For Good. . .

On Monday, (first day at my new school) I'm walking back from lunch and a wifi run and this young man who is working stops me and says "What is your last name?" I told him - he said, "didn't you used to work at Inwood or Westwood - one of those 'wood schools?" I said yes, that I worked at Westwood. Yesterday, he passed me while I'm walking with my sister and says "Hi Ms.Jimmerson." My sister just rolls her eyes and says "Really? You know him?" (It always amazes her when my former students show up far away from Westwood. In Winter Haven, it makes sense, but not in Davenport.)
Today, I'm digging around in my storage space looking for some office supplies and a young man comes around the corner looking for one of the carts they supply to move stuff. I tell him he can have the one I'm using because at the moment, I'm not really using it. He comes to get it and says "I can't remember when or where but you were my teacher." We went over the time and place, he was so, so nice. (As a plus, he told me I don't look any different now than then so SCORE!)
I've been sorting, cleaning, digging through a lot of my teacher stuff this summer. I keep finding things that I inherited when my friend retired. Ii have borders and a dolly from Mrs. Smith, lots of books and other good stuff from my friends Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Turner. I find books that I used with Mrs. Barry, when we taught the same subject, things that I shared with lots of other teachers.
Looking through and packing up my library stuff, I find things that my friend Mrs. Sharon found to make my media center pretty. I found beautiful letters that my friend Mrs. Kathy decorated, my wooden letters that my sweet church babies decorated for me. I see lists and things that I made to organize that huge media center space at Westwood and I remember all the people who came and helped me move and rearrange and clean.
     
     I keep finding things, but those things remind me that the most  important things are not THINGS.  Mostly, I'm amazed by the time and energy that other people have poured into my life.   When I think of my 22 years at Westwood, this sums it up:

So, let me say before we part:
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you.
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart.
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have rewritten mine

If I could write or sing a song about how I feel, this would be it:

For Good - from Wicked

Tomorrow A New Adventure Begins. . .

Two years ago, I started a new chapter in my life when I moved from my classroom to the media center. In some ways, my life didn’t change that much, in some ways it changed drastically. Tomorrow, it’s not just a new chapter, it’s a brand new book – a new story, if you will.

I’ve started school at Westwood Middle School for 22 years. For 22 years, I’ve had nervous dreams the night before school started. School doesn’t start tomorrow, but I’m going back to work tomorrow. But, for the first time in 22 years, I’m not going to Westwood Middle. I don’t have any school keys for the first time in years. I’ve been working on stuff all summer, and emptying my old media center, speaking to book vendors, processing new books for my new media center. Tomorrow it’s all different.

Tomorrow, I step foot into a brand new media center that no one has ever had before. Any and all book placements are me. Any book processing specifications are me. If it looks a mess, it’s me. If it doesn’t flow properly and transition nicely, it’s me. It’s exciting.

I’m terrified. Absolutely, positively terrified.

I don’t know one single soul. I have no best buddies waiting for me. I’ve emailed my new secretary, but I have no idea what she even looks like. I’ve met my principal and assistant principals, but only in an interview. I’m afraid I’m going to mess up. I’m afraid my new principal is going to change her mind and think “Why on earth did I choose this person? What was I thinking?” I’m afraid I’m going to do things that don’t make sense. I’m afraid I don’t know enough. I’m afraid I’m not good enough. I’m afraid I’m not enough.

But, then I keep thinking about the strange way this whole job thing worked out. I wasn’t even looking for a new job. I didn’t sweat much in my interview because I was content where I was. I really thought that God was just going to use this interview to confirm that I was where I was supposed to be! But apparently, He had other plans for me – and I can only trust that this is the right thing.

So, I may shelve books wrong – and I may end up moving books around in October. If it doesn’t flow nicely, I’ll rearrange. My books may not end up processed all the same, but they’ll all be similar. I may have chaos and confusion for a few days (or weeks!). I may not know enough. But I’m enough, because I firmly believe that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. So tomorrow, when I step foot in that brand new media center, I won’t be alone. I’ll be OK. There are WAY too many people who love me and who have prayed for me and have poured into me for me to completely screw this up!

Once upon a time. . .

I had a pineapple bed. I’m not sure that’s what it’s really called, but that’s what we always called it.  One of the first beds I ever remember us having in our house was the pineapple bed.  It looked something like this:

This isn’t mine, but mine looked something like this. We called it the pineapple bed, because the head and footboards have pineapples on them.  We had that bed my whole life I guess. I can’t remember us NOT having it.  We took turns sleeping in it. but it seemed to be mine more than my sisters.  No matter where we moved, it seemed to always go with us.  This single bed was the bed I slept in for years.  I actually never got a bigger bed until after my mom passed away in 2001. 

I loved my bed.  We used to run and jump on it. All of our names had been scratched into the headboard. I think I did most of the scratching of names one summer when I was punished by having to go to bed at 7:00 every night.  It was still light outside!   We didn’t have air conditioning in our house, so the windows were open and I could hear the rest of the neighborhood  kids playing outside.  I read my first romance book lying in that bed. I’ve been all over the world, in that bed, reading books.  It’s been repaired several times, probably from the running and jumping on it.

It hasn’t been assembled for a while. It was standing up against the wall in my old house.  When I moved to my new house, I didn’t need it, but I just couldn’t get rid of it. 

So, fast forward a little. One day I was wandering around Pinterest and saw a bench made from a pineapple bed.  It was beautiful, but I wondered who could  make it for  me. 

I’m very blessed to have some really, really good friends who are really, really crafty.  My friend Mr. Donald is a craftsman who make beautiful things. He turns acrylic blocks into pens, he makes wood blocks into pens, he makes cute bowls and beautiful bookshelves.  He can also make a bench from a pineapple bed. 

Today, my friends delivered my bench.    It is beyond  beautiful. I love words, but words escape me. When he brought in my bench, I cried a little bit.   The memories that flew through my mind,  and just how beautiful it is the brought me to tears. Again, words fail me.  I thought about sitting on that bed with my head in my daddy’s lap, while he and my mama checked my newly pierced ears.  I remembered lying on that bed, waiting for him to come and spank me.  I remember Mama sitting with me while I was sick.  I remember both of them sitting with me while I said my prayers.  Now, there will be a whole new set of memories from that bed. 

So, are you ready?  With no more words, may I present, my recycled pineapple bed that is now my pineapple bench!

A room without books. . .

For Christmas, my sister made me a beautiful picture that has this quote on it: “A room without books is like a body without a soul.”  It’s attributed to Marcus Tullius Cicero, a Roman statesman who lived a LONG time ago.  I love that quote and luckily, I have no rooms in my house without books.

When I moved in March, I got rid of a lot of my books.  I didn’t get rid of the special ones, but a lot of paperbacks went away. It made me sad, but it was OK. And then, I realized I didn’t have enough bookshelves to hold the books I was bringing with me.  Big problem. 

Right now, not counting my cookbooks, and the bookshelf in my bedroom, I have five large bookcases in my house.  And this may sound foolish, but the bookcases are just as special as the books.  I was thinking today that the places where my books live are just as important to me as the books themselves. Let me explain.

When I moved in this house my friend Mr. Donald built two beautiful bookcases for me. They are literally works of art.  Not only did he build them, but he painted them and delivered them. I came home and they were here. They are pretty big and I thought they would hold all of my books, until I started unpacking them. I not only love those bookshelves because they are beautiful, but because he MADE them for me.  He put part of himself into those bookshelves.  As long as I live, every time I see them, I’ll think of him. 

 

I brought a black bookshelf from my old house.  I repainted it black, but it’s been black for years. This bookshelf has traveled to lots of different houses with us.  For years, it had a pencil sharpener attached to it.  It always seemed bigger when I was a little girl.

(Yes, that’s Master Yoda on top and yes, it’s not arranged very nicely!)

 

Tonight, my friend Dan helped me bring home two other bookshelves.  These don’t look quite as pretty as mine, they’'ve been a little more used and they are a little more beat up. But that’s OK with me.  See, they were my Daddy’s.  Someone who was his friend built them for him, just like Mr. Donald built mine for me. Daddy took them with him through several moves, they’ve been painted (and need it again) and there are dings and knotholes and scratches  in them.  But I think  I’ll keep the dings.  I’ll keep the hole that he cut so it would fit around an electrical outlet.  And when I put my books on it, I’ll smile and I might even cry a little.  Because some of the books I’ll be putting on it came from him. He packed them up for me. I’m not even sure what’s in some of the boxes.  I know there’s some Dave Dawson books and some old Tom Swift books and maybe even an old Tarzan book.

It’s funny how an old bookshelf that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else can mean so much.  Most people wouldn’t have those bookcases in their home, they wouldn’t fit into the décor of their  house, or wouldn’t help create the ambiance they want. But they fit me just fine. And as far as ambiance goes, they hold my books.  And my books hold part of me. It’s like being surrounded all the time by the things and people I love!

All because of a stylus. . .

This morning at church our sweet Madi said to me: “Look, I’m using a stylus just like you.” Most of the time I do use a stylus for my Kindle, because I have fat fingers and it’s easier to type with a stylus than with my fat fingers. It also keeps my screen clean to use a stylus than my fingers that I just ate a donut with or held my cup or any other such.

However, the more I thought about what she said, the more I was nervous.  I began to feel convicted and self-conscious.  I spend a LOT of time with other people’s children. What else have they done “just like me?”

Have they ever said something that was hurtful – because I did?

Have they ever hurt someone’s feelings – because I did?

Have they ever said a word that is ugly – because I did?  (I’m working on not saying “yeah” or “stupid”   or “hate” anymore.)

Some of my church babies have great parents who have my back and will fill in when I mess up – but some of them don’t.

I was reminded today what a huge responsibility I have been given – and what precious resources I’ve been entrusted with. Dear God, please help me show them less of me and more of YOU every day!

And all because of a stylus. . .

Tonight and two years ago. . .

I just (Okay a little while ago) got home from the Women of Faith Loved Tour. It was absolutely fabulous – great speakers, wonderful music and lots of fun with ladies from my church.  We had a great concert by Building 429, but when they started singing this song, I started what my friend Debbie calls “ugly crying.” 

(If you think about it, you probably get ugly crying.  That’s the kind that rips out of you, not just one little tear trickling down, but the full blown red-eye, snotty nose, achy throat, boo-hooing that you hate to do in front of people.) 

Two years ago today was one of the worst days of my life.  I had the best sleep that I’d had in a week, but throughout this night and into early tomorrow morning, my Daddy would slip away from us to Heaven.  It was an experience I’ll never forget and I wouldn’t have missed it, but it was also one that I never would have chosen if I’d been given a choice. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but I know what I mean. 

So today, on Saturday, I’m sitting in the Amway Center and they start singing this song. And it made me cry.  Why would this song make me cry? Here’s why:  Two years ago, in  the Spring, we found out my Daddy had liver disease and it couldn’t be fixed. We all need our liver and his was sick.  So nearly every Saturday for several months, my sister and I would drive over to Winter Springs to visit our Daddy, and give Mrs. Betty a break.  We went at different times, sometimes in my car, sometimes in hers, but almost every Saturday.  EVERY single time we got in the car to drive over, this song would play on the  Joy FM, before we got to Daddy’s house.  Every single Saturday, while we were in the car on the way to see Daddy we heard this song. EVERY. SINGLE. SATURDAY 

Part of the song says:

“ All I know is I'm not home yet
This is not where I belong
Take this world and give me Jesus
This is not where I belong

So when the walls come falling down on me
And when I'm lost in the current of a raging sea
I have this blessed assurance holding me.

All I know is I'm not home yet
This is not where I belong
Take this world and give me Jesus
This is not where I belong,”

(You can hear it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=he32vwlKQPY

This is not how we heard it tonight.  Tonight 10,000 women were helping them sing!)

 

I don’t know why my Daddy got liver disease.  I don’t know why he couldn’t go to sleep and peacefully just drift off to Heaven. I don’t know why he had to have all those medical issues at the end.   There’s a lot I don’t know. 

But there’s some things I do know.   I  have this blessed assurance holding me.

All I know is he’s at home now. 

This wasn’t where he belonged any more. 

He left this world and he saw Jesus.

He is where he belongs.

So tonight, when the band sang this song, I ugly cried – but  I still sang at the top of my lungs.  And tomorrow, I’ll think about  my Daddy all day – and I may or may  not be done with the ugly crying!   But I know where he is and I know I’ll see him again.  And he won’t have liver disease and there will be no more ugly crying!

 

Hello! I’ve missed you and the strange things I find in my yard.

Hello my blog! I’ve missed you quite a lot. I haven’t “seen” you or shared with you in a while.  Let’s review:  I started this as part of a class I took in London in 2008. Really? It’s been that long? I can’t believe it!  I decided I liked it, so when I got home, I kept on using it. It’s like a diary, but I do censor myself a bit on here. Yes, there’s actually MORE in my head that I don’t say. Hard to believe I know. 

Let’s catch up. Since the last time I wrote a post, it was December and I was in the midst of my first book fair. In the six months since then, I’ve  survived that book fair, (and another one!) didn’t lose any money, did have some stuff disappear,  finished a whole year as a media specialist, MOVED to a new house, finished another AWANA  year, passed the anniversary of the death of both my parents, watched my niece perform beautifully in Seussical the Musical (yes, that made me happy!) cheered as my nephew got a summer internship with the Department of Transportation, and other stuff I can’t remember. Whew!! I’ve been a busy girl, which is probably why I haven’t been here much.

So even thought I haven’t been posting, I’m always, always thinking of things to post. Really! Wal-Mart is, of course, a constant source of inspiration, the things my students say at school and at my church babies. . . Of course, I could ramble for days about my nephews and my niece and how smart and handsome/beautiful and accomplished they all are. (I’d like to take a little credit for some of that!)  However, today, I’m on another tangent.  I mentioned in that incredibly run-on sentence above that since December, I’ve moved to a new house. I could write for days about my cute little yellow house with the red door and how wonderfully God worked it all out, but that’s another story for another day as well. 

Here’s what’s on my  mind right now. I just came in from working (sort of) in my yard. I have a little patio space with a swing and a fire pit and my hammock. I don’t really work in the yard, I just sort of mosey around. I have lots of big trees in the back yard and every time the tiniest breeze blows, limbs fall out of my trees. Most of the time, they are tiny, smaller than a pencil, but every now and then, there are bigger ones.  Yesterday there were like gale force winds whipping through – really, it woke me up from my happy nappy, so of course, it was a big limb day.  I try to spend a little while on Saturdays picking up the broken limbs. I’d really like to know WHY limbs fall all the time. They all look dead and when I look at the trees, I don’t see all those dead-looking limbs. So where do they all come from – I have no idea. Anyway, today while I was picking up the downed limbs I found some strange things in my yard. My cute little yellow house is next to a VERY busy road, so finding cups and trash is not strange – that’s pretty normal. But today, I discovered two very strange items. Ready?  I found a big pile of doggy doo.  Now, to some people that would be a pretty normal thing – but I don’t have a dog! And it was in my back yard – and I have fences on three sides. The only thing I can figure is someone let their dog come into my back yard and do it’s business. Really? Who does that?

Then, the other strange thing – in the far back part, almost by the fence, I found a dead mouse. It was freshly dead – not to be too graphic, but I could tell. It had one wound. It looked like one of those pet mice people have (although I’ve never understood why.)  Maybe the dog that poohed in my yard tried to eat the mouse. HMMM. .  .

It  sort of creeps me out.  I can’t decide what’s worse – the dog that apparently creeps around in my yard when I’m unaware, or the dead things. A few weeks ago, there was a dead bird in my driveway. I think it got hit by a car. What is it about my yard? What will I find next time?  I hope it’s no more dead things.