts, the searching, and the resolution I felt, is that it was short lived. Though I found answers to my questions, and peace about my faith, I also found something I hadn't set out to find: conviction. The kind that feels like a punch in the gut and makes you wonder what you've been thinking all these years...

It began, actually, through a Christian romance novel I was reading while I worked-out. (God works in mysterious, and sometimes embarrassing ways.) You see, there are people in my life who have really hurt me. And over the years I've blamed some of them for many of my own insecurities and much sadness. Well, through this book, God showed me how similar I am to those people. I am no better than them. In fact, I've acted in many of those same hurtful ways. I just refused to see it that way for many years...justifying my sin and playing the victim from theirs.

And as if that realization wasn't sobering enough, it struck me that I was actually much worse than them. Because among other reasons, I call myself a Christian. I knew better than to act in those hurtful ways. Through all these years, I just never saw it that way. But when you're too busy nursing your wounds from someone else's sin, it's hard to stop and consider your own guilt. It was as if I couldn't face my own wrongdoing. You see, I had tried so hard my entire life to be good. Admitting my guilt in this area was admitting that I had failed. But not admitting my guilt meant something much worse than failing...

"If you are avoiding sin and living morally so that God will have to bless and save you, then ironically, you may be looking to Jesus as a teacher, model and helper but you are avoiding him as Saviour. You are trusting in your own goodness rather than in Jesus for your standing with God. You are trying to save yourself by following Jesus. That, ironically, is a rejection of the gospel of Jesus." -Timothy Keller, A Reason For God

Why exactly had I tried so hard to be good? Was it so that God would "owe me" a happy life? Is that why I became angry, when despite my efforts, life didn't go as planned? I-did-my-part-why-wasn't-God-doing-his-part kind of attitude? Coming to terms with the idea that I wasn't as good as I thought, was no longer just making me feel uneasy, it was uprooting my perspective of myself and of God.

"The Christian's identify is not based on the need to be perceived as a good person, but on God's valuing of you in Christ." Clearly I don't live by that belief or I wouldn't speed only when no other cars are around, I wouldn't act busy when my boss came in, I wouldn't pretend to be so good. I would live openly and I wouldn't care so much about how other people perceive me. Unfortunately, my identity isn't based on God's value of me, it's based on being good and perfect and pretty and charming and cheerful and spiritual and witty and happy and peaceful and content. It's based on being a really good Christian.

I am deeply sorry if my attempts to be seen as "good" have worked. It pains me to think that I may have fooled anyone into believing that the standard for Christianity is too high...because while I may have carefully avoided the "really bad" sins, and looked good on the outside...I was like an apple that had been eaten by worms on the inside, rotting and moldy yet perfectly smooth and shiny at first glance. That is the painful truth.

And it's also true that there is no "standard" in order to be a Christian. Contrary to the way I live my life, you don't actually have to be really good to be a really good Christian. There's only one qualification: be a sinner. Be broken. Be empty. Be in need. Come empty and let Christ fill you up. Find your identity in the only person who has ever loved you perfectly. I invite you, along with me, to stop trying to be so good, and let Christ's goodness be enough.

P.S. If you're thinking of starting a blog about what God is honestly teaching you...I must warn you to consider carefully. He may use this time to teach you some painful, embarrassing, and hard lessons.

(This is part four of a series of journal entries and research I've been working on for the last month or so. Click for part one, part two, and part three.)