After a series of tumultuous events occurring in the classroom next to my nook of an office, details into which I will not delve, I found myself in a uniquely precarious situation. The Powers-That-Be asked me to teach. The 9th and 11th grade English literature students were without instruction, and I was to be their staff, their pillar of fire, their glass less darkly to better grasp the beauty, truth, and goodness contained in sacred pages. But the cost. My work. It must be sacrificed. With a single nod, I inherited fifty-eight young adults. Twelve hours later, I was teaching.
That was two weeks ago. Each day since, I wade into a swelling surf of grading, but that is no matter. I am ever alive and thriving and encouraged. Teaching literature is so. much. fun. My freshmen are diligent and intrigued. My honors class is thoughtful and absurdly bright. Not every day goes as I’d like. But that’s the lovely thing about God’s faithfulness – the sun will rise tomorrow morning. And I am privileged to see it.