While I've heard reports of robins from others, I had yet to see one until today. The burning orange chest shuttled clear as day across the field. And then I remembered the story Grandma Smith would tell us of how the robin got its orange feathers while sitting too close to the fire that glowed in the manger the night Jesus was born. I want my own heart to burn the same way because I can't do this alone, and I wasn't meant to. None of us were. So I will pull myself up to the Light of His love and I will give up my awkard and painful attempts to be perfect, to be good, to be right, to be respected, to make things go the way I think they should.
Because wasn't this the lesson in the classroom Tuesday? The one that left me stripped down, afraid, heart shaking and suddenly so self-aware I wished for one of those buttons to push, the kind that opens up the trap door below you, and you drop out of sight. But this is the business of the teacher, too. The business of opening your hand and asking that they all gather round to see the same miracle you've seen in the story, in the poem, in the lessons that ultimately come down to whether or not we will repond with competition or compassion. And how important it is to me.
Or, as I was reminded, how important I am to myself, and it was this very thing that allowed me to forget the real lesson, the subject I was teaching and think only of how I was failing them somehow.
Tomorrow, without a doubt, I will enter the room again, and I will do my best to listen, to respond with patience but most importantly, to find a way for all of us to gather with our hearts exposed, not to my "brilliance" or my "insight" or my "humor" but to the Light of Another who owns my words, my joy, my sorrow and my salvation. Let all wisdom point to Christ.