Teaching No More

In February of 2000, I received a letter from the school board wanting to know if I planned on being back to teach the following school year.  I felt in my spirit that I needed to respond in the negative.  But we were finally at a place financially where we weren’t living from paycheck to paycheck.  We were coming to a point where a new home rather than our single-wide would be more than a possibility.  I had health insurance, something I obviously was in desperate need of.  Things were looking good for us at least as far as finances were concerned and I could not bring myself to give up that financial security.  So I told them that yes I did plan on teaching at the Christian School the following school year.

Sometime in early May (I am not sure exactly when), I was called in to the principal’s office.  I liked him—a lot—so I was not at all nervous or worried about an opportunity to speak with him.

We exchanged pleasantries and then he began talking in a way that left me with my mouth open far and wide enough to let a normal-sized bat fly in if one had happened to be in the room at the time.  It took a couple of minutes for his words to sink in to my consciousness, but it finally hit me that in spite of the fact that I had said that I would return the following school year, I was no longer being asked by the school (or the school board) to be back.

The shock washed over me like a tidal wave.  I tried to hold back the tears, but I am not sure that I was very successful. 

I was told that I could not tell anyone, my co-workers and/or my students, of my imminent departure.  I had to keep that information to myself.

As one who has never been good at keeping secrets, this did not work for me.  Plus, I truly cared about my fellow teachers as well as my students.  It tore me to pieces that I was not allowed to tell them what was going on.

Then came the day when I had a back spasm so severe that I couldn’t breathe or move.  It took a good ten minutes or so before I

was able to catch my breath enough to begin attempting to work out the kinks.  I was still unable to move, but at least I was finally able to breathe.

I quickly realized that the spasm had come as a direct result of the stress I was under—the secret I was keeping.

I had a student close the door to the classroom and I told my students that I was not being asked back for the following year.  My students and I cried together.  Almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was able to breathe freely and my back released.  I was still sore for several days from the spasm, but it loosened the moment I spoke the truth.

To say that I was devastated is an understatement.  I loved teaching at the Christian school.  I had made some great new friends.  I loved my students.  In spite of the fact that the principal is the one who told me I would have to leave, I loved and respected him and his family. 

On Awards Day at the end of the school year, I was given a

gift from the school.  As I walked towards the front to receive it, my precious students stood to their feet and gave me a standing ovation.

The wonderful part is that even today, I am in contact with many of my beloved students.  Social media has given me the amazing opportunity to keep in touch with them even though I may not get to see them or interact with them beyond the digital world.  They are still very special people in my life.

My depression worsened.

But I knew I had to look for another job and I had to do it as soon as possible.

I didn’t.

But God is good.  He is so very good.  And He has a plan; I just need to be willing and faithful to walk through the doors when He opens them.

*Picture of students have been posted without their permission, but I just had to share!  I wish I had more....!

My Very First Crisis of Faith

 I have a story to tell.  It’s not that my story is better than yours—or worse.  It’s simply my story and I’m choosing to tell—to share—it with you.  Take of it as you will.

Growing up, I never really had any reason to worry about anything happening to me.  I was safe and secure in my parents’ love and protection as well as that of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  I became a Christian at a very young age.  From what my parents tell me, I was about three years old when I accepted Jesus into my heart.  While there are times when I wish I knew my salvation birthday as so many others do, I have always been proud of the fact that I accepted Christ so young and that I have never strayed from that walk with my beloved Lord and Savior.

Has my walk been perfect?  Have I been perfect and behaved at all times as a proper Christian is expected to behave?

Good heavens, no!  Can you honestly tell me, Friend, that you have never done anything whatsoever to fail our Precious Savior?

No one can because the Bible says that “ALL have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (emphasis mine) (Romans 3:23, NLT).  Even Christians make mistakes.  Even Christians aren’t perfect.  I wish that every part of my life, every word out of my mouth, every moment of every day, everything I have ever done has been exactly what He would have of me.

But I am human.  I am fallible.

With all that being said, for the most part, in my young life, I never came up against any true trials or tribulations.  I never experienced any true suffering in my early years.

The first trial I really experienced was when I was let go from a job that I loved.  I had been working at the day care for the church where I was also attending.  I was the after school teacher for the five and six year olds.  At the time, I was in college, around 19 or 20 years old, studying to be a high school English teacher; I loved those kids.  I can still tell you many of their names and I think of them with great fondness.  I have great memories of those wonderful children.

I was blind-sided by the release from the job.  I was walking in to work one afternoon after my morning classes when my boss was suddenly standing in front of me.  I had only stepped a few feet away from my car, so not only was I surprised to see him appear, I was also surprised to see him outside the building rather than meeting with him in his office.

He proceeded to tell me that he didn’t need me anymore and that he didn’t want me going to work that day at all; he wanted me to get right back in my car and drive away.  I was not allowed to go say good bye to my kids. 

I was heart-broken; I don’t think I need to tell you.  I cried for days.  To this day, just talking about it still makes me sadder than I can even begin to describe.  Not only did I never go back to the day care, I also never went back to the church.

It was my first crisis of faith (as my college Religion professor called it).

I did not quit going to church; I just quit going to that church.  I have also never graced the doors of a church of the same denomination again, either.  (Don’t ask me what denomination; I won’t tell you.)  The knife of betrayal just went too deep and I couldn’t face my old boss any more, not even during a Sunday morning service.  Smiling and pretending that my spirit hadn’t been crushed was simply an impossibility.     

So I ran like the coward I was.