“Watch for fallen rocks,” the sign read as we turned onto the mountain highway. My friend and I waited to see these advertised rocks. Perhaps they had stage fright; we saw none. Instead we saw fallen trees (the rocks’ understudies?) and wondered why the sign hadn’t warned us to look for them too. More disconcerting was that the sign warned only of fallen rocks. Perhaps the sign makers presumed that warning us of falling rocks would unduly frighten us.
Many people read books, listen to music, and, now, even watch tv and movies to while away the hours of a road trip, but I prefer to find my entertainment through the car’s windows. Had I been buried in a book or a movie, I would have missed the confusing gem of a road sign warning me of the fallen rocks. (I would have also been car sick.) The sign itself sparked conversation for miles as, with each hairpin turn, we expected to see these famous fallen rocks and contemplated whether the sign makers had not warned us of falling rocks because our chances of surviving the barrage were that slim. A later sign advertising “Alison free farming and homemade ice cream” was another gift of conversation as neither of us knew what that type of farming was. Our conjecture was that Alison was the redheaded stepchild of that farming family and they were advertising that they had not included her in any of the family business. Unlikely, but entertaining. The signs also provide insight into the local culture, like the convenience store that we passed that proudly displayed this in the front window: “No shoes, no shirt, no problem!” Between the signs and the old toilet lawn ornaments, we could tell that we wanted to wait a few more miles before stopping for coffee and fuel.
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“He is risen. He is risen indeed.” That truth is the foundation for followers of Christ. Without it, He would have been another good teacher whose revolutionary ideas and tragic death spurred His followers to continue what He started. But with that truth of His resurrection, His revolutionary ideas are proven Truth, His tragic death promises Life, and His Spirit enables His followers to follow the Way.
Yet, we really do not celebrate this day as the high holy day it should be. We count down to Christmas from the day after Thanksgiving (or the middle of October when Wal-mart puts out their decorations). We have a separate Christmas party with each social circle in our lives: an office Christmas party, a class Christmas party, a Sunday school class Christmas party, a church Christmas party, Christmas for the immediate family, Christmas with the extended family, etc. We send cards and presents to those who are not near enough to include in those many parties. We have pageants, concerts, and parades in a frenzy of festive cheer. But we let Easter, the climax of the story, the point of Christmas, sneak up on us. No fanfare. No countdown. And barely any celebration. Oh, we have some ham for lunch, and we enjoy surprising the children with chocolates and candies. But what do those activities have to do with celebrating that the victory is assured, already won? I’m not arguing that we have Easter parties galore. They would probably distract us from the Truth just as much as our Christmas parties do. I’m arguing that Easter—His resurrection—should be such a conscious part of our lives that a day set aside to celebrate it cannot catch us off guard and pass by unobserved because we already set aside each day to celebrate His Life and our life in Him. The other day I was sitting by the lake ostensibly doing my homework, but eventually, I had to admit that for the past half hour all I had done was watch a family of ducks swim. Their splashing into the water had first snagged my attention away from my papers; the tranquility of watching them glide through the water or wriggle in delight as they splashed themselves allowed my tied brain the break it needed from analyzing ideas and parsing language.
And then it happened: Epiphany struck me with an object lesson. The duck family had reached the other end of the lake and were lurching their way out of the water and up the steep bank. Naturally, the parent ducks led the way and lingered by the edge while the baby ducks struggled after them. The last duck, probably the youngest, had the hardest time. Just when I thought that he was going to succeed, he plopped backward and landed tail-first in the water. And I thought, “Oh, how cute!” And then, I wondered why I didn’t think that about the mistakes my students were making on their papers that were sitting forgotten beside me on the bench. When baby animals and baby humans struggle through growth, we think it’s adorable and share those moments with each other. But when my students make mistakes, my initial response is not, “Oh, how sweet! They tried so hard.” I do not post their papers on the fridge as though they were little handprint turkey paintings (which I have never seen a need for). But, that baby duck did not deliberately ignore his parents’ leading and jump into the water. No, he needed more practice and probably more muscle to be able to succeed. His failure revealed what he still lacked. His failure wasn’t permanent. Then next time I watched the duck family, I was disappointed with how adept they all were at waddling and swimming. Not one cute mishap. Years ago one of my professors had urged me to examine the logic of my students’ mistakes because their mistakes were rooted in attempts to succeed. (Yes, sometimes their mistakes stem from laziness and inattention—I do not deny that.) I understood her point and have seen how logical many of those mistakes really are. But noticing my reaction to a baby duck highlighted my professor’s point: my students are still growing, still struggling to grasp new ideas, still practicing concepts they barely understand. They might not succeed every time, but their mistakes show that they are trying. Spring fever calls me to deep clean—to purge my apartment of clutter, to tackle some of the projects that have been on my to-do list since last spring. So naturally I decided to start a whole new project: organize my photo albums, which naturally has led me cringing and laughing down memory lane.
One of the memories I had mercifully forgotten was my dreadful science elective my senior year of college. I was so focused on studying for scary PRAXIS II exam and getting ready for my student teaching that I felt a little irritated at spending my time birdwatching and leaf-collecting for an elective that didn’t connect to my field of study. Each Saturday for a month, I walked down to the river-walk to watch ducks and write in my field journal. Usually my friend (also named Eleanor) went with me, but the Saturday of my fifth journal entry, I went alone—the only time I went alone. As soon as I sat on my usual bench by the river, one of the ducks flew out of the water and landed on the grass eighteen inches from my feet, waddling towards me. Then another four birds simultaneously joined him in surrounding me. Steadily the ring of ducks around me shrank. I stood. They all took a few steps away. I sat. They came closer. I stood. They stepped away. I walked away, and a line of ducks followed me. Eventually, I sat on the other side of the dam, the rushing water muffling everything else. After just a few moments, I was startled to hear a voice beside me asking for a seat on the bench. I looked up to see a wizened homeless man leaning against the side of my bench. “Oh, don’t worry,” he assured me as he sat beside me. “I’m not a rapist or thief. Are you watching the ducks?” he asked. Glaring at the lone seagull perched on the top of the dam, I answered that I was birdwatching for a science class. Then I wrote something in my journal to maintain distance from this self-alleged non-rapist/thief. To be helpful, he narrated everything happening between the ducks and the gulls, hoping to see a fight between them. Tiring of his bird commentary, the man started giving me advice about life, real game-changers like “Don’t drink the river water.” And then two of his buddies joined us and regaled me with stories of the fight they had gotten in the night before. I will admit now, years later, that I did not complete that assignment; I made it fifteen minutes, half of the assigned time, before I decided that I should leave. And that wasn’t even the worst experience from this science class. A couple weeks of torrential rain later, during class, we went out on a leaf-collecting expedition. I collected more mosquito bites than leaves. They swarmed us, and with each minute, I swelled more and more. I swear I heard one mosquito yell “Charge!” before biting me on the lip (which, of course, started swelling). I was one of the last to return to the classroom, windblown, swollen, and with several pints of blood missing. Miserable, I gathered my books and waited for the bell when suddenly the class went silent; it took me a second to realize everyone was looking at me. Naturally, the giggly girls laughed. All my science teacher said was “Wow, Eleanor, I didn’t know that would happen.” Any questions why I’m not a scientist? |
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