Well, it's not as bad as it looks. I have been writing, putting together some cheerleading essays to get everyone ready to start developing the writing habit in January. I've also been working on prompts and such for the website, hoping that I can have it all ready to go on the first instead of feeling my breath catch in my throat the first time I have to write a check and having my mind scream, "Holy cow! It's the FIRST!" At which time my family ceases to exist and I hole myself up in the school room and work like a maniac. Planning ahead like this is much less stressful.

But it's not practice. That's not just letting the words come as they arrive.

Words have power. I cringe whenever I hear someone say, "Those are just words." Of course dishonest words have less power, but think of the written words that have survived through history because of the weight they carry. Even the day-to-day writing in the time of the Pharoahs becomes important to us today because we catch a glimpse of what life was like for these folks.

So when you're writing, think about what you might be leaving behind. And think about what you might be encouraging on down the line. An example--I love reading about Thomas Edison's mother. Edison was quite a challenge to rear. Yet she loved him, and she encouraged his love of learning. Edison often said that it was his mother who made him. She understood the need to allow him to follow the gifts and talents that came naturally to him, yet she patiently taught him how to do the things he needed to do that didn't come so easily. In the end, Edison was never a very good speller. But who remembers that?

So now when my boys aren't exactly geniuses in one subject or another, I make sure they put in an honest effort. But I also make sure they have plenty of time to pursue the things that they do well, exercising those talents they were born with.

I honest think that most children who fall through the cracks of the school system are those who really need time to focus on what their strengths are. We are so shackled to teaching toward good test scores. Those talents that aren't measured on standardized tests become unimportant. But when one of those unimportant things is the heart and soul of your being, how can you possibly be whole and healthy and happy? Edison was miserable at school. Why? Because he learned best hands-on with the opportunity to ask many questions. In school, he was supposed to sit still, be quiet, and memorize things. ACK! Poor kids!!


Oh, and I was just livid today as I worked through my son's English work-text. You have to understand that by now, Abe is pretty much a self-taught individual. He does the work and then hands stacks of stuff to me to sort through and record. This is the first time I got a good look at this English book, and it's crap. Pardon me. But it really is!!!

Here's an example:


My secretary is (she, her).
The culprits were (they, them).
The person who called you was (I, me).

Now I tell you--what editor would let those sentences stand as they are in the first place? Who writes like that? This isn't real world stuff! In the real world we'd say, "She is my secretary" or "They were the culprits." No wonder the stuff is difficult to sort out--it stinks as writing in the first place. No wonder kids HATE THIS STUFF! The question isn't which word should complete the sentence, the question should be "How could these sentences be written so that they are clear and understandable?" I think we'll fill up the rest of his English requirement with literature classes. I'd rather he was reading real books than doing this stuff.

And kids wade through this nonsense and come to hate writing. What a disservice!!

So there are kids who are still left behind. So far behind that they think they're stupid, unteachable, or a waste of time. It's criminal. No child is talentless. Every learner deserves nurturing, and someone who believes in his/her abilities. And they deserve to work in real-world settings and not among nonsense that they'll rarely, if ever, stumble across in day-to-day living.

Okay--where did that come from? :)

Ding, ding.

I get the paper on the weekends but I confess, I don't read much that's in it. I scan the headlines and the front page to see what's inside. Then I skim the first section to see if anything catches my eye. I work my way through the pains, problems and situations plaguing people, countries and the globe, and then I dive into the editorials, where my head will spin with replies to just about every letter. It's good practice in organizing thoughts, even writing letters that I never seem to get sent in. Then it's on to the funnies, toss the sports section to the guys and the classifieds to my eldest who is looking for work, and I'm finished.

The trouble with this approach, I have learned, is that I'm not seeing real people behind the headlines.

For example, here's a little blip on the front page of Thursday's paper that I didn't even bother investigating:

STATE:
Robberies Linked
LATEST NEWS: FBI officials think the man who robbed a northwest Oklahoma City bank Monday also struck Thursday.
BACKGROUND: There have been 50 metro area bank robberies this year, compared with 15 last year.
WHAT'S NEXT: A reward is offered. Page 6A

After you get to 49, you just kinda tune out.

Until you go to a Bible study group and learn that the teller who was held up was one of your friends.

Then you start to really think about it.

This guy waited in a lengthy line on Thursday, which means he might have very well cased out which teller he would approach. My friend would seem an easy target. She's my height or perhaps just a little shorter, and on some of the windy days we've had lately you might be tempted to hold on to her for fear she'd blow away. There she is--at the window, doing her job, being warm and friendly as I know her to be even on a bad day, and inch by inch he's patiently moving toward her. Then instead of getting a greeting in return, she watches him pull something from a leather bag, and put it on the counter in front of her. Checks? Rolls of coins? No. She finds herself chest-to-barrel with a semi-automatic pistol.

I can't say I would not have fainted. I can't say at all what I would have done, but I know my heart would have dropped to my feet, at the very least. Now, instead of checking to see if she has the ID or the endorsements she needs, she's struck by the idea that the bank is very full, and if she does something stupid, a lot of people could get hurt, not to mention how close the barrel of the pistol is to her heart. She can't get to help without raising suspicion and so she does as she's been trained--do what you feel safe doing. The money and the pistol go back into the bag.

And then he walks out.

What is left behind?

My friend is okay. And she'll be more okay as the days go by, because she has a sure hope and a firm faith, and knows that this kind of thing happens in the world we live in. But how does she look down a long line of customers and not wonder just who may be in that line?

But what about the other 49? What if those tellers didn't have the support system to see them through? The experience could be haunting every second that passed since it happened.

And how do I read the next newstory without wondering how long the woman in this bit of news, desperately afraid, tearfully pleaded for her life before her estranged husband shot her, and where was her daughter hiding through all of it and how can that little girl ever have a normal life? Or is the woman with Hepititis C, thanks to a careless health "professional" re-using needles, past tears now, and just resigned to the illness? Or does she cry into her pillow every night, wondering how much longer she has to hold her grandbaby and watch him grow?

I know that in a few days, I too will be fine. I need to be, because delving into every newspaper article on an emotional level is crazy--much too draining. But, I do hope I can remember to be compassionate. When I meet the next person at a door who wants to snap at me, I want the presence of mind to consider that maybe she's spent the night tossing and turning, thinking about "what if it was me or mine?" Or maybe it was her or hers, and that's all the more reason for me to be kind and offer a word of comfort.