Loving Their Mom

When I was a kid, my dad's office was a magical universe. He was a collector of antique books and the shelves of his library were stuffed with old and rare texts. The desk in his den was usually the best place to find pens or pencils, and he also possessed an old-school gumball machine that I liked to raid when friends came to visit. Disclosure: I liked to raid the gumball machine when I was home alone too.

There was another decorative fixture in Dad's office, a handcrafted sign. Every time we moved, this piece of wood followed. Regardless of which room housed Dad's old desk and books, there was a burl from a maple tree that followed. It had been sanded and polished and mounted on a flat stand to hold it upright. A photo of a little child handing a flower to an adult was glued to the front beside an engraving that read "The best gift I can give to my children is my love for their mother."

This sweet display followed us from the little rambler around the corner from Jennings Park, where we resided in my earliest recollections, to the apartment across the street from Silver Lake, our last residence before I moved out and turned my folks into empty nesters. My dad still has it; the picture is peeling away but the carving remains. He did his best to live up to this motivational message. He adored my mom. My brother and I were raised knowing that Dad was hopelessly in love with Mom. Even today, any time she travels out of town, my dad is restless and unsure what to do with himself in the absence of his bride.

Naturally, that message followed me on an intellectual level as I transitioned from a teenager living with his parents to an independent young adult, and from a young bachelor to a twenty-some-odd year old new husband. When our firstborn came into our life, I had those words from my dad's office echoing in my head. I was standing in a land of giants with enormous shoes to fill and I tried to live up to this phrase that had guided my father through his marriage.

If I'm honest, I had no idea what I was doing. I did my best to love my son's mom, but I wasn't really skilled at it. I never figured out how to love in that self-sacrificial "love your wives just as Christ loved the church" kind of way. I tried, but sometimes life doesn't reward you with points for effort.

Fast forward another decade. A couple more kids were added to the family but I was no longer a married man. As the stress of divorce and restarting life as a single dad changed all the rules on me, the constant decoration from my dad's office was forgotten. I was facing a new normal and focused on being the best father that I could possibly be.

My energy was spent juggling work schedules with custody agreements. I strove to make the best of the days I had with my kids because I knew I would no longer be able to tuck them into bed every evening. Suddenly, the best gift I had to give my kids was my time. Help with homework. Heart to heart talks about school bullies. Family board games and movie nights. Bonding over Nintendo and X-Box. Playing at the park. Saturday adventures out hiking or relaxing at the beach. We found our own routine and paved a way through previously undeveloped territory.

I'm still their dad, a job title that will never change. However, I can't escape another obvious reality: my ex-wife is still my kids' mother. I have always been aware that my kids have a good mom and she will always be a constant factor in their lives. But I tried to think that we existed in different worlds, like alternate dimensions. I treated her like she was Las Vegas: what happens at mom's house stays at mom's house.

Recently, something changed, a revelation that I should have recognized a long time ago. As long as she is a part of my kids' lives, she will be a part of my life. Despite the divorce, part of our wedding vows remains true: "for as long as we both shall live."

On a late and insomnia filled night, memories of my youth began to stir. I had finished my school work, turned on some music, opened a book, and debated whether or not I wanted to drink a Mike's Hard Black Cherry Lemonade. Somewhere after grabbing a beverage from the fridge and returning to my desk, the phrase seeped into my consciousness like a ghost phasing through the walls. The best gift my dad gave me was his love for my mom. The best gift I can give my kids is to love their mom.

But their mom and I are no longer married. My love for her left the building a long time ago. Isn't that what fuels most divorces? A couple drifts apart and they fall out of love?

The more I thought about it, the more that statement from my childhood rang true. If I am to believe that my kids deserve the best, I need to learn to love their mom all over again. I became increasingly assured that THAT was the best gift I could ever give them.

Then the questions came flooding in. How? How do I love someone who left me? How do I love the person who chose to end our marriage? How do I love the individual who wounded me (emotionally speaking) more than any other human on this planet? How do I love someone I don't always like? How do I love a woman who has already fallen in love with another man? If I wasn't adept at loving her when we were married, how am I supposed to do it now that we're not?

I don't have many good answers. In fact, I'm not sure if I have any answers. But I do know it will take more grace than I can demonstrate on my own. I can guarantee I won't always get it right. Even if the effort is never rewarded, I am convinced my kids deserve a dad who loves their mom.

The Vanity Dilemma

Vanity plates can be a fun method of self expression. It is the vehicle's owner's way of introducing themselves to the world. You want to know who I am? Read my license plate. But there is a dilemma with using plates (and to some extent, bumper stickers) to describe yourself to the other drivers on the road. The implication is that you must live up to the message you deliver.

Sometimes these messages are contradictory, as if the car's owner has two distinct personalities that can't agree on anything. A test study in cognitive dissonance. I found one of these individuals in the run up to last November's election while following a beat up 80's era sedan. On one one side of their trunk was a coexist sticker - the type spelled with religious symbols like the Islamic crescent for the C, the Jewish star of David for the X, and the Christian cross for the T. The other side of the trunk had a sticker with Trump's Make America Great Again slogan.

Then there are cars whose decorations fit the stereotypes. Like the guy that always wears black; has a beard, long hair, and multiple piercings; and drives a car with plates that read "MTL-HED." In my apartment's parking lot, I often see a dented black sports coupe with the phrase "Send nudes" in white stenciled letters across his back window. Yes, I assumed "his" because I don't know a woman alive who would do that to her car. This coupe was around for months before I ever saw the driver, and when I finally watched him climb out of the driver's seat for the first time, I couldn't help but notice how he looked just as I imagined.

Finally, you have those drivers who portray personalities contrary to the themes promoted in their license plates or bumper stickers. How many times have you been flipped off by a driver who has a Jesus fish on their back bumper? Or observed aggressive driving from someone whose vehicle is adorned with stickers promoting peace and love? These are the persons who face the vanity dilemma. They elected to advertise an unsustainable cheeriness then fail to live up to their own self-imposed definition.

I encountered one of these motorists this morning. She merged into the lane behind me and she was clearly displeased with my adherence to the speed limit. When I looked in the rear view mirror, I observed angry eyebrows, lips twisted by a scowl, and a face quickly turning a darker shade of red. When she finally had the opportunity to pass me, she punched the gas and flew by me at a rate fast enough to earn a speeding ticket had their been a police officer present. As she sped by, her face was the textbook image of rage. After she passed, I read her vanity plate. It said "HAPPY3X."

My reaction was laughter. What else could I do? Here was a lady who wants you to know one thing about her. She's happy. Happy happy happy. Feeling snappy. Life is rosy, comfy cozy. Everything is sunshine and rainbows. She claimed to be jubilant, but clearly she was the opposite. Not singularly happy, let alone three times the joyous emotion.

Now, I'll give her some grace. Everyone is allowed to have a bad day, even the most cheerful among us. It's understandable to be grumpy at 7am. And I don't know the circumstances of her morning. She could have been late for work and I was an obstacle delaying her arrival. She could be a habitual lead-foot and I was nothing more than a pest cramping her style. Maybe she was driving her husband's vehicle and he is the perennially happy half of their relationship.

Yet she is a cautionary tale. When you slap a bumper sticker onto your tailgate or walk into the DVM to order a vanity plate, give it some careful consideration before you advertise yourself to the world. As soon as your message of choice is affixed to the back of your car, you face a dilemma. You must live up to the words you selected. Because people like me will laugh at you when you don't.

The Left and Leaving

Over the last week, I've listened to Counting Crows more than is probably healthy, and definitely more than anyone has done since 1999. Once in a while, I experience a pervasive mood which can only be sated by Adam Duritz's rambling vocals, his band's jangly folk rock, and nostalgia of a better era of pop music.

In the summer of 1998, Counting Crows released a double live album called Across a Wire. The first set was recorded during their Storytellers performance for VH1. It was mostly stripped down acoustic versions of songs from their first two records, a few with alternate lyrics only recorded at that show. I bought Across a Wire when it first came out; the following winter, I listened to the Storytellers half more than any other album. There was a morose quality to it that seemed to match the way I felt during that season of my life.

This week, I returned to the songs from the Storytellers show. Call it musical therapy. Not only Across a Wire, I've been playing other tracks from Counting Crows career. Other than podcasts, I haven't listened to much else.

As I’ve listened, I have discovered a theme I had not noticed before. Many of Counting Crows’ songs speak from the perspective of someone who has been left or is leaving. Thematically, that would explain why I was drawn to Across a Wire in the winter of 98/99. We had moved from Marysville to Everett. I had changed jobs from a record store to a manufacturing company. I was between girlfriends. It was the last winter that I would spend in the Seattle area before moving to Boise.

Thanks to that winter, I now have a sentimental attachment to the album that demands occasional replay. Especially when I've been left. Or am leaving one thing for another. Counting Crows is the soundtrack for the abandoned or the abandoning. The proof is in their lyrics.


For those who have been left.

From Round Here:
"Round here, she's slipping through my hands"
"She looks up at the building and says she's thinking of jumping, she says she's tired of life, she must be tired of something" (the Storytellers version says "Well, everybody is tired of something")

From Anna Begins:
"It's chasing me away, she disappears, and oh, Lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing"

From Ghost Train:
"She buys a ticket 'cause it's cold were she comes from, she climbs aboard because she's scared of getting older in the snow"

From Catapult:
"All of a sudden she disappears, just yesterday she was here"
"Someone should be with me here 'cause I don't want to be alone"

From Angels of the Silences:
"Well I guess you left me with some feathers in my hand, did it make it any easier to leave me where I stand"
"Why'd you leave me 'til I'm only good for waiting for you"

From Good Night, Elisabeth:
"I woke up in pieces and Elisabeth had disappeared again"

From Mercury:
"She is a victim of her own responses, shackled to a heart that wants to settle and then runs away"
"She is leaving on a walkaway, she is leaving me in disarray, in the absence of a place to be she stands there looking back at me, hesitates, and then turns away"

From Long December:
"I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leaving"

From All My Friends:
"All my friends and lovers will leave me behind"


For those who are leaving.

From Round Here:
"Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white"
(Storytellers version) "Would you catch me if I was falling? Would you kiss me if I was leaving? Would you hold me 'cause I'm lonely without you?"

From Rain King:
"I've been here before and I deserve a little more"

From Raining in Baltimore:
"There's things I remember and things I forget, I miss you, I guess I should, three thousand five hundred miles away."

From Catapult:
"I wanna be scattered from here in this catapult"

From Angels of the Silences:
"I'm gone, I'm gone, I'll leave today I'm gone."

From Daylight Fading:
"It's getting cold in California, I guess I'll be leaving soon"
"When we see the early signs of daylight fading we leave just before it's gone"
"I want to say goodbye to you, goodbye to all my friends, goodbye to everyone I know"

From I'm Not Sleeping:
"I've got news for everyone 'cause I'm going out that door"

From Have You Seen Me Lately:
"Get away from me, this isn't gonna be easy, but I don't need you"
"I don't need anyone and these days I feel like I'm fading away"
"I thought that someone would notice, I thought somebody would say something if I was missing"

From Walkaways:
Just the same old walkaways, someday I'm going to stay but not today"

From Hanginaround:
"You know I gotta get out but I'm stuck so tight, weighed by the chains that keep me hanging around"
"I've been bumming around this old town for way too long"

From Speedway:
"Thinking about taking some time, thinking about leaving soon"
"I'm thinking about leaving tomorrow, I'm thinking about being on my own"


There's the theme. Leaving and being left. Perhaps that's why Counting Crows resonates with me. A divorcee and single dad with a melancholy disposition about to leave one ministry for another. Things change. Seasons come and go. When it happens, it's nice to have some music to remind you you're not alone.

How do you say sorry?

A friend is mourning the loss of a loved one. We say we're sorry. Your absent minded offspring misplaced their homework. We say we're sorry. A neighbor banged their shin on a park bench. We say we're sorry. A colleague's kid just lost the little league championship game. We say we're sorry. Someone is offended by something we said. We say we're sorry. We bump into a stranger at the grocery store. We say we're sorry. We are an apologetic society. We will even say we're sorry for saying sorry too much. But what does it mean? How many times have you said you were sorry and someone replied that it was unnecessary to apologize because you didn't do anything wrong?

Let's be clear, despite the vast number of synonyms in the English language - a multitude of different words with similar definitions, our American vocabulary is often woefully lacking. Scholars at Oxford maintain a linguistic database of every English word used in books, magazines, and other publications. Their database is estimated to contain over two million unique words. We possess such a prodigious lexicon, yet we so often struggle to communicate our basic desires and emotions. We speak from the diversity of a language that is frequently inadequate.

There is an abundance of fun foreign words with no direct English translation. For example, the Czech word "vybafnout" describes the act of younger siblings annoying an older brother - not an older sister, this term is specific to older brothers. Or the Swedish word "lagom," which literally means moderate, but the Swedes use it to describe a perfect quantity that isn't too much or too little. In Japan, there is a word 恋の予感 (pronounced koi-no-yokan) which describes a feeling more intense than infatuation, an inescapable sense that you are going to fall in love with a person you just met. In Spanish, pena ajena is what you would feel if you are embarrassed on behalf of someone else.

Then there is one of my favorite pastimes: shadenfreude. It is a German word that has no English translation but is a sensation we have all felt. Schadenfreude is the enjoyment you receive from observing the misfortune of others, especially when their folly is self-inflicted.

English also fails because we have a habit of overusing words to the point where they lose their meaning. Literally. Huge. Nice. Passion. Hater. OK. Hustle. There are other words with so many different meanings, making it difficult to convey your intent. Love for example. I love my kids, I love encouraging my friends, I love foggy mornings, I love scary movies, and I love pizza. One word, multiple meanings, easily confused without context.

Sorry is another word without a precise definition. It has multiple meanings and suffers from frequent usage. We say sorry like a reflex, latent instincts driving our need for acceptance. You're late. "Sorry." My dog is sick. "Sorry." I didn't get much sleep last night. "Sorry." You were speeding, following too closely, ran a stop sign, almost hit a Chevy, sped some more, failed to yield at a crosswalk, changed lanes without signalling while running a red light and speeding. "Sorry."

What does it mean to be sorry? Is it too late now to say sorry? How do you legitimately mean what you say? How do you apologize without being vague?

Let's return to the German language. The Germans have two methods of apologizing. "Es tut mir Leid," or "Entschuldigen bitte."

Es tut mir Leid is literally translated to mean "It does me suffering," or "It pains me so." If you look up "Es tut mir Leid" on Google Translate, it will give you "I'm sorry" as the English equivalent.

Entschuldigen is the verb to apologize. Bitte means please. Combine the two words and Google Translate returns "Please excuse me" as the result. Yet, entschuldigen is as much an apology as es tut mir Leid.

So what is the difference? One is an apology of empathy, the other is an apology of error. One says I'm sorry because I am grieved, the other says I'm sorry because I did something wrong. One says I feel your pain, the other says I caused your pain.

Perhaps, we could all benefit from learning a foreign language. With the benefit of the lexicon of other cultures, we could better express ourselves when our native tongue falls short.

Following Zu

A week ago, we celebrated your tenth birthday. You picked out a cake mix and we spent the afternoon baking it. There were presents. We watched a movie. I enjoyed celebrating the decade I have spent with you in my life.

You're a year older, chronologically speaking, but not much has changed. You are still the same bold and sweet young woman you were a few weeks ago. You are still as boisterous and compassionate as you were a year ago. You're a few inches taller but you are still you.

Of all the days between your ninth birthday and your tenth, there is one moment that stands out more than others.

Last summer, you and I had an afternoon to ourselves. Your brothers were occupied and we had a few hours before we needed to pick them up. I gave you the choice of how to spend our time and you asked to go to the beach. We didn't have any towels and you weren't wearing a swim suit, but you didn't care. All that mattered was how much you crave sunshine and water; both were available.

We were listening to The Beatles as we drove. I used to sing 'Hey Jude' to you as a lullaby when you were a baby and I always look for opportunities to keep you familiar with their music. We pulled up to the parking lot with the windows down and the song 'Got to Get You Into My Life' playing.

I exited the car and opened your door. As you stepped out, you looked up at me with those deep sparking chocolate colored eyes and asked "Daddy, did I tell you I need you every single day of my life?" Quoting the words of the song we just heard.

"No," I smiled and knelt down to your level. "But you did now."

Your question was a reflection of who you really are. You are the most observant girl I've ever met. You pay attention to everything even when it appears like you are focused on something else. Anyone who asks "How could she possibly know?" doesn't understand you. Your personality was full on display as a lover of music and as a daughter who adores her dad. You demonstrated that tightrope you walk balancing between bravery and vulnerability.

Then we walked, crossed the street, and followed the road to the beach. Your excitement carried you with a quickness uniquely reserved for youth. Nothing was going to stand in between you and the lake. Yet along the way, you still looked back to make sure I was there. I was and seeing me gave you the confidence to speed up your pace a little faster.

I was right there behind you. And I always have been. When you swing on the monkey bars or when you fall and scrape your knee. When you walk to class on your first day or school or get frightened by thunder on a stormy night. I'm right there behind you. Over the next few years, you will be facing a lot of new and potentially scary moments. For all those firsts, I hope to remain right there behind you.

When you attend your first day of middle school, go out on your first date, are crushed by your first broken heart, get your driver's license, and do all of those things kids do in their second decade of life, this moment on the way to the beach is the one I will always remember. You told me you needed me, then looked back to make sure I was still there.

I was. And I still am.

Conversations with the kids

Every day, after I pick the kids up from school, JJ asks the same question: "Are we going anywhere before we go home." Today, my answer was yes. I explained we needed to go to the grocery store to get more grapes and strawberries because within the last 24 hours, Zu ate all of the grapes and strawberries I had in stock.

As we turned left to go to Winco instead of right toward the apartment, Christian got confused and asked "Why aren't we going home?" This is a common occurrence. He doesn't pay attention to the conversation so he asks questions that have already been answered. To encourage him to engage more, I have stopped answering these redundant questions. Either he can keep up or he can be clueless. His choice.

Christian had another inquiry as we parked the car. It was also one that had been answered in the earlier conversation. "What are we getting?"

So I answered, "Iocane powder."
"Huh?"
"Iocane powder."
"What's that for?"
"Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!"
"Ohhhh," Christian finally caught on. "It's a geeky reference."

We walked in silence a few steps. But then Christian revealed that he didn't quite get it.

"Is that a Doctor Who quote?" he asked.
Clearly I have failed as a parent. "Inconceivable." I said.
"Is that from Doctor Who?"
"Inconceivable."

He and I did this a few more times. Each time, I kept using that word at greater volume. And yes, it does mean what I think it means.

Finally, Zu interrupted, "No, Christian, it's not from Doctor Who. It's from The Princess Bride."

I gave her a high five. She deserved it.
"Thank you, my daughter, at least one of my kids knew of which I spoke."
"Duh, it's only my favorite movie ever."

If I ruled the Schools

The schools I attended growing up were not bad schools, but they were far from perfect. The schools my kids attend now are good, but are also in need of improvement. Nationwide, not all kids are as lucky. America’s education system is broken. How do we fix it? I don’t think anyone has the correct answer, but in an ideal world, here’s what I would do.

1. Make early education opportunities available to everyone and increase the accessibility for programs like Head Start in low income neighborhoods. Research nearly unanimously agree that investing heavily in the early years of education is a public benefit, even if those rewards are not seen for twenty years after the service is provided.
2. Instead of focusing on what traditionalists call the three R’s (“readin’ ritin’ & rithmetic”) emphasize what I call the three A’s: arts, athletics, and academics. For youngest groups, each of these areas should be given equal time in the daily curriculum. As kids age, more time should be allocated for academic study, yet some form of artistic and physical education should remain a part of every student’s daily routine. Incorporating music, theater, and art in classrooms help children with critical thinking and creative problem solving skills, increase student’s ability to participate in self-directed learning, and improves attendance. Physical education encourages kids to live healthier lifestyles and would fight our nation’s obesity epidemic; PE also increases a pupil’s learning capacity, attention span, and ability to concentrate. Participation in arts and athletics positively impacts traditional academic courses.
3. We cannot legislate parental participation but we should encourage and reward it. Students excel when their parents are actively involved. However, the government cannot (and should not) control how or what parents teach in their home, so schools must be prepared to fill the gap and support kids that are not getting parental support at home.
4. Encourage teachers and reward them if they can successfully incorporate hands on experience or technology into their lessons. Schools would save a lot of money on textbooks if text books can be digitally presented or other alternatives can be used.
5. Set national standards and minimum competencies but give states and individual school districts the autonomy of how to maintain those standards. What works in rural communities will not work in urban neighborhoods and each school should be free to do what works best for their students.
6. Students should be scored in both growth and proficiency. Students should not be able to move up a grade or continue to the next level until they meet the required competency. However, teachers should not be penalized for students who fail to meet the minimum competency if they can demonstrate student growth. The goal should be to help the student improve, not to help the student pass a test.
7. All schools, whether private or public, should adhere to Individuals With Disabilities Education Act and Title IX of the Education Amendments Act of 1972 to qualify for any government funding.
8. Enhance funding for rural schools and schools in depressed urban communities. Provide better incentives for teachers to work in these schools. We need to recognize kids in these locations deserve equal access to kids in wealthier neighborhoods.
9. Success for all schools would be measured from multiple sources to compensate from the shortcomings of using standardized test scores alone. Teachers and classes should be rated by students like the K1 assessment in the Kirkpatrick Model. Standardized tests or other standard grading should be used to measure both student proficiency and growth. Teachers should be reviewed by both their peers and administration so teachers can share best practices and leadership can hold educators accountable for meeting individual goals and district standards.

Would schools under my command be perfect? Probably not. But I hope it would be better than what we have now.

Maybe Both

Passion Week’s scriptures begin and end with a crowd. The first was the crowd laying palm branches on the streets of Jerusalem, the last gathered to watch an execution. The mood of the crowds shifted from celebratory at the beginning of the week to an angry mob a few days later. The first crowd gathered to honor Jesus and the next one gathered to condemn him.

At the time, Jerusalem was filled with people. Jewish people from all across Judea gathered in the city to celebrate Passover. As Jews, Jesus and his disciples also entered to observe the holiday. According to scripture, Jesus rode into town on a young donkey and the crowd covered the road ahead of him with their clothes and palm branches. They heralded his entry with a Psalm: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” They shouted a Hebrew term, Hosanna, which is a word meaning save, help, or rescue. It’s as if they are calling out to Jesus, save us.

A few days later, Jesus was arrested and put on trial. He was brought before the prefect, Governor Pontius Pilate. Pilate could not find any reason for guilt. His wife urged him to have nothing to do with the man. He even argued on behalf of the prisoner, urging for his release and how Jesus did not deserve death. But another crowd testified in opposition. They called for blood with more shouts: “crucify Him!” Pilate could not reason with the crowd. He washed his hands clean and caved to their demands.

As we look internally during the Easter season, we have to ask ourselves which crowd we would have joined. Had I lived in ancient Judea, would have been one of the citizens praising and blessing Jesus? Or would I have been a rioter throwing around false accusations and insisting upon his crucifixion?

If I’m honest?

Maybe both.

Because there are mornings I wake up and thank God for the breath that fills my lungs. And sometimes I’m on the side of the street in the middle of the night, yelling at God, like Bruce Almighty, “Smite me O Smiter.” With the same lips I sing praises and mutter curses. I am quick to say both “glory” and “dammit.” I credit God for the good things in my life and blame God for the trials. So which statement would I shout? “Hosanna” or “Kill him?” Would I join the party crowd or the protesting mob? Maybe both.

Scripturally, many of the people that gathered on what we now call Palm Sunday were likely a part of the crowd that gathered to observe Jesus’ trial. One day, they sang “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” Then a few days later they chanted “Crucify him.” When Jesus came to Jerusalem, everyone was there for Passover. The holiday is an eight day celebration, so by the time Jesus faced Pilate, no one had gone home yet. They were still in town for the same holiday. This is one of the biggest parties in Jewish tradition. It is only reasonable to assume many people witnessed both the triumphal entry and the sentence that condemned Jesus.

They were the same people. The same crowd. They both loved and hated Jesus. They asked for his help and demanded his death. They, like me, didn’t choose one or the other; they were caught up in the moment. When asked, what shall it be: a savior or a scapegoat? This crowd chose both.

About that snow

My daughter and I had very different reactions to the snow this morning.

The School Experience

My experiences in primary and secondary education were not the most enjoyable. Nor would I describe them as productive. It wasn’t completely bad, but all that was good is dwarfed by the negative aspects my time in American public schools.

My ability to learn (or at least learn effectively) was hindered by two forces. The first was the nature of how schools were structured. When I was younger, no one knew what to do with kids like me. I had that weird combination of a learning disability and above average intelligence. The extent of my capabilities was never expressed through grades or daily homework assignments. Curriculum was not formatted in a way that catered to my learning style. Teachers and administrators expected me to conform to meet their needs, rather than becoming creative to meet my needs.

The second force that made my education less than stellar was beyond the control of the schools. I had the intellectual capabilities to do what needed to be done. Yet socially, culturally, and economically speaking, I was disadvantaged – especially when compared to other students in my district. That left me with fewer opportunities due to financial restrictions or social ineptitude. It is hard to focus on the role of a learner when you’re constantly bullied or do not have the funds to attend extracurricular functions with the rest of you class.

After high school, and throughout my adult life, I have had to pursue my own learning to make up for what I missed through formal education. Even in college classes, I have thrived most in environments that were the least structured.

A lot has changed in the last twenty to thirty years. If educators knew then what we know now, I think my experiences could have been more successful and rewarding. Unfortunately, I look at the schools my kids attend now and not much has changed. The ridged application of lecture and homework is still designed to teach to the test. Budgets continue to shrink. And schools progressively see reduced value in arts and athletics.

Even with my disappointments, I see hope. Schools have better supports to help disadvantaged kids and students with disabilities. Classrooms are beginning to incorporate technology in daily lessons. And there are a variety of options from magnet schools to online education to meet a wider variety of student needs and interests. The more schools begin to shift their priorities to be student-centric and less focused on standardized test results, the better our schools will be suited to meet the needs of all students.

The Good Teachers

We all remember the horrible teachers. The ones who made us dread attending classes or soured our tastes for entire subjects. These figures remain in our memories for all the wrong reasons. But what about the good teachers? Or the great ones? Don’t we all have a few teachers we want to memorialize like Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poets Society?

When I look back at my formative years, there are a handful of teachers I consider good, perhaps even great. When I close my eyes and remember those educators who made me want to learn, these are the people I see.

Mrs. Funston: first grade teacher
Mrs. Wilson: Enhanced Learning teacher
Don: Sunday school teacher, wilderness guide, mentor, and hiking companion
Mr. VanDaveer: junior high PE teacher and wrestling coach
Mr. Taylor: art teacher
K: high school US history teacher and theater director
Herr Hansen: high school German teacher

From the youngest of my elementary days, to my senior year of high school. These teachers taught a wide range of topics and possessed vastly different personalities. Yet there are a few traits all seven of them had in common.

1. They believed in me. More than just me, they believed in all their students. They pushed us to achieve greatness because they believed we were capable of greatness. Because they saw the best in us, we wanted to be better.

2. They knew more than what they were teaching. They also knew how and why. When they presented a lesson, they included a motivation and a reason why we needed to know what they were teaching. They taught in ways that were engaging, entertaining, memorable, and relevant.

3. They taught more than school lessons, they also taught life lessons. When they were teaching, their goal was to do more than help us pass a test or get good grades. They were teaching us to live beyond the classroom.

4. They stepped away from the front of the classroom and got down to our level. They interacted with us. They sat in desks next to us. They gave us the idea that we could do what they do.

I would hope my peers see these teachers with the same reverence. When I was a student in their classes, previous students would often return to visit and thank them. When I got older, I was one of those returning students. And twenty years later, in one of my alumni groups, I still see praise of a couple of these teachers. These were the good ones.

A Peculiar Learner

In 1990, I officially became a peculiar child. To know me now, that shouldn’t be much of a surprise. But back then, teachers didn’t know what to do with me.

A few years earlier, my parents and the school district put me through a series of tests; the result demonstrated that I was exceedingly smart. My scores revealed I had an IQ higher than most kids my age. Starting in the third grade, I was enrolled in a class called Enhanced Learning. One day per week, students who (like me) tested with exceptional IQs met for our own class separate from our regular courses to do things that smart kids do. It was like AP classes for elementary aged kids.

Fifth grade started in the fall of 1989. I was still in Enhanced Learning (which was the highlight of my week), but I was struggling to keep up with my normal class curriculum. By the end of the year, my folks took me to see a psychiatrist who gifted me an ADD diagnosis and told me I had a learning disability that was a cousin to dyslexia. After the new year, the school began adjusting my schedule to provide me additional support.

These changes put the school in a predicament, which is why I said I was officially a peculiar child. The only support the district had at the time was special education. I was the first student in the Marysville school district to be simultaneously enrolled in advanced and remedial classes. For an hour a day, I sat in the library with a few kids who had physical disabilities that prevented them from functioning in the standard classroom environment. The administration assumed I needed help learning science and mathematics and special education was their solution. But learning wasn’t my problem; I knew the material. My biggest issue was getting the work done. I was far more intelligent than they understood. They made a false equivalence between achievement and intelligence. If I was so smart, they assumed my grades should be better.

My learning disability caused me to write slower than most kids. My brain also functioned at a faster pace than the teacher could teach, so I grew bored and distracted. Neither of those issues were addressed through special education nor did it inhibit my ability to comprehend the lessons I was supposed to learn. My biggest challenge was that I didn’t do the work. Either I didn’t have enough time or attention. I literally couldn’t keep up.

These days, I consider myself a constant learner. Maybe it’s a rebellious act against those teachers who never thought it could be done, my way of proving them wrong. I've become an autodidact. I study even when it’s not required because I have a strong desire to learn and know more. As an adult, I still want to be the smartest kid in the room.

The Gorsuch Test

Every time I see the name of Judge Neil Gorsuch in a headline, my mind re-imagines the news story to be talking about Rorschach tests. It's an apt metaphor. A psychologist could slide a photo of Gorsuch in front of you and find your response just as informative as how you perceive Rorschach's ink blots and smudges. Two people can view the same image; one is inspired and the other discouraged. It depends on your personality and emotional state.

found on Pinterest

Before we talk about the current Supreme Court nominee, we need to take a trip back in time. So get in your DeLorean, your TARDIS, your phonebooth, your WABAC Machine, or any other time travelling vehicle. Our destination is the year 2000.

courtesy Team Coco

The vice president (a Democrat) was facing off in the presidential campaign against a governor from Texas. This Texan, Republican George W Bush, wanted to re-brand his party as compassionate conservatives. Like most Republicans - especially those from the Bible Belt, Bush Jr. described himself as ardently pro-life. As a presidential candidate, he stated, "I believe every life is valuable, even when it is unwanted, even when it is physically imperfect. I believe our society has a responsibility to defend the vulnerable and the weak. And I believe our nation should set a goal: that unborn children should be welcomed in life and protected in law." Bush wanted to create what he called a "culture of life" and frequently talked about reducing the number of abortions performed in America. During a debate against Al Gore, Bush said, "Surely this nation can come together to promote the value of life." Bush won largely due to the Evangelical vote who supported his pro-life stance. Many of those Christian Right voters believed George W Bush would be the one who would overturn Roe vs. Wade.

Jump back into your time machines and travel to the next presidential election. Abortions were still legal and Roe vs. Wade was still law. Yet President Bush maintained his pro-life views. During his acceptance speech at the GOP convention, he said, "a caring society will value its weakest members. We must make a place for the unborn child." And during his 2005 State of the Union address, Bush repeatedly mentioned building a culture of life.

Another trip through the space time continuum brings us four years closer to the present. Bush Jr was coming to the end of his presidency. Abortion remained legal and religious conservatives did not get their wish to see Roe vs Wade undone. Many right-wing advocacy groups criticized Bush's moderate approach to abortion. Prolife Profiles hold President Bush accountable for the deaths of over three million children. They described his mother, wife, and two daughters as openly pro-abortion. American Right to Life said, "far from being a pro-life hero, former president Bush is typical of the modern Republican hypocrisy on child killing and guilty of the mass murder of millions of innocent children."

The Democrat candidate that year was a young senator from Illinois named Barack Obama. He supported women's right to choose and the Christian Right campaigned hard against him due to his stance on abortion. Many Christians referred to Obama as a gleeful baby-killer as if he was excited to see women abort their babies. His actual beliefs were far from how conservatives thought of him. He didn't like abortion. His goal was to reduce how frequently they were provided in America while maintaining the right for women to choose to terminate their pregnancies. I even wrote a post about it and as a result was told that I should be ashamed of myself. A family friend said I was everything that was wrong with America and I was going to Hell.

A funny thing happened in 2008. The Christian Right lost. The little known liberal and rookie politician beat out the well known and established candidate. Obama became the president and right wingers everywhere predicted doom. Then another funny thing happened. What Obama hoped to see in the issue of abortion actually came to pass. During his presidency, less abortions were provided. According to the CDC, in the ten years spanning from the start of Bush Jr's second term through Obama's sixth year in office, the number of abortions dropped by 20%, the rate was reduced by 21%, and the ratio experienced a 17% loss.

Now let's return to the present time. Please leave all historical figures and companions in their own timelines and avoid any grandfather paradoxes.

Party on, dudes!

I don't know many people who like Trump. Even in Idaho (the reddest of red states) most people I encounter are disgusted by our President. Yet many of those same people voted for him. Some were straight party voters who refuse to elect a Democrat; these people would probably vote for Satan as long as there was the magical letter R next to his name on the ballot. Others voted for him because they couldn't stand the thought of another President Clinton. And there were those who voted for Trump because of one singular issue: his promise to nominate a pro-life judge to the Supreme Court and finally overturn Roe vs Wade. I even heard one local resident say, "I can't stand his policies, and I think he's a racist, but at least he's pro-life." Even that claim is sketchy. Trump's spoken stance on abortion changes as frequently as the seasons.

I wish to address this last group of people, the single issue voters. Are you happy now? Did you get what you wanted? This week, we've been watching the confirmation hearings for Judge Gorsuch. When asked if he and Trump had any discussion about Roe vs Wade, Gorsuch denied giving any indication that he would overturn the landmark court ruling. He adamantly stated, "That's not what judges do." Gorsuch admitted that Roe vs Wade has been "reaffirmed many times" and is a case with important precedence. If he is confirmed, he is the kind of judge that will continue to uphold, not reject Roe vs Wade. So dear Trump voters, those of you who only voted for him so you could get the judge who would outlaw abortion, it looks like Trump has broken his promise. If Gorsuch is your Rorschach test, do you like what you see? Do you have regrets?

Are We Learning?

I find it interesting that the classroom environments my kids experience has not changed much since I was their age. There have been some changes over the past 30 years as technology has been integrated into the curriculum and there seems to be less time and funding for arts and athletics. Yet the structure of how information is delivered, expected to be retained, and assessed is nearly identical to what I experienced thirty years ago.

Classrooms are still commonly set up with desks in rows. Instruction is still didactic in nature. Students are still expected to regurgitate facts and figures for the sake of a standardized test. And test scores are frequently more valued than actual learning.

It is discouraging to see how little education has changed while the rest of the world is radically different. There are glimmers of hope as school choices increase. Magnet, charter, alternative, and online schools give parents more options to find methods that work best for their kids. Yet even with a wider variety of places where students can be educated, we still need to recognize room for improvement in traditional schools.

Are our kids learning? And more than that, are we learning? Have we learned from past mistakes? Are we learning from education models that are working in other nations? Are we learning from experimental successes? What is the future of education?

I can’t answer all those questions but my experiences have led me to a few conclusions. Our schools need to recognize that not all students learn with the same method and find ways to connect with kids with more than one style of learning. This means greater inclusion of group discussions and collaboration. We need to understand that there are factors beyond a student’s desire to learn that affect their ability to learn and we might need to address their needs in ways that validate their family, health, and economic circumstances.

If we can abandon outdated teaching methods and focus on giving kids the tools they need to learn in today’s culture, then the future of education looks bright.

Evolution of a Writer

Before I was a blogger, I was a poet. Actually, I was a songwriter first. Well, that still isn’t accurate. Before I was anything, I avoided writing everything.

In my earliest memories, I did as little writing as possible. In preschool, when the teachers were teaching us to write our own names, I shortened Nicholas to Nic because I didn’t want to take the time to write my whole name. In elementary school, homework was often incomplete if it was done at all. My handwriting was sloppy. Other kids could write a full page in the time it took me to scribble one full paragraph; I was slow so I figured it wasn’t my thing.

There had to be something wrong with me. My grades were suffering because of it. I was smart (I tested into the highest tier of IQ for my age group) yet I was rarely able to focus in class and barely survived with grades somewhere between needs improvement and mediocre.

One summer, my parents tried to fix it. School was out and they were determined to turn me into a better student by the following September. On a warm weekend, we went over to some friends of my parents for a barbecue. I liked going there because their boys were close to my age and they had a ColecoVision with several games including my favorites: BurgerTime and Pitfall. During this visit, my parents set a restriction: before I could play video games I had to copy three pages word-for-word from a book called Medical Mysteries. It was a tortuous task and unforgettable experience. I complained the whole time and when I was done my hands hurt so much that I didn’t feel like playing any games. My parent’s efforts failed; I still hated to write and school continued to be a struggle.

In seventh grade, my friend Matt introduced me to grunge. Our math teacher allowed us to pick out the music to play while we completed our worksheets. Matt had a copy of the Sap EP that Alice in Chains had released earlier that month. Soon, like most other junior high aged kids in the Seattle suburbs, I thought grunge was the coolest thing in the world. A year later, Matt told me he was in a band. I asked him who wrote their songs and he said, “We do, it’s easy – think of a word and write about it.” As our eighth grade year was coming to an end, he told me that if I wrote a song for his band, they might use it.

Over the summer, I penned my first song. It was called Reach. I wrote it on the blank side of an offering envelope during a Sunday night church service while I probably should have been listening to the pastor. Of course, it wasn’t a complete song – just words. I could hear the melody in my head but since I couldn’t play any instruments, the music portion of the song was never created. When we returned to school to start ninth grade, Matt was still in a band but I never gave him the lyrics to Reach. I was insecure and filled with the self-loathing teenaged angst my generation perfected in the 90s. I was sure my work wasn’t good enough.

I kept writing though, suddenly finding enjoyment in placing words on paper. For a while, I stuck with the basic verse chorus verse song structure, fully intending to find a guitarist who could help add music to match what I imagined when I created the lyrics. Eventually though, the song craft morphed into poetry and prose. It wasn’t good poetry by any measure. I was a nerdy high school kids so there were limits to my talents. But it sustained me through the latter half of my teen years as I filled up notebook after notebook with my own creative work.

The poetic writing continued into my early 20s. Then I met a girl and I really liked her. Unfortunately, my creative spark vanished. I would try and write a poem but instead stare at a blank page wondering if I had run out of words. I couldn’t write a love song if my life depended on it. Apparently, heartbreak, anger, and frustration were better motivators than feelings of infatuation and romance. With the rhythms and rhymes gone from my imagination, my writings morphed again. I started emailing letters – essays to my dad. I wrote about people who were making waves in pop culture. I argued that if Christians really believed what the bible says, we should pray for these people instead of criticizing them.

That girl and I got married. We packed up everything we owned and moved to South Dakota. During the two-day drive from Coeur d’Alene to Sioux Falls, I was either driving or reading. My new father-in-law wrote fan-fiction and he had a short story he was going to submit into a contest. Even though his story was set in a universe fandom that I didn’t follow, I still read it. I thought it was good; the story was engaging and entertaining. Then somewhere between Sturgis and Wall, an inescapable thought hit me: I could totally do this. Not necessarily authoring fan-fiction but writing stories. I’ve always been a good story teller, all I had to do was commit it to ink and paper.

I tried. I thought I could write the next great novel. Unfortunately, I had a bad case of ‘Ooooh, Shiny.’ Every time I had an idea for a book, I composed a chapter or three then got distracted by other ideas. Even if I plotted out the entire story line ahead of time, I couldn’t create more than a few chapters before giving up. Life got complicated. We had a kid, and my wages were our only income so writing took a back seat for a while.

Then came this blog. I’ve already described how this thing I do evolved from a whim because a coworker was doing it to being The Faithful Geek. Now I’m making efforts to make this worth something and turn it into tangible income. (Speaking of which, help a starving artist and click on some ads.) I’m hustling to complete my work-in-progress so I can turn it into a marketable manuscript. I am a writer – four words my parents would have never imagined me saying that summer they tried to fix my school habits 30 years ago. It is amazing how this activity I once loathed has become my passion.

I’ve been thinking about my old poetry a lot lately. Thinking about digging it up, polishing it off, and rewriting some of it. Maybe publishing some here. This afternoon, I realized something. It’s only been the last few years I’ve considered myself a writer but I’ve been one for a lot longer. It’s been nearly 23 years since I wrote my first song. Now, blogging has brought me through adopting kids, corporate restructuring, divorce, and returning to college. I might not have much to offer, but I can write. I don’t know what the future holds for my craft, but I do know writing is the thing I can’t not do.