Share This With All the Schools, Please

By Glennon Doyle Melton
January 30, 2014
http://momastery.com/blog/2014/01/30/share-schools/

A few weeks ago, I went into Chase’s class for tutoring.

I’d emailed Chase’s teacher one evening and said, “Chase keeps telling me that this stuff you’re sending home is math – but I’m not sure I believe him. Help, please.” She emailed right back and said, “No problem! I can tutor Chase after school anytime.” And I said, “No, not him. Me. He gets it. Help me.” And that’s how I ended up standing at a chalkboard in an empty fifth grade classroom staring at rows of shapes that Chase’s teacher kept referring to as “numbers.”

I stood a little shakily at the chalkboard while Chase’s teacher sat behind me, perched on her desk, using a soothing voice to try to help me understand the “new way we teach long division.”  Luckily for me, I didn’t have to unlearn much because I never really understood the “old way we taught long division.” It took me a solid hour to complete one problem, but l could tell that Chase’s teacher liked me anyway. She used to work with NASA, so obviously we have a whole lot in common.

Afterwards, we sat for a few minutes and talked about teaching children and what a sacred trust and responsibility it is. We agreed that subjects like math and reading are the least important things that are learned in a classroom. We talked about shaping little hearts to become contributors to a larger  community – and we discussed our mutual dream that those communities might be made up of individuals who are Kind and Brave above all.

And then she told me this.

Every Friday afternoon Chase’s teacher asks her students to take out a piece of paper and write down the names of four children with whom they’d like to sit the following week. The children know that these requests may or may not be honored. She also asks the students to nominate one student whom they believe has been an exceptional classroom citizen that week. All ballots are privately submitted to her.

And every single Friday afternoon, after the students go home, Chase’s teacher takes out those slips of paper, places them in front of her and studies them. She looks for patterns.

Who is not getting requested by anyone else?

Who doesn’t even know who to request?

Who never gets noticed enough to be nominated?

Who had a million friends last week and none this week?

You see, Chase’s teacher is not looking for a new seating chart or “exceptional citizens.” Chase’s teacher is looking for lonely children. She’s looking for children who are struggling to connect with other children. She’s identifying the little ones who are falling through the cracks of the class’s social life. She is discovering whose gifts are going unnoticed by their peers. And she’s pinning down- right away- who’s being bullied and who is doing the bullying.

As a teacher, parent, and lover of all children – I think that this is the most brilliant Love Ninja strategy I have ever encountered. It’s like taking an X-ray of a classroom to see beneath the surface of things and into the hearts of students. It is like mining for gold – the gold being those little ones who need a little help – who need adults to step in and TEACH them how to make friends, how to ask others to play, how to join a group, or how to share their gifts with others. And it’s a bully deterrent because every teacher knows that bullying usually happens outside of her eyeshot –  and that often kids being bullied are too intimidated to share. But as she said – the truth comes out on those safe, private, little sheets of paper.

As Chase’s teacher explained this simple, ingenious idea – I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. “How long have you been using this system?” I said.

Ever since Columbine, she said.  Every single Friday afternoon since Columbine.

Good Lord.

This brilliant woman watched Columbine knowing that ALL VIOLENCE BEGINS WITH DISCONNECTION. All outward violence begins as inner loneliness. She watched that tragedy KNOWING that children who aren’t being noticed will eventually resort to being noticed by any means necessary.

And so she decided to start fighting violence early and often, and with the world within her reach. What Chase’s teacher is doing when she sits in her empty classroom studying those lists written with shaky 11 year old hands  – is SAVING LIVES. I am convinced of it. She is saving lives.

And what this mathematician has learned while using this system is something she really already knew: that everything – even love, even belonging – has a pattern to it. And she finds those patterns through those lists – she breaks the codes of disconnection. And then she gets lonely kids the help they need. It’s math to her. It’s MATH.

All is love- even math.  Amazing.

Chase’s teacher retires this year –  after decades of saving lives. What a way to spend a life: looking for patterns of love and loneliness. Stepping in, every single day-  and altering the trajectory of our world.

TEACH ON, WARRIORS. You are the first responders, the front line, the disconnection detectives, and the best and ONLY hope we’ve got for a better world. What you do in those classrooms when no one  is watching-  it’s our best hope.

Teachers- you’ve got a million parents behind you whispering together: “We don’t care about the damn standardized tests. We only care that you teach our children to be Brave and Kind. And we thank you. We thank you for saving lives.”

Love – All of Us
- See more at: http://momastery.com/blog/2014/01/30/share-schools/#sthash.Vvg0YPFF.vPbmZbHA.dpuf

Rag Doll

Taking Responsibility For Your Own Happiness

http://m.theweek.com/article/index/99512/he-said-he-was-leaving-she-ignored-him
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/02/fashion/02love.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0


Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear

He said he was leaving. She ignored him.
LAURA MUNSON | AUGUST 13, 2009

Let's say you have what you believe to be a healthy marriage. You're still friends and lovers after spending more than half of your lives together. The dreams you set out to achieve in your 20s — gazing into each other's eyes in candlelit city bistros, when you were single and skinny — have for the most part come true.

Two decades later you have the 20 acres of land, the farmhouse, the children, the dogs and horses. You're the parents you said you would be, full of love and guidance. You've done it all: Disneyland, camping, Hawaii, Mexico, city living, stargazing.

Sure, you have your marital issues, but on the whole you feel so self-satisfied about how things have worked out that you would never, in your wildest nightmares, think you would hear these words from your husband one fine summer day: "I don't love you anymore. I'm not sure I ever did. I'm moving out. The kids will understand. They'll want me to be happy."

But wait. This isn't the divorce story you think it is. Neither is it a begging-him-to-stay story. It's a story about hearing your husband say, "I don't love you anymore" and deciding not to believe him. And what can happen as a result.

Here's a visual: Child throws a temper tantrum. Tries to hit his mother. But the mother doesn't hit back, lecture or punish. Instead, she ducks. Then she tries to go about her business as if the tantrum isn't happening. She doesn't "reward" the tantrum. She simply doesn't take the tantrum personally because, after all, it's not about her.

Let me be clear: I'm not saying my husband was throwing a child's tantrum. No. He was in the grip of something else — a profound and far more troubling meltdown that comes not in childhood but in midlife, when we perceive that our personal trajectory is no longer arcing reliably upward as it once did. But I decided to respond the same way I'd responded to my children's tantrums. And I kept responding to it that way. For four months.

"I don't love you anymore. I'm not sure I ever did."

His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, "I don't buy it." Because I didn't.

He drew back in surprise. Apparently he'd expected me to burst into tears, to rage at him, to threaten him with a custody battle. Or beg him to change his mind.

So he turned mean. "I don't like what you've become."

Gut-wrenching pause. How could he say such a thing? That's when I really wanted to fight. To rage. To cry. But I didn't.

Instead, a shroud of calm enveloped me, and I repeated those words: "I don't buy it."

You see, I'd recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. I'd committed to "the End of Suffering." I'd finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. I'd seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.

My husband hadn't yet come to this understanding with himself. He had enjoyed many years of hard work, and its rewards had supported our family of four all along. But his new endeavor hadn't been going so well, and his ability to be the breadwinner was in rapid decline. He'd been miserable about this, felt useless, was losing himself emotionally and letting himself go physically. And now he wanted out of our marriage; to be done with our family.

But I wasn't buying it.

I said: "It's not age-appropriate to expect children to be concerned with their parents' happiness. Not unless you want to create co-dependents who'll spend their lives in bad relationships and therapy. There are times in every relationship when the parties involved need a break. What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?"

"Huh?" he said.

"Go trekking in Nepal. Build a yurt in the back meadow. Turn the garage studio into a man-cave. Get that drum set you've always wanted. Anything but hurting the children and me with a reckless move like the one you're talking about."

Then I repeated my line, "What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?"

"Huh?"

"How can we have a responsible distance?"

"I don't want distance," he said. "I want to move out."

My mind raced. Was it another woman? Drugs? Unconscionable secrets? But I stopped myself. I would not suffer.

Instead, I went to my desk, Googled "responsible separation," and came up with a list. It included things like: Who's allowed to use what credit cards? Who are the children allowed to see you with in town? Who's allowed keys to what?

I looked through the list and passed it on to him.

His response: "Keys? We don't even have keys to our house."

I remained stoic. I could see pain in his eyes. Pain I recognized.

"Oh, I see what you're doing," he said. "You're going to make me go into therapy. You're not going to let me move out. You're going to use the kids against me."

"I never said that. I just asked: What can we do to give you the distance you need ... "

"Stop saying that!"

Well, he didn't move out.

Instead, he spent the summer being unreliable. He stopped coming home at his usual 6 o'clock. He would stay out late and not call. He blew off our entire Fourth of July — the parade, the barbecue, the fireworks — to go to someone else's party. When he was at home, he was distant. He wouldn't look me in the eye. He didn't even wish me "Happy Birthday."

But I didn't play into it. I walked my line. I told the kids: "Daddy's having a hard time, as adults often do. But we're a family, no matter what." I was not going to suffer. And neither were they.

My trusted friends were irate on my behalf. "How can you just stand by and accept this behavior? Kick him out! Get a lawyer!"

I walked my line with them, too. This man was hurting, yet his problem wasn't mine to solve. In fact, I needed to get out of his way so he could solve it.

I know what you're thinking: I'm a pushover. I'm weak and scared and would put up with anything to keep the family together. I'm probably one of those women who would endure physical abuse. But I can assure you, I'm not. I load 1,500-pound horses into trailers and gallop through the high country of Montana all summer. I went through Pitocin-induced natural childbirth. And a Caesarean section without follow-up drugs. I am handy with a chain saw.

I simply had come to understand that I was not at the root of my husband's problem. He was. If he could turn his problem into a marital fight, he could make it about us. I needed to get out of the way so that wouldn't happen.

Privately, I decided to give him time. Six months.

I had good days and I had bad days. On the good days, I took the high road. I ignored his lashing out, his merciless jabs. On bad days, I would fester in the August sun while the kids ran through sprinklers, raging at him in my mind. But I never wavered. Although it may sound ridiculous to say, "Don't take it personally" when your husband tells you he no longer loves you, sometimes that's exactly what you have to do.

Instead of issuing ultimatums, yelling, crying, or begging, I presented him with options. I created a summer of fun for our family and welcomed him to share in it, or not — it was up to him. If he chose not to come along, we would miss him, but we would be just fine, thank you very much. And we were.

And, yeah, you can bet I wanted to sit him down and persuade him to stay. To love me. To fight for what we've created. You can bet I wanted to.

But I didn't.

I barbecued. Made lemonade. Set the table for four. Loved him from afar.

And one day, there he was, home from work early, mowing the lawn. A man doesn't mow his lawn if he's going to leave it. Not this man. Then he fixed a door that had been broken for eight years. He made a comment about our front porch needing paint. Our front porch. He mentioned needing wood for next winter. The future. Little by little, he started talking about the future.

It was Thanksgiving dinner that sealed it. My husband bowed his head humbly and said, "I'm thankful for my family."

He was back.

And I saw what had been missing: pride. He'd lost pride in himself. Maybe that's what happens when our egos take a hit in midlife and we realize we're not as young and golden anymore.

When life's knocked us around. And our childhood myths reveal themselves to be just that. The truth feels like the biggest sucker-punch of them all: It's not a spouse, or land, or a job, or money that brings us happiness. Those achievements, those relationships, can enhance our happiness, yes, but happiness has to start from within. Relying on any other equation can be lethal.

My husband had become lost in the myth. But he found his way out. We've since had the hard conversations. In fact, he encouraged me to write about our ordeal. To help other couples who arrive at this juncture in life. People who feel scared and stuck. Who believe their temporary feelings are permanent. Who see an easy out and think they can escape.

My husband tried to strike a deal. Blame me for his pain. Unload his feelings of personal disgrace onto me.

But I ducked. And I waited. And it worked.

This essay originally appeared in The New York Times. 

This Is An Amazing Story….

Wonderful story – read below – click on link if you’d like to watch the news video footage of the story
http://www.stage2omega.com/this-is-an-amazing-story/?utm_source=Stage2Omega+Daily+Digest+Newsletter&utm_campaign=268104e93d-Stage2Omega_Daily_Digest_Newsletter1_11_2015&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_65449d26fb-268104e93d-218663081

Utah officers say mysterious voice called them to rescue baby
Mar 09, 2015

Four police officers rushing to an overturned car in an icy Utah river say they all heard the same thing: a mysterious female voice calling out “Help,” from inside the vehicle.

But the driver of the car was dead and her 18-month-old daughter, while still alive, couldn’t have been the speaker.

It was a mystery that continues to haunt the officers – and may never be explained.

Officer Jared Warner of the Spanish Fork Police Department was one of the first who came to the rescue of tiny Lily Groesback, who was strapped in a seat in the back of her mother’s car, which was precariously hanging upside down in 40-degree water.

“We’ve gotten together and just talk about it and all four of us can swear that we heard somebody inside the car saying, ‘Help,’” Warner told Deseret News.

More on this…

Utah baby girl saved hours after car crash killed her mom.  But when they flipped over the midsized car, they discovered a 25-year-old woman dead in the front seat and Lily unconscious in her car seat.

“The only people in there were the deceased mother and the child,” Officer Bryan Dewitt told the paper.

Officer Tyler Beddoes said they can’t explain it, but have no doubt they heard it.

“It wasn’t just something that was just in our heads. To me it was plain as day cause I remember hearing a voice,” Beddoes told the Deseret News. “I think it was Dewitt who said, ‘We’re trying. We’re trying our best to get in there.’ How do you explain that? I don’t know,” he said.

Nobody knows exactly how the infant survived hanging upside down for nearly 14 hours in her car seat with no food or water. As she dangled, icy water rushed just below her head through broken car windows as the vehicle sat perched on the bank and rocks. The temperatures were near freezing throughout the night and through the morning.

“It’s heartbreaking. Was she crying most the night?” said Beddoes, a 30-year-old father of two. “It’s a miracle. . . She was needed for sure elsewhere.”

Police believe the accident occurred when the baby’s mother, 25-year-old Lynn Groesbeck, struck a cement barrier on a bridge and careened into the river late Friday in Spanish Fork, about 50 miles south of Salt Lake City.

She was driving to her home in Springville after visiting her parents in Salem, Spanish Fork police Lt. Matt Johnson said. Investigators don’t know what caused the crash, he said. There were no skid marks or signs of mechanical failures in the car.

Police don’t suspect drugs or alcohol as a factor but are awaiting toxicology test results. Maybe Lynn Groesbeck was tired or distracted, Johnson said, adding authorities weren’t ruling anything out.

Beddoes said the family has thanked him and the other officers for helping to save little Lily. As he recalls the events of those chaotic moments, on a frigid but sunny day, Beddoes still can’t believe the girl survived — and still can’t make sense of that undeniable voice coming from the car.

“We all got together and we all heard the same type of thing,” Beddoes said. “We just can’t grasp what we were hearing.”

A Pilot's View - Soo Cool!!!

Paris, France

Barcelona, Spain

Central Park, New York City, USA

Maze at Longleat, England

Mexico City, Mexico

Venice, Italy

Amsterdam, Netherlands

Giza Pyramids, Egypt

Niagara Falls, USA

Chicago, IL, USA

Tulip Fields, The Netherlands

Bern, Switzerland

Mangroves in New Caledonia

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Dubrovnik, Croatia

Namib Desert, Namibia, Africa

 Meskendir Valley, Turkey

Shanghai, China

Cape Town, South Africa

Moscow, Russia

Athens, Greece

Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada

Male, Maldives

Seattle, Washington, USA

Vatican City, Rome, Italy

Bac Son Valley Vietnam

Marina Bay, Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Terraced Rice Fields, China

A Lake in Pomerania, Poland

SUNSET AT THE NORTH POLE

This is the sunset at the North Pole with the moon at its closest point last week.

A scene you will probably never get to see in person, so take a moment and enjoy God at work at the North Pole.

And, you also see the sun below the moon .

An amazing photo and not one easily duplicated.   

Laughs for Seniors

Cartoons for seniors     

By the time a man is wise enough to 

watch his step, he's too old to go anywhere.

Old age is when you have stopped
growing at both ends,

and have begun to grow in the middle.

Old age is having a choice of two temptations 

and choosing the one that will get you home earlier.

A man has reached old age when he is cautioned

to slow down by his Doctor instead of by the police.

Don't worry about avoiding temptation.

As you grow older, it will avoid you.

You're getting old when "getting lucky" 

means you find your car in the parking lot.

You're getting old when you don't care 

where your spouse goes, just as long as 

you don't have to go along.

Statistics show that at the age of seventy, 

there are five women to every man.

Isn't that an ironic time for a guy to get those odds?

Impossible? . . . Very Good Look Back at Naysayers