The call came on a Monday.
I had just returned from my job at a feeder pig farm when my mom handed me the phone.
“Hello?” I said. This was the first telephone call I had received in the month that I had been living with my parents. I was on my own again at age 31, rebuilding my life after a failed marriage. How thankful I was that my parents were able to take me in and to have found work on a farm. Having grown up in the country I had always found jobs working for farmers in the congregations my dad served, so farming was kind of ‘in my blood,’ as they say. These tobacco, soybean and seed corn farmers that I had known and grown to love had given me so much more than a paycheck. I learned how to get up early, work hard, to never be afraid of getting dirty and to take breaks–because a break with good donuts enables one to continue working hard.
The caller continued, matter-of-factly: “This is the principal from King of Grace Lutheran Grade School. We have an opening coming up in our teaching staff in three weeks, due to a maternity leave. I’m wondering if you’d consider taking a temporary teaching position until the end of the school year in our 4th grade classroom?”
I paused.
Earlier that afternoon I had spent a few minutes quiet-crying in a pig barn; the kind of cry that starts with a lump in the throat, followed by tears welling in the eyes, followed by swallowing the lump because there’s work to be done. Lump. Tears. Swallow. Repeat. I had been jet washing the floors and walls after sending a shipment of feeder pigs off to their next growing station and was heavy with melancholy over my situation. All I ever wanted to be was a wife and mother, and here I was—age 31—no kids, single and working on a pig farm. It just was not supposed to go like this.
I collected my surprised thoughts and replied with a hint of skepticism: “Well. I must say this comes as quite a surprise. You’ve never met me, I’m 31, living with my parents, I work on a pig farm, I don’t have a teaching degree and I’m currently at the front end of a divorce. May I ask what knowledge you have of me that you would extend me this opportunity?”
He replied, matter-of-factly, “Your sister is a member of our congregation and if you’re anything like her–and I’m told you are–you’d be a great fit. I’m sure you’d do just fine.”
And that was that. I accepted, thanked him for the incredible opportunity, told him I would begin packing and try to arrive as soon as possible and hung up the phone. I told my parents I had just been hired as a teacher for one of our synod’s Lutheran grade schools and went to take a shower. My mind was a blur, and my heart was overwhelmed with thankfulness to God for this blessing. No specific education. No portfolio. No resume’. Just the good name and reputation of my dear sister being used quietly, ‘mysteriously,’ and expertly in the hands of the Lord to plant my feet on the next step. I called the farmer and explained that I wouldn’t be able to give him two-weeks notice due to the time I would need to turn myself from a pig farmer into a teacher. He laughed and understood.
I’m pretty sure my mom had to hold back the words, “I told you so.” Through my high school years, I was determined to not pursue college even though my mom always said I would be a good teacher. My burning desire was to become a homemaker. But in her quiet, Norwegian way, she held her ground and convinced me to attend college after high school, though I did so grudgingly. “A degree will probably come in handy someday.” How could she have known just how handy. And, as usual, she was right. Here I was, ten years later, at the lowest point of my life, being offered an opportunity that wouldn’t have come calling had I not had that degree. College had been a joyless pursuit, but I squeaked out the exact number of credits needed to achieve a BS in ‘Open Studies,’ a degree allowing one to pursue a mish-mash of interests. I’ve always been pretty good at mish-mash so this seemed appropriate. I scheduled classes around my 40-hour/week job at Hardees because being the early morning biscuit maker was much more in my wheelhouse than homework.
Three weeks after the phone call, I was standing in front of 18 fourth graders with my ‘teacher clothing’ on. Getting up early to do my ‘teacher hair’ was a little outside my box, having spent the previous decade in a cabin in Alaska and, recently, working on a pig farm. I muddled my way through those last two months of school, with the patient help of my fellow teachers and principal. I felt confident in some areas (creativity) and inept in others (math). At the end of the year, I was certain of one thing—I had found my calling, or, more accurately, my calling had been found for me, through no effort of my own. The Lord had masterfully paved the path to this chapter in my life, granting me several emotional strengths that other paths wouldn’t have afforded: empathy for those in difficult situations, life experiences that increased my perspective and a love for the ‘active’ quality of the Gospel. “Christ died for my sins” was no longer a lesson I learned in school. It had become the gas that kept me going through some very tough times.
What joy filled my heart to receive a full-time call to teach fifth grade the following year. I would get to follow these marvelous fourth graders for one more year—these gentle, forgiving souls on whom I had ‘cut my fledgling teaching-teeth.’
I mentioned earlier that math was not my strong suit. It’s probably not an exaggeration to say that this first class of fourth grade students had higher IQs than I did. It was not uncommon for Daniel to correct me during a math lesson, or Luke to correct me during science. They were both sharp as tacks. I had to learn the art of ‘Saving Face’ as a teacher, giving them credit for their corrections but reminding them that I was, at least, wiser in experiences. Recounting this makes me smile even now. They probably all had a good idea of how little I knew about teaching but, bless their little hearts, they never let on.
Creativity was my strong suit. I liked doing things that surprised them. I told them to bring a bed sheet to school one day. When I asked them to cover their desks with their sheets, little did they know but they had just created their own private reading rooms. How they loved this! ‘Dark Room Stories’ was also a hit. I would take the class into a room in the school with no windows and turn off the lights. We’d lie down on the floor and as soon as it was quiet, I would say a random word like ‘chicken.’ I’d wait about 20 seconds and say another random word like ‘freezing.’ No one was allowed to talk. They were to simply let their imaginations create wild stories out of the words as they came. We’d spend ten minutes doing this, which adds up to quite a few random words, and then return to the classroom where they could hardly wait to start writing. Oh, some of those stories. . .
“The Art of Conversation” was memorable. I had come to realize during my life experiences that less and less time in our culture was being spent on showing interest in others. I would often find myself in a one-way conversation, being the only one to ask questions. If I stopped asking questions, the conversation would immediately become awkward or end because there was no interest in my life being reciprocated. I began to work on teaching the students ‘The Art of Conversation’ and at random moments during the school day would pull an unsuspecting student to the front of the classroom. While it sounds frightening, they all grew to love being picked. I would set a scene for them and we would each play a role. In the beginning of the year, I would run the conversation by asking question after question and explain how to use what the other person was saying to think of another question. By the middle of the year, I was still initiating the conversations, but they were involved 50/50 with their interesting questions back to me. By the end of the year, I would set a scene and not say a word. They had become adept enough at ‘The Art of Conversation’ to initiate it, keep the conversation going and gracefully end it, all on their own. This made me so proud.
The north stairwell is at the top of the list of my fond memories as a teacher. One day, while coming in from recess and noting for the umpteenth time how loudly the kids maneuvered up the steps to the classroom, bothering all the classes that were in session, it dawned on me that the acoustics of the stairwell were nothing short of magnificent. Hmmmm. How could I use that for good? It didn’t take long to conjure an answer. Without telling the kids, who were already in the routine of spending two weeks learning a hymn, I started focusing on things like holding notes properly, diction and dynamics. On the last day of the two weeks, when they would normally recite their hymn verses to me standing at my desk, I told them they were all off the hook. They would all get A’s for singing in the ‘Performance Hall.’ I led the class of 25 out to the stairwell and they each found a spot. The beautiful sound they made that day was evident in their expressions and is something I will never forget. The soft, pure voices of children singing a hymn is one of the most lovely sounds I’ve heard on this earth. I ceased the act of reciting their hymn verses by my desk. They all got A’s after each performance in the north stairwell from then on.
Truthfully, I don’t think my students learned anything from me academically. But I have a feeing they would remember about me that, at the very least, I kept things interesting.
My mom was right. I probably should have pursued an education degree right out of high school because my gifts were well-suited for it. But, as I’ve come to learn during my years of parenting, just because we think our kids should go in a certain direction doesn’t mean that’s the direction they will take. The Lord knows better than I which direction will serve to develop a person’s sense of empathy and understanding. He knows which lessons will produce wisdom and which challenges will produce perseverance. He knows that someone’s bad decisions often find him having to rely once again on the Lord’s gracious presence in his life. He knows how to pack a person’s ‘life bag’ full of the tools he will need ‘to bear him through the evil days’ as He quietly and mysteriously sets him on his path for life.
The design of this card is intentional for its simplicity. The birds-eye view of the trees suggests the ever-watchful, loving eyes of my Heavenly Father looking down on me, having never lost sight of me. The plain white font states the obvious and comforting conclusions—God has given me strength, no matter the challenge. From a cabin in AK to a feeder pig farm to singing hymns in a stairwell with 25 beautiful fifth graders, He has been my Rock.

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