Tweak the relationship between strengths and weaknesses. Be the 16%.

Image from The Gaping Void.

“Only 16% of people manage to keep their New Year’s Resolutions,” The Gaping Void blog recently published. That means 86% of us will fail. Especially if our resolutions “are trying to fix a long-term fault” like losing weight, going to the gym daily, or changing an undesirable habit.

Why do we fail so often? Because “It’s difficult to change an aspect of your personality by sheer force of will,” the post continues, “And if it is a weakness you choose to work on, you probably won’t enjoy the process. If you don’t find pleasure or reinforcement along the way . . . you’ll soon give up.”

The solution, provided through the wisdom of Jonathan Haidt, is, “Work on your strengths, not your weaknesses.”

“Instead of saying, ‘I’m going to lose weight,’” The Gaping Void explains, “say, ‘I really love salad. Next year, I plan to eat more of it.’ Or, ‘I really loved tennis when I was a kid. I think I might take it up again.’”

Instead of focusing on where you need to improve, embrace what you love. And I love that.

Instead of trying to “fix what’s ‘wrong’ with us {which} is never fun and rarely works,” simply “tweak the relationship between our strengths and our weaknesses and choose to look at it from a different perspective.” Again, I just love that.

It is easy to fixate on what is “wrong” with us when reflecting. The way we behave in stressful situations, our innate ability to say the wrong thing when we desperately mean not to, or the extra pounds we carry. Whatever it is, when we look in the mirror, that fault is the only thing we see.

Believing we can suddenly fix them, simply because the calendar changed a day, does little more than add to the weight of guilt, frustration, and defeat. And when we fail it only encourages what we already believe, that we cannot change. “I simply cannot do this anymore,” we whisper to ourselves or cry into the abyss.

Because it’s true. We can’t. The majority of us can’t, anyway. I know I can’t. And I have a 20-ish years-long list of unfulfilled resolutions to prove it.

Especially recently.

This past year I have been crippled by the harsh realities of my insufficiency. In all walks of life, when I evaluate and consider who I am and what I’ve done, I am disappointed, embarrassed, and ashamed. Which is why, for the first time in 20-ish years, I have no New Year’s Resolution. There are simply too many wrongs that need fixing, and I have lost hope.

“High-functioning depression” has suddenly entered my Google results.

This reality has not only confused me, it has frightened me. I’m not supposed to be this way. I’m supposed to be strong, funny, confident, and stable.

I’m supposed to be a man. A father. A husband. A principal. I’m supposed to be better.

There simply is no room for this shit.

Yet, it is here. Unwanted and uninvited.

And I cannot fix it.

This is why I truly appreciated the above post by The Gaping Void. Largely because it doesn’t attempt to fill my mind with the typical, “This will be your year!” bullshit. Instead, it offers a simple challenge: tweak the relationship between your strengths and weaknesses and choose to look at it from a different perspective.

A different perspective can often lead to a different purpose.

When I consider my shortcomings and disappointments, they are exhausting. What plummets me, however, is when I stop there. When I fixate on lost opportunities, failed endeavors, broken relationships, and failed tries. When I fixate on myself, I get discouraged. When I focus on others, however, I have reason.

I have reason to get out of bed and head to work because my family needs me.

I have reason to head to work because my students need someone to see them.

I have reason to hear my teachers because they need someone to trust them.

When I focus on others, I have reason to keep going because maybe “My year” has nothing to do with me but everything to do with the people around me.

Maybe “my year” focuses less on where I am struggling and frustrated and a hellova lot more on why others are struggling and frustrated. And what I can do about it.

Maybe “my year” isn’t about tweaking what is wrong with me but embracing what is right with me, being comfortable and confident with that, and believing, truly believing, it is enough because it is what I have. What I’ve been given. What I’ve been gifted.

Maybe “my year” is tweaking the relationship between my strengths and my weaknesses and choosing to look at Life from a different perspective.

Maybe this is the year I am the 16%.

#doGREATthings!

Give. Relate. Explore. Analyze. Try.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Education : New Years

Repeat Offender, by Catherine Dorian : A Teacher's Story

A month or so ago, my good friend and one of my forever favorite English teachers sent me this write-up, and I loved it.

Miss Dorian was one of my teachers when I was the principal of a small-town high school. She has since moved on to the east coast where she is continually challenging herself, improving her profession, and making an impact on the world of education and in the lives of young adults.

What I love most about this piece is the raw honesty with which she writes. Every teacher can relate to this story as every teacher has lived it. What makes Miss Dorian exceptional, though, is her ability to internalize these moments. Instead of pointing fingers or consuming herself with bitterness, she strives to be better. A better teacher for sure, but also a better person.

Instead of taking it personally, she makes it personal. And in doing so, she gains compassion for the other side. She builds a bridge of understanding, of empathy, rather than discord.

And I just love that.

Repeat Offender, by Catherine Dorian

The other week, I spoke to the mother of a student who plagiarized a portion of an assignment. The mother was really not happy with me and “really not happy about this.” Clearly, her daughter hadn’t plagiarized. Clearly, I was making an unprecedented accusation.  

I gave her some context for the assignment. Her daughter had earned an 80% on a two-paragraph rhetorical analysis of one of the most important speeches on the abolition of slavery in the United States. I have a policy that any student can revise or rewrite any writing assignment before the end of the quarter, a policy designed to teach students to make use of feedback, to experience how time away from writing brings perspective and clarity, and to reflect on their revision process: a policy intended to offset a grading system that fails to teach mastery. Her daughter wants an A in the class, so, in the last week of the quarter, I encouraged her to revise the assignment. If she did, she may be able to improve her cumulative grade; moreover, she would be able to apply the significant strides in her analytical thinking that she has made since writing the original assignment.

“Yeah, I’m aware of your policy,” the mother said. “My daughter has had to rewrite assignments for you on several occasions.”

On the final day of the quarter, her daughter turned in a revision. When any student submits any assignment online, the Google Classroom algorithm does a full sweep of the assignment, checking for areas where the students’ writing is a word-for-word match with an online source.

“Yes, I’m aware of Google Classroom’s plagiarism checks. I’m an educator,” the mother reminded me.

I outlined my evidence: when her daughter turned in her rewrite, Google Classroom flagged it for plagiarism. According to the Google Classroom algorithm, her daughter pulled portions of the assignment from an online source without properly quoting or citing them, five days after I’d taught a detailed lesson on plagiarism and MLA citation with her class.

“Well, she swears up and down that she didn’t do it. I just can’t believe that you won’t believe her.”

I reiterated what I had already explained in my email to her earlier that day. When I spoke to her daughter about the assignment, she admitted to plagiarizing, apologized, said she understood that there were consequences for doing so, and assured me that she wouldn’t do it again. In tears, she explained that she was stressed and just wanted to do well.   

“Well of course, my daughter was stressed.”

Luckily, her daughter plagiarized on an assignment that was already a rewrite of an old assignment. Instead of earning zero points on the assignment, she could keep her original grade of 80%, which would not drastically bring down her cumulative grade, which was an 85% for the quarter.

But my attempt at reassurance only made this mother more indignant.  

We’ve had “countless conversations” about her daughter wanting an A, and yet again, she’d be getting a B on her report card.

That’s true.
And we’ve been talking “for a year” about what her daughter could do to improve.

That’s also true.

Her daughter’s done “everything” to get an A in my class, and I've never once given her the grade that she deserves.

That’s not quite true. I've given her child several sample assignments that have earned high marks, and I've compared/contrasted these assignments with her work, pointing to where she needs to go further in her analysis, add evidence to support her claims, elaborate on her analysis. I have modeled what A-level work looks like (I have a personal policy that I would never ask my students to do an assignment that I wouldn’t do myself, and more often than not, I write the assignment along with my students or show them a comparable essay that I wrote in college), along with several strategies to achieve A-level work. I spend anywhere from 15 - 45 minutes writing her daughter feedback on her assignments, explaining everything that she did well and explaining where she could improve. I've offered her weekly meetings, where I would give her personalized help on all of my assignments; she’s come for extra help only a handful of times in the last ten weeks.  

But my class is the “one class” that is bringing down her daughter's GPA.

My class is the “one class” that's preventing her daughter from getting a scholarship to college.

Ever since her old teacher left, she’s been struggling with English.

“It’s been an entire year with you—” the mother said, “and still, you’re not giving her an A. Good God, give the kid a break.” 

            At this point, I was getting tired. It was past three o’clock, her daughter is one student, and my other fifty-nine students still needed me to prepare their lesson for tomorrow, answer their emails, and give them feedback on their assignments. After that, I had to go home and complete a task for my second job, which provides enough supplemental income so that I can afford to keep my teaching job.

So, I did the only thing that I could think to do.

I apologized for my shortcomings and thanked her for her feedback. I promised to do more to help her child, and I promised that from now on, I would schedule 45 minutes of weekly extra help time with her daughter, where we would do her assignments together and I would ensure that she was doing everything that she could to get an A. I would follow-up with her on every writing assignment and walk her through how she could revise it. I would learn more about her learning style. I would acknowledge how hard she’s working, and make sure that I give her the recognition that she so greatly deserves.

She thanked me. “I’m sorry if I seemed aggressive at first,” she said.

No, no, she wasn’t aggressive.

“I’m just very defensive of my daughter, especially when I know how hard she’s working.”

That’s understandable.

She had to run and get her youngest to a dentist appointment. She thanked me for my time and consideration, said she was “really glad we had this talk,” and hung up. 

Downstairs in the guidance office, I updated the school counselor and the Dean of Students. A few colleagues swapped stories and strategies:

“Once, I complimented her daughter’s dress and asked her to wear a cardigan so that she’s adhering to the dress code. Not ten minutes later, I open an email, and her mom’s written a 1,200-word essay about how I was ‘too obsessed’ with policing what the girls wear.”

“The other week, she emailed me at 1 PM: ‘Call me now.’ Yeah, ‘cause I sit I around all day and wait until she needs me.”

“Oh, her? I’ve discovered that you just have to smile and take it. Don’t interrupt, don’t tell her the facts. Don’t defend yourself. Just let her rip.”

The plagiarism debacle wasn’t unique. I’ve been apologizing for things that weren’t my responsibility since I started teaching. Once, a mother berated me for assigning her daughter—an AP student—“over sixty pages of reading in two nights.” I pulled up the assignment, counted the pages three times, and, in a phone call that would take thirty minutes out of my day, confirmed with her that the assignment was, indeed, thirty pages, but that I would be more cognizant of the workload that I assign next time. Another time, I apologized to a mother for assuming that it was reasonable to ask a seventeen-year-old to check his email and ensure that he’s completed all of his assignments so that he could be eligible to play in what was supposedly the most important basketball game of his high school career. I also apologized to her for my failure to remind her to check his grades in the online gradebook—the gradebook that I updated three times a week, and the gradebook that she’d had access to all year.

I love teaching English because you get to teach about logic and rhetoric. You get to evaluate the strategies of some of the most celebrated speakers and writers of the past and the present. You get to empower students with the skill of supporting their ideas with evidence, with reasoning, with proof that prevails against the tyranny of delusion. You get to refine your own skills as you model the art of rational argument and civilized discussion with students, colleagues, parents, administrators, and school board members. You get to entertain the conviction that language can be a tool for disputing, deliberating, and resolving conflict. 

You’d think that after seven years teaching English, I’d have mastered the art of persuasion. But as I encounter more repeat offenders like the mother pictured here, I understand that no matter the amount of preparation I do for the difficult conversation – no matter Google’s algorithm which confirms the plagiarism, no matter the relevance or rigor behind the curriculum that I teach, no matter the extra hours I put in, no matter the one-on-one help that I offer, no matter the safety nets I rush beneath students who are dangerously close to hitting the pavement—there will still be parents who assume I hate their kid. So I really can’t and shouldn’t take it personally when parents insult me. I can’t and shouldn’t take offense to their skepticism or scrutiny. The best I can do is take it, absorb it, and assume that their frustration comes from their lack of faith in a school system that doesn’t set their child up for success. On that much, we can always agree, and for that much, I can always apologize.   

Thank you, Miss Dorian, for being so open and transparent with your thoughts and struggles! We can all relate. But also, and more importantly, thank you for leading by example on how to show grace and understanding to others. On how to move towards reconciliation and grace, rather than a strong defense.

Truly.

You can connect with Miss Dorian and follow more of her work at her website: catherinedorian.com. 

If you want to hear how Miss Dorian’s words inspired a two-part podcast discussion, check out Schurtz and Ties: a Podcast about Education and culture, Curse of Knowledge vs Gap of Knowledge (Part 1): Analyzing the gaps of misunderstanding between teachers and parents.

Lastly, if you have an idea you’d like to share or someone you believe we could all benefit from, please reach out and let me know! I am eager to share your story.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Education : On Leadership

Friday Thought : Making it Personal

“Don’t take it personal,” I found myself saying to multiple teachers this week, and I’ve been wrestling with it ever since.

The first time was with a teacher whom I had to intervene with and step on her toes a bit with a decision she didn’t particularly like. The other was with a teacher who was struggling with a student who was physically and verbally attacking her, “Why does he have to be so cruel?” she said through puddling tears. “Don’t take it personal,” I said to both of them and instantly regretting it because how could they not? As an educator, we pour our lives into this job. We sacrifice family, personal time and finances, we devote our hearts to the people we live with and serve. We give our whole person. How can it not be personal?

This past week, instead of saying or believe that we “shouldn’t take it personal,” I’ve begun to wonder if making it personal is exactly what we should be doing. When it isn’t personal, when its calculated, cold, and non-relational, that’s when bad things happen. When it isn’t personal we make decision based on numbers and forget about the people - the very thing we are here to help and serve!

With the first teacher, the one I offended by making a calculated decision, because she took it personal we had to have a heart-to-heart conversation. We had to GET personal. And for almost an hour, we talked out the situation, why it happened and how it could have been handled differently. Then we discussed how to move forward. We BOTH acknowledged our own humanity in the situation and sought to understand the others. We made it VERY personal, which allowed us to reconcile, to connect more sincerely, and to build trust. Because it was personal we dug deeper, cried more tears, and learned a great deal more about each other, our triggers and stressors. Because it was personal we can now trust future decisions because we trust the person.

Making it personal allowed us to heal, and to grow.

It also allows room for empathy, as it did for the teacher with her abusive student.

Last week, this particular teacher was in my office several times because a kiddo that we’ve been working hard with was having a difficult week. He was constantly running out of the classroom, was vulgar and disrespectful, and had become increasingly violent with a few students, staff, and particularly this teacher. “When is enough, enough?” She asked, wiping tears from her face, “He’s literally beating the shit out of me.” And he was. But sending him home wasn’t an option. So we continued one, throwing darts of ideas at the wall, hoping at least one would stick.

Then, we had our Christmas concert.

We were nervous about how this young child would do, if he could handle the pressure and the audience, but we decided to try anyway. We placed multiple staff nearby, ready to pounce if he needed our support. Which he did. Just not in the way we anticipated.

Throughout the concert, this little man stood on the stage, without moving and without singing, arms crossed, and pouting. Never once did he even mouth a single word to any song. Then, when it was over, when the parents gathered around to take pictures and wrap their kids up in hugs and kisses and praise, this little boy crumbled into his teachers arms and cried.

“My parents didn’t come,” he said between sobs.

Later that day, that same teacher was in my office crying again. But not for herself. She was crying for this little child and asking over and over, “What can we do for him?” She could barely control her grief for this child.

We brainstormed a few ideas, but mostly we talked about how she shouldn’t take it personal. “When he goes off, it isn’t about you. He’s reacting to something else.” But like the teacher above, the moment I said it, it felt wrong. Or at least incomplete.

Yes, don’t take it personal in that when someone is unkind or rude often times it isn’t about you at all, it’s about something bigger, something more personal to them. Behaviors are oftentimes signs of communication - especially for kiddos - and we shouldn’t take them personal. But yet, we ahould also take it personal because than we can know how best to act, how to care for and love those in need because we understand what it means to hurt, to suffer, and to need grace and compassion. Taking it personal means you can BE personal!

Seeing this young child as a complicated person allows his teacher - allows our school - to game-plan ideas and solutions that are PERSONAL to him. Making it personal makes us more invested, more empathetic, and more patient.

On a day when TikTok is advocating “Shoot Up Your School Day,” seeing the people behind our decisions and at the other end of our actions is exactly what we need in education right now. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because then we get to wrestle with the best and most important part of our jobs: the human being stuff.

Don’t take it PERSONAL. Make it personal.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Humanity  :  Friday Thoughts

Right now, we are all rubber bands

@will_santino_illustration

In my most recent staff meeting I handed out a rubber band and asked people to get into groups of three. “Now stretch it out,” I said. And they did, but only to the point of resistance.

“How’s the rubber band?” I asked.

“Fine,” they said, because rubber bands are made to be flexible and to endure. Just like us.

“Now pull a little more,” I said. And they did. Not as much as the first, but still a good stretch.

“What about now?” I asked, “How’s the rubber band?”

“Fine,” they still said, but less assuredly.

“Now pull again.” And they did. “And again . . . and again, and again.” With each and again, they pulled a little less and worried a little more. One teacher even used her free hand to block her face.

“This is where we are,” I said, “We are made to endure, to be flexible, but with each new request, with each new demand, we stretch a little more and a little more and a little more. We are now living in a state of constant fear that we’re about to break.”

We can endure hard seasons. We can absorb change, be flexible, and stretch ourselves further than we thought imaginable. But not forever. Lest we break.

The problem is - for my staff in that meeting and for many of us in our daily lives - we don’t see an end in sight, largely because the problems and issues are far bigger than us, and we can’t do anything about it.

What we can do, however, is show grace. To ourselves, and to others.

Giving grace doesn’t mean we have a free pass to sacrifice our integrity or high standards of excellence - absolutely not! But it does mean that when we fail, we show grace - that we courteous and show goodwill.

You are trying your best. The woman next to you is trying her best as well. The man across from you is trying his best. The kiddos in your classrooms are showing up and trying their best, and your boss is trying her best. But we can only stretch so far. And for many of us, we are walking fearful that, with the next request or burden to bare, we will break.

We can’t solve most of the problems the people around us are asked to endure, but we can give them - and ourselves - some grace. Which, in the end, might be the only thing that holds us together.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Humanity  :  Friday Thoughts

The Dichotomy of Realities: Why We Love and How we Hate

Sometimes, life is ironic. Sometimes it’s comical. Sometimes it’s ironically comical, like when the founder of AA asked for a shot of whisky on his death bed only to be denied by the nurse. Or the fact that “the only losing basketball coach in University of Kansas history is James Naismith—the man who invented basketball in 1891” and that A Charlie Brown Christmas is a movie about over commercializing Christmas, yet, every year, is trimmed down by ABC in order to make room for more commercials (via).

Sometimes, though, life’s irony isn’t all that funny. Sometimes it’s hard, frustrating, and more than a little exhausting. Like now, after the long Thanksgiving break - a weekend set aside to rest, be with family, and acknowledge the many blessings we have - I feel more exhausted and more frustrated than before.

Maybe you can relate? Of trying hard to maintain a good and positive and productive spirit, of trying to be diligent with your attitude and conversations with family and friends, of trying day in and day out to be purposeful in who you are and what you’ve been given only to be knocked down by a carelessly spoken word, a moment of deep disappointment, or the constant burden of a nagging worry.

Or perhaps you feel more like the student who wrote me about an “inner panic,” that’s “hard to express” but makes them “feel holed up and small.”

I know I feel that way sometimes. And I hate it. Largely because I can’t necessarily pinpoint why I feel it or explain where it came from. And because I can’t explain it, I can’t name it. And because I can’t name it I’m not entirely sure how to deal with it.

Recently, though, I’ve begun to try. I’ve named it DOR, short for “the Dichotomy of Realities.”

Let me explain.

Although there are some very real, very immediate changes to my life since the outbreak of COVID-19, everything else seems relatively normal. I still have a job, my kids still go to school in an actual school building, and bills are still being paid. Life isn’t all that different. Yet, when I turn on the news, listen to podcasts, or hear stories of people both near and far, I see and hear a reality that is harsh and hard and often very scary, and I just can’t make sense of it. How can what I see and hear be in such contrast to what I experience? How can both realities be true?

But then I think, maybe the difficulty isn’t in the ability to accept that various people are living radically different realities at the same time because that’s fairly normal. National Geographic has been exploiting that dichotomy for decades. The Dichotomy of Reality in a single person, however, is not normal. Or at least it shouldn’t be. And that, I believe, is where I’m truly struggling. How can two radically apposing realities actively exist - in the same moment and at the same time - in one person? How can we be both absolutely right and absolutely wrong simultaneously?

Like the woman in a video posted by @aaronjfaulkner who chewed out some teenage boys who were sitting in their car. “You’re ass is grass,” she barks through the slightly open driver-side window, “You’re supposed to be sheltering in place.” Then, when she notices the phone, she ends with, “Go ahead, put me on social media. You’re a little punk!” Her eyes are furrowed and her hand keeps hitting the glass. How can she not see the irony in her actions? How can she be so concerned about humanity yet so unkind to humans in the exact same moment?

Or what about the story that broke recently of the senior pastor at Flowing Streams Church in Florida who encouraged the Trump administration to “‘start shooting” democrats and members of the media in firing squads if it turns out they conspired to rig the presidential election.” How is that possible? How can a man read the scriptures of grace and mercy and forgiveness while also conjuring up ideas of a mass killing spree?

In his TED Talk, How One Tweet Can Ruin Your Life, Jon Ronson also wrestled with this dichotomy. If you don’t remember the name Justin Sacco you probably remember her story. She’s the one that sent a sarcastic (albeit insensitive) Tweet right before boarding a plane to Africa. Jon Ronson explains it this way:

{Justine Sacco} was a PR woman from New York with 170 Twitter followers, and she'd Tweet little acerbic jokes to them, like this one on a plane from New York to London: [Weird German Dude: You're in first class. It's 2014. Get some deodorant." -Inner monologue as I inhale BO. Thank god for pharmaceuticals.] So Justine chuckled to herself, and pressed send, and got no replies, and felt that sad feeling that we all feel when the Internet doesn't congratulate us for being funny . . . And then she got to Heathrow, and she had a little time to spare before her final leg, so she thought up another funny little acerbic joke: 

[Going to Africa. Hope I don't get AIDS. Just kidding. I'm white!] 

And she chuckled to herself, pressed send, got on the plane, got no replies, turned off her phone, fell asleep, woke up 11 hours later, turned on her phone while the plane was taxiing on the runway, and straightaway there was a message from somebody that she hadn't spoken to since high school, that said, "I am so sorry to see what's happening to you." And then another message from a best friend, "You need to call me right now. You are the worldwide number one trending topic on Twitter."

Within hours, and at the hands of thousands of strangers, Justine had lost her job, her life, and her humanity. She sent a terrible message (albeit, misinterpreted) and was publicly maimed and destroyed for it. Yet, those who responded with deliberate cruelty, with horrific words and ideas that could in no way be misinterpreted as anything other than hateful not only “got a free pass” from all in attendance, they received affirmation and applause.

Comments such as, “I'm actually kinda hoping Justine Sacco gets aids? lol” was liked and retweeted. Another person tweeted, "Somebody HIV-positive should rape this bitch and then we'll find out if her skin color protects her from AIDS” and nothing happened. Nobody venomously responded to or retweeted their cruelty or contacted that person’s employer or found where they were traveling to and met them as they arrived.

Why?

How can there be such an accepted duality of reality? How can we acknowledge such wrong and hate and insensitivity in one instance yet ignore it completely in a slightly different other instance? How can we be so aware yet so blind?

How can I?

I may never say such vulgar things as those tweeted at Justine Sacco, but I know I am guilty of living in this dual reality. Like the times I get frustrated - and I mean the blood pumping, I’m-about-to-lose-my-shit kind of frustrated - and bark at my kids to “STOP YELLING AT YOUR SIBLINGS!!!” Or when I gossip about people who I think are gossipers

How can I do that? How can I, in the exact same instance, hate something bad yet embrace it with both arms? In those moments I instantly know I’m a fraud, that I’m living and expecting two different realities, but does that cause me to pause the next time he speaks unkindly? Sometimes. Other times not. Which is itself another frustration: why can I not stop doing what I hate doing?

The other night, while wrestling with the DOR, a quote came to mind: “So much death. What can man do against such reckless hate?” because in those moments, either when I see it happening on Facebook, the News, or anywhere else humans exist, I often feel the same way. That the fight is hopeless.

But then the rest of the quote came to mind, and as Lord of the Rings often does, it inspired me.

Movies that play on the Good vs Evil are always the same. The bad guy (or gal) are always bigger, stronger, more advanced, and for sure have many more followers. Yet, the good guys (or gal) always win in the end! But only after someone offers a bit of encouragement. Then, with a renewed vision, the hero is once again confident and ready to fight, to inspire those present, and lead them into their final battle against Evil. Soon after, the story ends and Good is victorious once again..

Aragon offers similar inspiration, “Ride with me. Ride out and meet them.” Or rather, “Don’t give up. Keep going.”

Recently that simple truth, although elementary in stature, has been a bedrock for my day to day. I’ve tried to be positive, to remain artistic and active, to be a man of integrity. Yet, more often then not, I’ve felt dull, accosted, and discouraged. Inconsequential even. In those moments I know full well I’m being unfair to myself and to life in general, but that doesn’t mean the frustration isn’t there, that I don’t want to throw my arms up in exhaustion and, in some way, give up. Just like King Theoden.

Its easy for us to focus on the negativity of the world around, largely because it’s the sauce that makes the evening news, TikTok videos, and Facebook posts. Yet, in the midst of the destruction and ugliness, I am also constantly reminded to “ride out and meet them” by those who continually refuse to give in or give up.

Like these people who, in the early onsets of the Global Shutdown, found ways to stay positive, stay creative, and keep each other laughing.

“Always find ways to cheer yourself up,” the young journalist, Violet Wang says. Or better yet, always find ways to cheers up others for that is what sustains us, encourages us, and inspires us to be better people. Not criticism and backbiting.

I doubt any of those people above maintained such great attitudes all throughout their quarantine. I’m sure, like me, they had their rough days, weeks, perhaps even months. But I’m also just as confident that they found encouragement from someone who inspired them to get out of bed or of their own discouraged mind and do something fun, something creative, and something worthwhile.

Because that too is part of our dichotomous reality, that we are kind and good and able to do great things even when we don’t feel like it. Even when we’re at war.

We are rarely allowed to have a choice in the event we are asked to live, but we are always provided a choice in how we choose to respond to those events. We can either destroy a life, or save it. We heal each other, Zahed says, when we catch another’s hand from darkness and move them into light.

We know this and want this, which is why stories such as My Enemy, My Brother stir our hearts to tears. Because we know it to be true and want, so desperately, to live lives of such moral aptitude.

Yet, when the moment presents itself, when we have an opportunity to do what we want to do, we do not. Instead, we do the very thing we hate to do: we destroy. We live out our Dichotomy of Reality. We live out our humanity.

“Human beings,” states Bryan Stevenson - founder and executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative, “are biologically programmed to do what is comfortable, to do what is convenient” and not necessarily what is right. “To do something uncomfortable,” he continues, what is scary, what is dangerous, what is not fun, requires us to make a conscious choice - a decision - to do the very thing we do not want to do. To be kind, to love despite the hate, and to save a life rather than destroy it.

“An absence of compassion can corrupt the decency of a community, a state, a nation. Fear and anger can make us vindictive and abusive, unjust and unfair, until we all suffer from the absence of mercy. We condemn ourselves as much as we victimize others” (via). In short, we all lose.

So now what?

Now that I have named it and found a way to explain it, how do I deal with it? The answer, for me at least, is quite simple: keep fighting. Be it against the war of pain and destruction around me, or the war for pain and destruction within me. Keep Fighting.

To paraphrase Jon Gordon:

When they say unkind things about you, keep fighting.

When they falsely accuse you, keep fighting.

When no one notices, keep fighting.

When everyone notices, keep fighting.

Fight with passion.

Fight the good fight. For history never remembers the critics, only those who signed up for the battle. Because they’re the ones that become the heroes, who become brothers. They’re the one’s who change the world.

They’re the ones who ride out and meet them.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living

Our worth, and why it matters.

Every so often, my children struggle with the “I am’s” of who they are. The “I am” of who they are currently, the “I am” of who others see in them, the “I am” of who they were, and the “I am” of who they want to be.

A few nights ago was one of those times.

So I had them draw a picture of themselves and then asked them, “When you look at yourself, what are five things you want people to say about you?” The clicking an clacking of crayons scribing little words and simple phrases instantly filled the dining room. I sat and watched. I listened. And I worked on my own.

My plan was to discuss the power of our actions because my kids, like many others, don’t want to be perceived as bossy, unkind, selfish, and so on. At times, however, their actions suggest otherwise, and I wanted them to understand that just because they think something about themselves doesn’t mean that is how they are perceived. Our actions define who we are, not our words.

As is often the case, however - at least in my family - the conversation took a turn and headed in another direction.

“I’m cool,” and “fun” Zion wrote, asking how to spell every word.

“Try sounding them on your own,” I said. And she did, adding, “Tuf, butiful,” and “nis.”

“Artistic,” Eden wrote in pink, then, switching to purple, “beautiful, athletic, nice.” She struggled a bit for her fifth. After a few minutes of thought, she witched back to pink and wrote, “funny.”

Judah’s were written in gray, “not ugly, nice, humorous, somewhat athletic, kinda smart.” With a black crayon, I crossed out “not ugly” and wrote “handsome,” but he didn’t like that. I also crossed out “somewhat” and “kinda,” and that really frustrated him, “You asked my for my opinion, and this is what I want!”

“Why though?” I asked, knowing he was struggling a bit in school with identity and feeling a bit on the outs, “Why do you only want to be kinda smart or somewhat athletic?” I pointed to my black markings, “Why don’t you want to be handsome?”

“Because I don’t want to stand out,” he said, tears beginning to swell in the corners of his eyes, “I don’t want everyone to notice me.”

My initial plan of discussion began to change course. Eden and Zion stopped coloring and looked at their older brother.

“What’s so wrong about being noticed?” I asked.

“I just don’t like it,” he said, and my father-heart broke.

“Comer here,” I said, grabbing the crayons and placing them back into the bucket. “Come sit with me for a minute.” We walked to the living room. He sat on the oversized chair and I sat on the floor, arms across his lap. Eden snuggled in next to me, as she has come to do in recent months, just to listen. Zion kept coloring for a while, then headed off to play dog with her younger brother.

“You’re a Miller,” I said to Judah, “And that means when we do something, whatever is, be it sport, school work, yard work, coloring, whatever, we do our very best.”

“But why can’t I do my best and not be the best?” he asked, tears still on the brink.

“Why can’t you be the best?” I asked, feeling a bit of frustration welling in my stomach, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Because I don’t want to be arrogant. I don’t want to think I’m better than everybody else.” A tear lunged down his cheek.

“Why does being good mean you have to think you’re better than everybody else?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.

He shrugged his shoulders, “It just always seems that way.” Faces of kids Judah has grown up with flashed through my head. Kids who were talented in various areas but also selfish and unkind to most everyone who wasn’t up to their standards.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said, “You can be both great and nice?”

“Why does it matter?” Judah asked, “Why can’t I just be good? Why do I have to be great?”

Eden held her knees, Judah shifted in his seat, and I felt a heat flash through my neck and up through my face, This isn’t working I thought to myself, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.

Quotes from inspirational books clogged themselves in my throat. They tasted like acid. I swallowed them down.

“Because,” I said, stalling, thinking, and feeling completely lost. What am I doing? What am I saying? I held Judah’s hand, stared at the scar on his arm, and sat quietly. Eden leaned against my arm, Judah looked out the window, and my mind wondered quickly through the past few years. Suddenly, hundreds of thoughts and memories and moments began to flood my head, of Judah and Eden struggling with identity and confidence, of them believing most everything they do isn’t good enough, that their gifts and talents and thoughts have little worth; that they’re “different.” An answer began to form.

It’s funny how our brains work, how they can take milliseconds to work through years of images and emotions, how it can tie them together in a single linear story with crisp and sudden clarity, and then suddenly produce an intelligent (or, at the very least, coherent) thought.

“Judah,” I said, the thought beginning to take shape, “I don’t want you to be great for your sake, so that you can get the glory and praise. I want you to be great for other people’s sake.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. Eden lifted her head from my shoulder.

“Let’s say you had a hundred dollars in your wallet, but because you hadn’t looked for a long time, you only thought you had twenty.”

He looked at me skeptically, with a look that said, “I would never forget that I had one-hundred dollars.”

“I know,” I said, “But just pretend, okay?”

He nodded. Eden began to chew her nails.

“So you have a hundred but only think you have twenty, and I come home from work, stressed and terrified because I had miscalculated our budget and now we were a hundred dollars short and our heating bill is due in a few hours. You hear Mom and I talking, and as you press your ear to the door to hear more clearly, you catch me saying, ‘If I don’t pay it soon, they’re going to shut off the power and we won’t be able to heat the house.’”

Judah’s eyes widen slightly because with almost two months of below freezing temperatures, he knows what that means.

“So you run over,” I continue, “and say, ‘Dad, I have twenty dollars you can have,’ and you hand it to me with joy in your heart, knowing you can help.” His eyes stay with me and I know he’s tracking along. “And I take it, grateful and joyful that my son is so willing to give and to love our family, but I know it isn’t enough. That although the gesture is sweet and beautiful, it doesn’t really matter because we’re still far from paying the bill and soon, everyone will be freezing cold.” Judah nods and Eden, still against my arm, stares.

“But if you had known that you had one-hundred dollars instead of twenty,” I continue, “you could have helped fully and completely. You could have paid the bill for us and everyone would have been nice and warm, right?” And he nods again.

And that’s just where I need him to be.

“We don’t pursue greatness so we can bring honor and praise to ourselves,” I tell him, holding his thigh and looking into his eyes, “we pursue greatness because it allows us more and greater opportunities to help more people. If you have one-hundred dollars but only think you have twenty, you can only provide twenty dollars worth of help. But if you have a hundred, if you can look in the mirror and say, ‘I’ve worked really hard and now I have a hundred dollars to give away,’ think of how much more you can bless others?” He nods again.

“But Judah,” I say, holding his hand and wrapping the other around Eden, “and Eden, you both have some amazing gifts. They need to be worked on and refined for sure, but you have amazing gifts. You’re healthy, your smart, your athletic, your artistic, and a million other things - you are truly gifted and talented kids. But right now, you believe you only have twenty dollars in your wallet, which means you are losing chances to truly help and bless others.”

They both nod.

“And that’s why I want and care about you being great,” I say, “Not because I want you to be popular or praised, but because I want you to serve and help as many people as possible. I want you to make a huge difference. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Eden says. Judah nods, as he tends to do when he truly gets something.

“Good,” I say, now go give your mom some hugs and then brush your teeth.” They scamper off, racing and pushing and arguing, like they do every. single. night. Then, they come to me, wrap their arms around my waste, say, “I love you,” and turn for their bedrooms. “Judah, Eden,” I say. They turn in unison, “You’re worth one-hundred thousand dollars, not just a hundred.” They smile and turn and race to bed.

That’s why we become great. So that we can help others. So that we can make a difference. And that is what so many kids - so many people - are missing. In service of others, that’s where we find our worth, our purpose, and our hope within this mess of life. Not in spending more time loving ourselves.

We each have a great a mighty worth. What a blessing it is to discover unique and exciting and sometimes simple ways to give it away.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living

Friday Thought : Leave it at the door. be Awesome.

My friend, Ron Hardy

I was in my third year of teaching, I think (maybe fourth) when much of my life was far from where I'd hoped it would be and I was beginning to struggle with confidence, joy, and purpose. Unsurprisingly, it began to impact my teaching, my classroom, and my students. Only, I didn’t notice.

Then, I somewhere around Christmas, I received an anonymous email from a student that was written from an anonymous email account informing me that I was not doing a great job, that my teaching was sub-par, and that he (I think it was a he, at least) and his classmates deserved better. Luckily, I received that email on a Friday so I could spend the weekend sulking, arguing, excusing, then finally accepting that he was right. I needed to do better. Because he and they and my colleagues and my family deserved better. And because I was better.

The following week I started writing, "Leave it at the door. be Awesome." on the bottom of every lesson plan. A few weeks in, I made it the footer to my lesson plan template which I have used ever since, reminding me each and every day I sat down to create a lesson to leave whatever struggles, issues, and frustrations I might have at the door and be Awesome.

I wasn't perfect after that, nor did I always leave everything at the door. In fact, every now and then I would gather it all in my arms, squeeze it through the door, then drop it right in the middle of the floor for all my students to see. Like the day I spent sharing memories of my childhood best friend because the night before I had discovered it was the anniversary of passing. He had been gone for almost six years, and I never even knew. We had lost touch over the years, and when I discovered he had passed away six years prior, I felt terrible, guilty, and at a loss.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

So I wrestled through it with my students, I shared some of my favorite memories, talked about how the night before I could only see so much of Ronnie in my son that I ended up holding him for almost an hour while I talked about my childhood friend, and I talked with them about loss and life and the struggle in between. Then I had them share memories of their friends and families and write brief notes to those they mentioned. It wasn't all that academic of a class, but kids referenced it for years as one of their favorite classes and, ever since, I have committed to sharing his story with whomever I can during the month of October, the month he so abruptly left this world.

Sometimes life and circumstances seem more than we can bare. Or, as Bilbo Baggins said, it can make us feeling exhausted and "thin . . . stretched, like butter, spread over too much bread."

In those moments, for me at least, it is healthy to remind myself that I am needed - by my students, my colleagues, my family, and my community. That I am bigger than my circumstances, better than what some might think or say about me, and that I am able to help and serve and do great things, even when I don't feel like it.

People need us. They need us to be great, to be better than we often feel and sometimes think. They need us to be their mothers, fathers, friends, counselors, encouragers, planners, champions, and safe places. They a need us to be Awesome. Which means, sometimes, that they need us to be vulnerable and open and raw. They need us to be human. Which is great! Because that is exactly what humans are. Awesome.

And because we are, we can also be.

Leave it at the door. be Awesome.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  Friday Thoughts : Ron Hardy

Friday Thought : A Boy and His Dog

I listened to a great podcast recently, about a Boy and His Dog.

The boy, who had fallen on hard times, was selling his dog - his best friend - for a hundred dollars simply because he needed to eat. Being a writer wasn't paying any bills. Little Jimmy didn't really care, though. He wanted the nice dog, but for a better bargain. So Little Jimmy took advantage of the man and his plight and instead offered $25. The skinny kid sighed, knowing he needed to feed his wife and couldn't afford to feed his dog, and finally accepting $40.

Two weeks later, when a screen writer offered to buy that same dog for $200, Little Jimmy once again took advantage of the situation and refused to sell the dog for anything less than $15,000 AND a speaking role in the man's new and upcoming movie! The man had written the screenplay in four days and sold it for $35,000 dollars, only a few days prior.

The dog was Butkus. The skinny kid, Sylvester Stallone (pictured above). And the movie was Rocky.

Whenever I come to work, I am constantly encouraged and inspired by those of you who have chosen to live a Sylvester Stallone sort of life. You work hard, endure hardships, then rather than sitting in the mess of life, you find solutions. Thank you for being that for me, for your fellow colleagues, and most importantly, for the students who have the privilege of being in your presence.

I promise you, they notice.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  Friday Thoughts

Rewind Forward : When today becomes the past

I often return to the moment before the accident. One moment, I see a young beautiful lady laughing into the camera . . . CUT . . . three months later, she woke up from her coma. When I saw her for the first time, I asked my father, "Who is this woman?"

This video truly shook me a bit, and not just because of the death of so many family members (actual and relational), but I'll admit, the thoughts and memories of older days, when we were camping and living and struggling together, came rushing in. I easily resonated with,  

Do you miss him sometimes?

Not just sometimes . . . always!  Always!

And I don't think I'll ever stop. But also, 

I'm ready - to stop looking back, and to look forward. For a long time, I dreamed of standing here together again. But life took another turn.

Some of my family have said the brokenness we're experiencing is "God's will" and until He decides it's time for us to reconcile all we can do is pray. I think that's bullshit. I think we are a product of the decisions we've made, of the truths we hold so dear. Life didn't take the turn, we did. And now, we're miles and miles apart, still heading in opposite directions, waiting for and dreaming of the days when someone else will turn around. 

As I write, my family (wife and kiddos) are traveling the country. We're nearing the end of our fifth week on the road (from Wyoming to Pennsylvania with stops in Virginia, New Jersey, Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin, and North Dakota). On our way to Virginia, I wrote in my journal,

We’re nearing 4 weeks of road tripping, and some days, I just want to be home, sitting on a couch, doing very little. Because traveling is expensive, because traveling breaks habits and somehow convinces kids it’s okay to push and break rules, and because one-year olds don’t sleep well on the road. And we are tired. 
But then we stand and look over the valley and I get to see the country with my son, my wife, my kids - my family -and then, through the perspective of young eyes, the miles and millions of cups of coffee are worth it. Because someday, I’m going to wish they all fit in the van again.

I don't know what sort of turns life has down the road, I just know that for now, we're all in the van together. I also know that however I travel now, the way I love my kids, the conversations we have or don't have, the stories we share the memories we create will most definitely and directly impact how we, a family, travers the road ahead. 

You can't outrun the past. With that I agree. But I can choose to sit in the present, to live and love and pursue with the tenacious truth that I'm not guaranteed tomorrow, and that someday memories might be all that I have left. 

Although hopes and dreams will forever be before me, I do have a say in how this thing plays out. These days are about these days and right now. The ripples will take care of themselves.