Zeal!

     The sun settled down behind the western stands leaving a soft pink, orange, purple goodbye glow. Two teams, one in crimson, black, and gray the other in white, blue, and gold engaged in gladiatorial conflict over a leather ovoid while several thousand roaring spectators urged their favorites on. As the last remnants of the day slipped away stars came out to witness as the contest played out on a field of green. Yes, fall has returned to West Texas bringing Friday Night Lights with all its attendant pageantry.

     I enjoy football. When I attended high school I played passable defensive end…at least in the rose tinted cinema of my memory. I earned my varsity letter my freshman year, a tattered feat I bring out with regularity. I follow the NFL, enjoy college, and occasionally attend my nephew’s games. Oh, and by the by, they exhibit much greater athletic prowess than I ever did; not that I’m proud or anything. In an odd sort of way, football provides a glue that binds many disparate small school communities into one loud boisterous whole. Musicians, moms, pom-pom girls, flag wavers, coaches, dads (secretly cherishing hope and fear), even the police and ambulance drivers get in on the act, all coming together to urge their favorites on. For many, the entire year orbits these few weeks. We gather together, loudly cheering, occasionally feeling disappointment, and enjoying intense pride when our particular one does well.

     My sister (sister-in-law really but I never liked that particular differential phrase), Tiffany exhibits intense pride in her sons. Asher and Braedon play defense, very good defense. During the game last

night there were multiple goal-line stands which required their intense effort. We sat together in the Robinson Commemorative Clump. Tiffany totes a rather large bag, nearing rucksack size, to each game. Inside you will find all the accouterments needed to adequately cheer on your favorite team, Frenship Tigers in this case…no I did not misspell that. From within her bag of holding she drew out a steady stream of blue and gold items; a blanket, sport jacket, and cowbell to name a few. Properly prepared she set about to cheer her sons on. No one provides more support than Tiffany. Zeal and joy propel her to cheer, scream, jump and shout. Once after a particularly good play she doffed her jacket and danced in the stands displaying a bedazzled jersey with the name Robinson in rhinestones. Near the end of the game when Frenship defense held during a particularly important and successful goal-line stand I had to duck repeatedly lest she clobber me with her cowbell. Nearly falling off the stands she loudly proclaimed, “When you need it done, call on the Robinson boys!”

     Tiffany loves her sons with complete and reckless abandon. She fully gives herself over to the moment, enraptured by the sight of Braedon and Asher performing well on the field. In those moments she reflects an aspect of the true nature of God. We tend to view god as some distant being who carefully manages the universe, smoothly, unruffled by mere common events below. And to be sure, nothing surprises God or catches Him off guard. But that does not mean He’s unaffected by His children. Like Tiffany, God displays great zeal toward His children. The dictionary defines zeal as, “fervor for a person, cause, or object; eager desire or endeavor; enthusiastic diligence; ardor.” Multiple times in Isaiah, the prophet remarks that the “zeal of the Lord will do this,” when speaking about the coming messiah, salvation, and the comfort of Israel, His people.

     God does not sit on some ethereal plain, remote and detached from our existence. Salvation was not an afterthought, a plan B whipped out in desperation. No God, like Tiffany, is passionate where His children are concerned. He displays enthusiastic diligence about our existence and salvation. When things go well He rejoices with reckless abandon. And, also like Tiffany, when He sees things go badly for us; say when life gives us a bad call, He does not appreciate it. He loves you and I more completely than we know. He wears our colors…well we really wear his, but you get the point. He cheers us on, saying, “Hey did you see that! That’s MY SON! That’s MY DAUGHTER!”

Good Order and Discipline

     My IPad chimed softly announcing the arrival of a new email. Grunting a bit, I leaned over the arm of the couch and fished it out of the wicker basket where I dump electronics when I’m finished with them. Opening the cover I quickly swiped through various screens until the new message glowed in front of me. “Dear Mr. Robinson,” it began, “My son failed to turn in an assignment and is now failing your class.” As I scrolled through the short email, a loving parent’s anguish poured across my device. In short it said, my son, whom I love, struggles and I don’t know what to do. Please help me help my son achieve the life I dreamed for them.

     Parents regularly send me such emails. They love their son or daughter and their hearts ache when they grapple with what seems so basic. Though I do not have empirical data to support this; boys seem to struggle with learning more than girls. Many, like this mother, fret far too early and far too often. Barely two weeks into the semester and already she felt panic. Again, I do not have good data to support my conclusion; however, much of what we as educators worry about, and foist off on parents, is a function of the normal maturation process.

     As a teacher I love a calm orderly classroom. I never know when one of the principals I work for will show up. I want them to see me in full control of the educational process. But, in reality, I run a messy classroom. For example, last week I started an assignment which required the students to draw a map of Lubbock from memory. I allowed them to work together, but each one had to turn in a finished project. As they settled down…got organized really…to work one of them casually mentioned, “Mr. Robinson, too bad we don’t have poster-board. This would have been good to work on as a group.”

     Well, as it happened, I had plenty of poster-board behind a filing cabinet and the idea was just too good to pass up. So I reoriented the class around group projects, with each group working together to build a map of Lubbock from memory; no computers or roadmaps allowed. Naturally, due to the shift in plans chaos reigned in my room for about ten minutes. Lucky for me, none of the administration picked that time to peek in my room. Education, at all levels, is frequently messy. Some students love a project, others despise the concept. Students mature at different rates. Often questions lead us into unplanned places with unanticipated results. As the “responsible adult” somehow I’ve got to exercise a modicum of control, keeping bedlam at bay. As part of the process I must bring everyone in the room along; no matter their level of interest or ability.

     If a student shows up with organizational challenges, part of my job is to help them learn some sort of system and acquire some history in the process. A few students bring behavioral challenges with them. They blurt out answers or editorial comments at inappropriate times. They disrupt my already tenuous control of the classroom. I must train them in self-control. Like our students, we teachers rebel at this additional assignment and the system responded with various medications designed to moderate undesirable behaviors.

     Each day a small parade of medicated students pass through my classroom. I often wonder if we rob these young people of a key aspect of the maturation process; the discipline of developing self-control. Instead of learning how to control their impulses we take a pharmaceutical shortcut in the name of classroom management. Learning takes time and effort. Learning to curb impulsive behaviors takes even more and requires great patience and wisdom; both qualities I need in abundance and often find lacking. The parents of one of my students decided to try having their child go without meds for a while. I applaud their decision as I pull what little hair I have out. It makes my job harder, but now I can help teach their child skills they need for success in life, and history is only one of the things I teach.

     All of this brings me back to the email which started these musings. What do I tell a distraught parent, especially at the beginning of the school year? I tell them not to worry. It may take a while, but their child and I will figure this out. It is too early to panic. We’ve got all year to practice and develop good habits. Habits their child will carry with them through life. This is my job. It’s what I’m supposed to do. I help children learn how to function. After all, that’s why we call them children, don’t let them drive cars, get married, or enter into binding contracts. I’m a teacher, I help them discover the keys to being an adult and along the way we have fun and learn some history, geography, or English.