{ Rest.Relive.Reflect. }

It has been six months. Seven days. A handful of hours. And an ever increasing amount of seconds since this all began.

Since this--this thing, this adventure, this trial, this period, this challenge, this struggle, this decision--all began.

And so I find myself back at the starting point. The stretch of track that precedes the race. The preparation ground. The place where races truly start. Where mind must conquer matter and convince the self that this truly is a race worth running.

And look how far we have run so far.

This has been a sprint that turned into a marathon, that turned into a slow jog, that turned into a limp, that turned into a crawl with only a few steps to go until the finish line.

We made it. But just barely.

The phrase that continues to linger in my mind is, "Teaching is hard." No kidding Sherlock. But that word, "hard," is inadequate. It makes this sound like it is simply difficult. A challenge that will be overcome. A road that--although fraught with peril--is not impossible to navigate.

But that is not teaching. Teaching is beyond anything I thought it would be.

And it is not because of the lesson planning. And it is not because of the schedule. And it is not because of the administration. And it is not because of the difficulties of being a first year teacher. Those things all matter. And those things all make it "hard." But what makes this the most jarring life choice I've ever made has to do with the emotional toll being in a classroom with sixty middle schoolers every day can have on a person.

My dad just got out of jail.

A phrase that has become all to familiar to me.

My mom just got out of jail.

Just as common.

My daddy's still in jail.

Part of every day life.

Shut up talking to me! Get out of my face! I don't f***ing need to talk to you!

And those are the musical little phrases I get to hear on an hourly basis.

Sigh.

But here I am. In the middle of this first year. A fourth of the way done with a two year commitment. Wondering what I have gotten myself into. But nowhere near ready to give up.

We've come too far for that.

Moments are what I live for. Do I have "good" days? Sometimes. Rarely. Do I have good weeks? Never. Months? No. But moments. Yes. Moments can be good. And more often than not, it is those sweet, innocent, powerful, good moments that make me stay. That keep me from walking out of my classroom. Out the front doors of Central High School. Out of Kansas City. It is the moments that remind me why I do what I do, and teach what I teach, and give what I give--even when it seems there is nothing left to offer.

So deep breath. Head up. Mind set.

It's time to keep moving. Keep pushing forward. There is no leaving or quitting. My kids need me there. Even if they do not seem to think so. And I need them. I need to learn what they have to teach me. I need to learn these life lessons.

"Ms. Perkins?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you stress?"

"What do you mean?"

"Here you spend all this time planning and no one listens to you."

Sweetheart, I cannot allow stress to dictate my actions when your little voice asks me that questions. Do I stress? Yes. Is it worth it?

Absolutely.

You make it worth it. Every day. Every hour. Every second I stand at the front of that room and wonder what I have gotten myself into.

Gum Smacking and Pen Chewing

It is now the space between stress and preparation. Between execution and anticipation.

Hello there first Saturday.

The weekend has become a sacred space. A homely space. A quiet space. This is the day that work can wait. And grading can wait. And planning can wait. Everything can wait while the things I must do everyday pause for the span of forty-eight hours.

Giving me a moment

to reflect.

This week, I exchanged my teacher's virginity for the harsh reality of spending eleven hours at school, 6:15 to 5:15. Each day. Monday through Friday. Florescent lights have become my sunshine. Notebook paper has become my breakfast. And countdowns from five and behavior narration have become the water that chases it all down.

I have learned what it means to live teaching, to breath teaching, to eat teaching. Supper is the part of the day when I scrap together the few groceries I own (there is no need for them for the majority of the day) to make a meal that is hot and eaten on a plate.

How refreshing it is to not eat PB&J at a school desk with writing scratched into it.

But this first week, along with teaching me that I cannot do this on my own, taught me how to cherish the moments that make it all worth it.

"Ms. Perkins?" Destiny said as she motioned me over to her desk.

"Yes, dear?"

"May I make an announcement?"

And within seconds I heard the voice of a twelve-year-old explaining--to the entire class--that she liked to give presents to her favorite teacher at the beginning of the year. After this proclamation, she handed me a small box, smiled, and picked up her pencil, continuing to work on her project.

Favorite?

The school year has just started. I am already exhausted. But I am also already head over heels in love with my students. Some of them anyway. And, as for the rest of them, we are well on our way. Even if they don't like to follow directions the first time. Or second. Or third.

So this is it. The end of week one and very nearly the beginning of week two.

I am nervous.

And scared.

Overwhelmed.

But hopeful.

And eager to see what new adventures room 107 will bring as ninety students walk through my door on Monday, ready to share their stories in the midst of their gum smacking (which must stop at the door) and endless pen chewing.

Here. There. And who knows where.

It's August.

When did that happen?

Suddenly, I find myself pausing for exactly four minutes to stop. To reflect. To remember that I am still breathing normally, still sleeping minimally, and still hoping endlessly that the vision I have will become reality.

School starts in six days.

This is a countdown that, though implicit, has been relentlessly ticking all summer. It was ticking when I graduated in May. It was ticking when I spent three short weeks in Orlando. And it was ticking all summer as I went through the intensive Teach For America training known as Institute.

Or, as we corps members like to call it, Institution.

Institutionalization. We lived it, breathed it, slept it, owned it. From getting up at 5 every morning, to collapsing well past midnight every night, we learned the lingo of an organization fighting for change.

There were times when we laughed.

Those were the times when we realized just how ridiculous it sounded when we asked each other, "Have you talked to your CMA about your LP? I think my AIT may need some help from my INV plan and my BMC." We learned the acronyms. And we practiced the models (sometimes with "snappy practice" and sometimes with just plain, regular practice).

There were times when we narrated behavior.

"I see Shelli is working on her lesson plan. I see Elisabeth is silently reading. I see Ben is falling asleep." But apart from using this powerful tool to amuse our friends we watched it work like a tried and true magic trick in our classrooms. There were days when simply mentioning that Emanuel's desk was clean meant that Levi on the opposite side of the room would suddenly stop and make sure his papers were also neat.

Notice me, my students seemed to say with their little motions done by little hands. Please.

And I did. We did.

And the summer was different because of it.

You are capable, I told them each morning as we struggled through writing our rough drafts. You, as an individual, talented, rising 8th grade student are capable.

Valued.

Loved.

You, Armando. You, Jose. You, Erika. You, Andy. You are important to me. You are going to succeed.

There were times when those words were all we clung to. These students can, will, and want to make it. And we were there to help them. LA left us changed. LA left me changed.

And now, after five exhausting weeks of learning about BMCs and AITs, I am here, in Kansas City. Here, in the midwest. Here, at Central High School, getting ready for the first day of many days of fighting against the clock.

You, students in classroom 107. You are capable. And you, teacher in room 107, face I wake to every morning, individual who I have come to know well over the years, you are capable. You have been trained. You have been taught. You have been equipped.

Are you ready?

The heart in my chest quivers and sighs. The limbs of my body tense, then relax. The thoughts in my mind race and then still.

I am not ready. But He is.

And they are.

And together, we will conquer this year, my students and I. We will prove to ourselves that we are strong. We will prove to each other we care. We will prove to our school we are scholars. And we will prove to the Kansas City Missouri School District that this year is going to be different.

When did this happen?

When did I step into the most challenging work of my life?

Sometime, I think, between yesterday and tomorrow. I am here. Present. Living day to day. Praying every hour. Loving every moment.

It's going to be a good year.

Simple Questions

Do you trust me enough to bring you back?

Over the past few months I have wrestled with those words and found that the answer to my Savior's question is a meek, yet audible, "Yes."

As a recent college graduate, I recognize the blessing of even having a job, much less a job with a prestigious organization like Teach for America. The next two years will give me experience teaching in a low income, urban setting as well as a master's degree in education. Not a bad deal.

But when I decided to join the TFA corps, I did not join because of the opportunities it would provide, or the rigor of the program, or even the degree. I joined because Christ asked me a question. And at the end of the day, I gave Him an answer.

Yet my answer means my life has been uprooted, repackaged, and relocated in Kansas City, MO. It will be challenging. It will be exhausting. It will be disheartening. But I know it will be worth it.

And I know Manhattan will still be there when I am done. It will still be the city I love, the home I have always wanted, and the first love of my life. Over the last four years, New York has etched its skyline on my memory, and it will not let me leave for good. I know I could not do that even if I tried.

But for now, I will be getting acquainted with a new city. A midwestern city. Which is why, along with trusting my Savior to bring me back to the home of my heart, I must also trust Him to give me a heart that is present in a home it knows not.

I must trust Him to be my bread for today--each morning, every evening, during my waking and my resting.

I know He will make good on His promises.