We Have This Hope

Coincidences.  I don't believe in them.  Too many times when I'm on the verge of saying "What a coincidence!" I look closer and realize it's no such thing.  Take this morning, for example.  A few minutes ago I was reading a friend's blog post about "Hope."  It was simple, yet profound.  An honest conversation about the difference between hoping and wishing and how they are not the same thing.  I was moved by the reminder that hope is grounded in something far deeper than a simple desire.  It is based on knowledge, although that knowledge might be hidden or even buried

at times.

As I was thinking about this, the CD that had been playing in the background changed to the next hymn:  "We Have This Hope" based on Titus 2:13 (We should live like that while we wait for our great hope and the coming of the glory of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ).  Electrified, as the words simultaneously burst into my consciousness with the words already on my mind, I paid attention to the words as never before:

We have this hope that burns within our hearts,

Hope in the coming of the Lord.

We have this faith that Christ alone imparts,

Faith in the promise of His word.

We believe the time is here

When the nations far and near

Shall awaken, shout and sing

Hallelujah, Christ is King!

We have this hope that burns within our hearts,

Hope in the coming of the Lord.

We are united in Jesus Christ our Lord.
We are united in His love.
Love for the waiting people of the world,
People who need our Savior’s love.
Soon the heav’ns will open wide,
Christ will come to claim His bride,
All the universe will sing
Hallelujah! Christ is King!
We have this hope, this faith, and God’s great love,
We are united in Christ.

Composed for the 1962 General Conference session by legendary Christian composer and musician Wayne Hooper, I first heard this beautiful reminder two years later at a Youth Congress in Atlantic City.  I will never forget it.  Not even 10 years old yet, and I understood clearly the difference Hope can make.  Looking back today, I can see how everything in my life revolves around this hope, this secure knowledge that Christ alone imparts when you embrace Him whole-heartedly.  I don't always remember it, unfortunately, but that's what reminders are for.  Reminders like Christy's blogpost this morning, or hearing that beloved hymn, or going back in memory to the time I first knew what hope was all about.

This morning, there are many things I am hopeful about--from the insignificant to the consequential, and everything in between.  Most importantly, hope in the soon-coming of the Lord.

[Photos from the sunset at my parents' in Maine on Wednesday night.]

In Spite of Everything

In spite of everything, God
is still in charge.
I mean--He's there.
He sees all, knows all.
He's engaged in a great civil war
testing whether mercy
trumps justice.

In spite of everything, I
don't blame Him.
Not for wars, pestilence,
hate, loss, pain.
Nor all the things that bring down
happiness.
And life.

In spite of everything, He
loves me.
This . . . I know.
I've seen it.
Heard it.
Felt it
deep in the marrow
of my bones.

In spite of everything, Love
will triumph over evil, mercy
will triumph over justice.
The lame will walk,
The blind will see.
And we.
Shall.
All.
Be.
Changed.
In spite of everything.

I wrote this a few days ago (June 25th) during an early morning QuickWrite session with Linda Rief, the writing mentor at this year's Boothbay Literacy Retreat in Boothbay Harbor, Maine.  I had the privilege of attending this retreat for the first time and I am already needing to go back.  Amazing.  That's the word that kept coming to my lips.  The word I kept rejecting as not adequate, not enough.  What else is there, though?  What word can you use to describe 5 days of "sitting among greatness," as one participant tweeted?

During these five days, we were quite literally listening to legends, writing beside game-changers, soaking up energy from cutting edge learners, thinkers, teachers, writers.  Maybe the word I should use is lucky.  I was so lucky to be there.  Maybe the word I should use is inspired.  I was inspired and excited to go back to my classroom, my kids.  Maybe the word I should use is again.  I need to do this again and again.

The poem comes from a line in Edward Hirsch's poem "In spite of everything, the stars."  The idea of a QuickWrite is to read a short poem, then take a line that speaks to you and use that as the jumping off point for 90 seconds of your own writing.  Any kind of writing, just continual writing for 90 seconds.  This was Tuesday's poem.  Unedited, just as I wrote it.

It surprised me that I could write something that quickly and be OK with sharing it with others...because that's the next step:  sharing.  The only thing that made that part doable is that everyone else had to do it, too.  Sitting there listening to what others did was fascinating--that each one could get something completely different from the same poem.  That's the beauty of the QuickWrite.  It's quick, it's uncensored, it's honest.  And so many times amazing.  There's that word again :)

Tiny grains of Earth · 365 Project

Tiny grains of Earth by Rondi Aastrup · 365 Project

A mountain is composed of tiny grains of earth. The ocean is made up of tiny drops of water. Even so, life is but an endless series of little details, actions, speeches, and thoughts. And the consequences whether good or bad of even the least of them are far-reaching.

~ Sivananda

Tonight's view of the mountain at dusk...

End of the Beginning . NaBloPoMo

I probably ought to save this post for the end of the month when it will be the end of posts about beginnings, but I don't want to forget about it, so it comes at the beginning of beginnings instead of a the end =)  Coincidentally (or perhaps not?) a friend of mine posted this song on their Facebook page this morning and I've been thinking about it ever since.  The lyrics are powerful, and compliment what I posted yesterday.  This version, with David Phelps singing, has subtitles so you can really consider the words as well as the music.

End of the Beginning

Interestingly enough, I once overheard a conversation in an airport waiting area that was very similar to the one recorded in this song.  It took place in Boston's Logan Airport between two college-aged guys.  One was telling the other about this "great book" he'd been reading:  the Bible.  "It has everything you want in a good story," he said:  murder, mayhem, mystery, love, lust...you know, all the good stuff!"  The other guy didn't know how to respond to this.  He kept saying "The Bible?"  And the first guy would say "I know!  I couldn't believe it either!"  Truth is, of course, that all that stuff is in the Bible, but there is so much more.  So. Much. More.  And it is the more--the end of the beginning--that David Phelps sings about...and that makes all the difference in the world.

At Christmas He Came . NaBloPoMo

Thinking and writing about "Beginnings" for an entire month is going to be a challenge.  And yet, I have found myself thinking about beginnings quite a bit in the past few days.  This morning, I went to my file cabinet to see if there was anything there to share.  I found several things which I will revise to share here as the days pass.  Today's offering is a Christmas poem that I wrote several years ago (1998). I happened to be taking a refresher course in French at the time, which accounts for all the French phrases.  Even though Christmas has passed, what better cause for beginnings than the plan of salvation revealed in Christ's birth?


[The photo at left is the stained glass window in the front of my former church in MA.  I took this when I visited there during the break.]

AT CHRISTMAS HE CAME; THIS CHRISTMAS HE MUST COME AGAIN

            

"Je dois aller."

People are always having to go away from me,

from each other,

from home, from work, from school, from play.

People are always having to go away from me (and I from them)

to other people and places.

"Je dois aller:  I must go [the imperative].

I have other things claiming my life, my time.

You're not all there is to my life.

Important, yes.  But not all.

Je dois aller."

There's nothing I can do to keep them from going;

They must.

And if I want them still in my life,

I, too, must—must accept, must acquiesce, must not pout or complain.

Ils doivent aller.  Et je dois accepter.

"Je dois venir encore."  There's another who must, too. 

"I must come again" He says.

There's a difference, though.

Those who must go, can go as they need.

But He who must come, must have an invitation; He cannot come just because He must.

Not only must He come, but He must wait.

Wait for you, for me—for us—to be ready. 

To be willing.  To be open. 

And to invite Him to come.

"Je dois venir. 

I need to come.  It is necessary.

There is nothing else claiming My life, My time.

You're all there is to My life.

You're important, yes.  And everything.

But I can't come without an invitation. 

I can ask, but I can't just come.

And yet, I must.  Je dois venir."

Christmas:  celebrating the coming of Christ—the first time.

But should it not be something more?

Must we not also anticipate His Second Coming?

Must we not prepare for—and invite—Him to come back?

The goings in our life, we have no control over.

But the comings, those we do.

"Je dois venir encore," He says.

This Christmas, let it be "Tu dois venir--You must come."

Purchased and Paid For · 365 Project

Purchased and Paid for by Rondi Aastrup · 365 Project

I spent time working in my classroom this afternoon, getting it ready for classes tomorrow. This extra credit project on a table in the room caught my eye and warmed my heart at the thought of how poetry (in this case Anne Bradstreet's) can make an impact on a young person's heart and mind. I love my job!

All Beginnings are Hard . NaBloPoMo

You’ve heard it before, some of you:

"All beginnings are hard.

"I can remember hearing my mother murmur those words while I lay in bed with fever. “children are often sick, darling. That’s the way it is with children. All beginnings are hard. You’ll be all right soon.”

"I remember bursting into tears one evening because a passage of Bible commentary had proved too difficult for me to understand. I was about nine years old at the time. “You want to understand everything immediately?” my father said. “Just like that? You only began to study this commentary last week. All beginnings are hard. You have to work at the job of studying. Go over it again and again.”

"The man who later guided me in my studies would welcome me warmly into his apartment and, when we sat at his desk, say to me in his gentle voice, “Be patient, David. The midrash says, ‘All beginnings are hard.’ You cannot swallow all the world at one time.”

"I say it to myself today when I stand before a new class at the beginning of a school year or am about to start a new book or research paper: All beginnings are hard. Teaching the way I do is particularly hard, for I touch the raw nerves of faith, the beginnings of things. Often students are shaken. I say to them what was said to me: “Be patient. You are learning a new way of understanding the Bible. All beginnings are hard.” And sometimes I add what I have learned on my own: 'Especially a beginning that you make by yourself. That’s the hardest beginning of all.'"

Those are the opening few paragraphs from Chaim Potok’s book In the Beginning. I have read those words for myself at the beginning of every single school year for the past thirty-three years and have almost as often shared them with my students. I read them—and sometimes share them—because they acknowledge the feelings that most of us go through at the beginning of something important, and because they give me some sort of encouragement by telling me that I’m not alone, and that we survive our beginnings.

Beginnings. They are always difficult. Even for those of us who are now adults and have been “doing” beginnings for a long time. No matter how experienced we are in them. No matter how successful our track record is with them. No matter how dedicated and reliable and responsible and organized we are, there is always the potential of failure when we make a new beginning. And if we’re not careful, fear and pessimism and negativity can take over and destroy what could be a wonderful and rewarding experience.

Beginnings. A brand new start. A chance to wipe away the past and build a better future. Beginnings. An opportunity to take the best of what we were and add it to the best of what we are in order to become the best of what we can be. Beginnings. Even before I begin classes each year, I feel a little nervous. I’ve been through so much already just to get to that day. This year, for example, we had a LOT of changes in staff over the summer, including principal, vice principal and our entire way of operating. We had a lot of new students, which was exciting, but it would also mean a lot more work. We had a lot of physical changes to the campus as well. I was exhausted before we even began. Maybe even a little bit scared because we were stepping off the usual plan for doing things and trying something entirely different. I know for our students, there were many changes and even those who had been coming to school here for three years found themselves out of their comfort zone. For some it was tempting to give up, curl up, close up, shut up…maybe even fold up. Believe me. I know. I saw it in their eyes, read it in their journals. It was tough.

But there is one thing I know. Each beginning, above all others, has the potential to be the start of something great. I saw it at the beginning of this school year. And I feel it again at the beginning of this new year. We were at the beginning of something that can change the lives of each of us here on earth. I can’t pretend to know just where each of you is in your thinking about this year, but I know Someone who does know. Someone who knows more about difficult beginnings than any single one of us—or all us put together. Someone who can get us through this beginning. Someone who knows the truth of of Potok’s opening line: All beginnings are hard. Listen:

"When God began creating the heavens and the earth, the earth was a shapeless, chaotic mass. It took Him awhile to get that mass organized and beautified. But He did it. And He was pleased.

"Then He did something even harder. He made human beings and set them loose on the earth. I can imagine nothing harder than that, because He knew exactly what we were going to do. He knew that we were going to destroy His world, His animals, His people—His Son. He knew, yet He went ahead and made us anyway." 

In the beginning, God—

Have you ever wondered why? I have. Countless times. Especially now that I am older. That beginning—creating this world—sometimes seems so senseless to me. Why would God do something He knew beforehand was destined for failure? It doesn’t seem to me that this God—my God—had been in control of that decision. When I was younger and thought about this, I didn’t find much comfort—and I worried, some, for my own future—until I discovered a text I’ve come to cherish in Jeremiah 29:11. It says there, in God’s voice, “For I know the plans I have for you…plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” And reading that, I realized that my future was in safe hands—as long as I put it there in the beginning and let God work out His plan for me.

All beginnings are hard. But the beauty of this beginning is that God not only made us, He stayed on with us. He did not set the world in motion, then step back and watch it self-destruct. And He did not put Edgewood and GBA together just to watch us fall apart. He was, and is, right there—right here—with us. Through all that we do—our hurts and our joys. Our beginnings, middles, and endings. He has a plan for us. For each of us. I truly believe that.

There’s a wonderful passage in M.L. Haskins’ book, The Desert, that I love. It goes like this: "And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: ‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’ And he replied: ‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.’”

I’d like to recommend this morning that you reach out and put your hand in God’s. We’re on the verge of a beginning that may well be one of our hardest, if not the hardest. There are going to be times when we’ll feel lonely and frightened, disillusioned and helpless. But God—your God—who was there at every other beginning—will be there with us, with each of us, ready to help us up and out—and on. Let Him do what He knows best. Let Him be close to you at this beginning. Trust Him. He knows. Because In the beginning . . . God . . .

Some Children See Him

I was listening to one of my James Taylor Christmas albums on my way home from work yesterday.  It's a nice collection of songs an carols sung as only JT can sing them.  One of the carols is particularly interesting to me...it's reminiscent of the old Sabbath School song:  "Jesus loves the little children--all the children of the world:  red and yellow, black, and white--all are precious in His sight.  Jesus loves the little children of the world."  The thing about this carol, though, is that it takes all the children of the world and talks about how they see Jesus, kind of reverse from the song:

Some children see Him lily white,
the baby Jesus born this night.
some children see Him lily white,
with tresses soft and fair.


Some children see Him bronzed and brown
The Lord of heav'n to earth come down.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
with dark and heavy hair.


Some children see Him almond-eyed,
this Savior whom we kneel beside.
Some children see Him almond-eyed,
with skin of yellow hue.


Some children see Him dark as they
sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray.
some children see him dark as they,
and, ah! they love Him, too!


The children in each different place
will see the baby Jesus' face
like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
and filled with holy light.


O lay aside each earthly thing
and with thy heart as offering,
come worship now the infant King.
'Tis love that's born tonight!

Coming from a school where we had more than 50 countries represented between the staff and students, I can understand why some might think that Jesus sees us as we see Him, with His traits the same as ours, whatever they might be.  But truth is, He sees beyond our surface traits.  In fact, He covers our traits with His, so that in the end, He sees our face like His, sees His righteousness instead of our sinfulness.  'Tis love beyond compare that was born that night.  'Tis the most amazing gift!  I'm so glad that He sees us from His perspective instead of ours, aren't you?

I Will Go

In our staff worship on Monday, our registrar shared a Steve Green song with us that had powerful meaning for her, but also for the rest of us gathered around the table.  Every day the principal and I meet to talk and pray together about the day and for our students and staff.  It's always nice when others come, but it's not often.  This week, the registrar has joined us.  The song she brought touched each of our hearts as each of us have left something or someone important to us to come where God has led us.  The principal's wife still lives in Texas because she is taking care of her elderly father there.  The registrar and her family left a stable situation in northern California and came to a very challenging situation here in Arizona.  I left all of my family on the east coast and came here where I knew no one and nothing about what I was getting into.  We all three believe God brought us here to Thunderbird, but it has not been easy.  The words to the song gave us all hope and courage for the journey:

Give me ears to hear Your Spirit
Give me feet to follow through
Give me hands to touch the hurting
And the faith to follow You.


Give me grace to be a servant
Give me mercy for the lost
Give me passion for your glory
Give me passion for the cross.


And I will go where there are no easy roads
Leave the comforts that I know
I will go and let this journey be my home.
I will go.
I will go.


I'll let go of my ambition
cut the roost that run too deep
I will learn to give away
What I cannot really keep.


Help me see with eyes of faith
Give me strength to run this race.


I will go, Lord, where Your glory is unknown.
I will live for You alone.
I will go because my life is not my own.
I will go.
I will go.
I will go.

~ Steve Green

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;

        Landscapes plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;

                And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise Him.

Because it is my Name!

I'm between classes right now.  Actually, I'm done with teaching for the day, but still have 3 more hours before I am finished with work for the day.  It's the last day before I get my final class back and will be teaching fulltime again.  I've had a student teacher this semester.  She's an excellent young teacher and we've had a good experience together.  I've kind of enjoyed the relative freedom that comes when you aren't teaching fulltime, but I've missed the students...and I've particularly missed teaching some of my favorite literature.  She had complete charge over all my classes for much of the past several weeks and only just started handing them back to me, one each week.  Next Monday, I will be back to full time teaching.

Still, it's been a good experience--for both of us I think.  She handed over the juniors and seniors in the middle of Arthur Miller's The Crucible, a play I have always enjoyed teaching.  We both read and watch the play, and as is always the case with something that's meant to be watched instead of "just" read, their response to the movie has been very positive.  I finished with the seniors this morning and thrilled to hear for the second day in the row (the juniors finished yesterday) John Proctor refusing to compromise himself any further by signing his name to a confession that was a lie, just to save his life.  You understand why he almost did it.  The scene between him and his wife is so sweet, so beautiful really.  And you want this couple to have a second chance, for them to experience a profound love they had only just realized.  But you also know that they could never enjoy their life knowing it was based on a lie, and knowing that their friends had gone to their death without that lie.

John Proctor (Daniel Day-Lewis acting the part) crumbles up his confession and cries out that he can't do it "Because it is my name!  Because I can't have any other on earth!"  So powerful, that acknowlegement of what his name--his reputation--means!  And even though this means he dies for something he didn't do, at least he's not living for something he didn't do.  A fine line, but a clear one all the same.  I love working through things like that with students.  They always want the happy/easy ending at first.  But on second thought, they always come around to what is right, to what has to happen if we are to learn the lesson that was intended.

And so it goes with our own lives.  We want the easy way through things, but deep down we know that we need the lessons.  We need the consequences.  We need to work things through and out if our lives are to mean anything.  If our names are to carry any weight--for our present and for our future.