Redeeming the Places We Don’t Want to be In

a (not-just-Lenten) labor of love

Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash

I was almost part of a scam.

Ok, maybe that’s a bit sensational, but it’s my best way of explaining the weird, weird events of last summer. While my family was preparing to move from Wisconsin to South Carolina, I landed a job teaching orchestra at a new charter school in our area. I was stoked; I’d been feeling a lack of clarity in my career trajectory and thought this was finally going to give it a concrete orientation.

But once we moved, things got strange. The school’s admin was slow to respond to any communication and wouldn’t answer my questions directly. I asked for contact info for the other music faculty and was told I couldn’t have that till later in the summer.

One morning, I woke up to a Facebook post on the school page (a post, not a message) saying, unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances and bla bla bla, the school was officially done. Project closed. All teacher contracts dissolved.

The post was taken down a couple of hours later. Then the Facebook page disappeared. Then the school website went dark. I never heard from anyone associated with it again. What in the world? I’m still waiting for the criminal report to be published. I’ll let you know.

Long story short, I took a job teaching preschool at my son’s school. It seemed right at the time, but it turned out to be one of those jobs (which we’ve all had) that is a mostly grit-your-teeth-and-get-through-it situation.

I’ve gone through a lot of mental gymnastics trying to get through it.

I’ve tried practicality: I’m doing this to earn money for my family and help pay for Max’s tuition. Problem: I’m not practical.

I’ve tried a humanistic approach: I deserve better than this; I’m just going to do the bare minimum and make it through till summer. Problem: I don’t actually believe that.

I’ve tried enjoying it. This has worked the best- I care about the kids I teach and their families!

Still, the only thing that has made any sense of it all is reframing it this way: training in love. Teaching preschool is not what I plan to do with the rest of my life, and I’m not trying to springboard into education management or anything adjacent. On my resume, it’s just a bullet point. But the lessons it has forced me to learn in sacrificial love are invaluable.

I used to think that the command “do everything unto the Lord;” meant finding purpose in tasks by making them about God. I mostly thought of it as an orientation of…thoughts. A type of spiritual metacognition. If I thought about God while I did something, that meant I was doing it for him. Or for the name of Jesus.

But, and this seems to be a throughline as I reconstruct my faith, I don’t think doing something for God is just a mental exercise. If God is love, and loving God is worked out through loving others, then love is the way we orient our intentions to God. Putting God first, or doing something in His Name, means doing it in a manner of love consistent with his character. Choosing love over choosing self. Which sounds a whole lot like “take up your cross.”

Love trains our bodies and minds to work and think in the way of Christ. And love often, very often, happens in the places we don’t want to be in. Places we don’t choose.

Which brings me back to where I started this post.

When I bend down to hug a hurt kid, even if that kid just hurt one of his classmates, I’m not just offering empty comfort. I’m forcing my body to choose compassion over the satisfaction of, “well, they’re just getting what they deserve.” Because hurt deserves comfort, no matter what the context. As a disciple of Jesus, I cannot only grow in love for the “good” kids, or the kids that are easy to teach. When they are hurt, they need care.

When I bite back an impatient response to the child I’m reminding (for the seventh time) to sit down for circle time, I’m training my body to keep a rein on my tongue. To not give into the momentary ease of venting frustration. To keep the big picture of the child’s development in mind and treat that development properly, with patience and repetition.

When I offer a warm welcome as the kids arrive in the morning, I’m not just trying to be a peppy Miss Rachel impersonator (sorry, preschool YouTuber reference), I’m offering them the welcome of Christ and offering their parents the gift of seeing their child loved and cared for in the time they’re away from home. As a parent, I love to see my kids loved. I want to offer that gift to other parents; your child is safe here! They will be treasured and delighted in today.

The fruit of this training applies to everything that comes next in life, not just to teaching. Love is the ultimate, universal application. If I can submit to the training of love, I have peace about whatever job or career is coming next. I’m not worried about the fact that my teaching skills might not transfer to a non-teaching job, because this job was never about those skills. It was about learning to choose love.

I’m tired. I’ve given up trying to reduce my caffeine intake. Truthfully, if summer wasn’t in sight, I don’t think I would be so optimistic. But being able to see the finish line and being able to reframe each day’s purpose as loving God-through-loving-kids has helped me orient this confusing, standalone year not as a bullet point on my resume but in a preparatory experience for what is to come.

Love is how we redeem our undesirable places.