Month: May 2020

A Teacher’s Appreciation

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Earlier this evening, I sent the following letter to a few of my students. It pretty much speaks for itself. However, I will say this…

Last week was Teacher Appreciation Week and I truly felt appreciated. Teaching virtually, without much training or experience, has been difficult, but I’ve been trying to do it as best as I can because of my Sensational Six and their peers. I teach because of students like these and the many who’ve gone before them in the halls of the other schools I’ve had the privilege to teach.

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To the Sensational Six,

Last week was teacher appreciation week, and I found myself contemplating this year each time I received an email or card, and even the bag of goodies from the PTA at the end of the week. As I sat in contemplation of what I could be doing better as a teacher, one by one your faces ran through my head. Each time it happened I just sat and smiled, very aware of how much I’ve been loved and respected by each of you these 2 years I’ve had the privilege of being your teacher. 

When my wife left for work this morning, she reminded me that I needed to write a new blog post for my professional author blog and Facebook page. “Let them see a little of you,” she’d said, “not just the book.” I decided I’d write about being a teacher since it is such a huge part of who I am.
I have always felt like the oddball teacher, the one who was “just a little off-center.” My classroom activities are a little unique. My classroom is covered in superhero art and memorabilia. And my interactions with students, although very professional, are just a bit different from the interactions they have with other teachers. It’s always been that way.  Until I arrived at this school and found a unique population of both students and teachers, I felt a little out of place. Here at this school, although I’m still a bit different, I feel like I don’t stand out as much.

After school today, I sat contemplating what to write for my blog. All I could think of were memories of each of you at this school. Each memory brought an immediate smile, followed by tears. Teachers are supposed to change their students’ lives as you sit under our tutelage. I think I’ve accomplished doing just that while at this school, and over the past 22 years of teaching. Part of my purpose as a teacher is to change students’ lives by helping them look at the world “just a little off center.” BUT, I have NEVER before been so greatly affected, appreciated, and changed by a group of students as I have been by the 6 of you.

Somewhere in the middle of last year (around Jan/Feb 2019), one of you noticed I was not having a good day. You took it upon yourself to encourage me and inquire about how to make my day a little bit better. Then you hugged me and ran off, leaving me stunned. In a world where middle school students don’t have a relationship with their teachers and teachers are nervous to come into physical contact with students, except for a possible side hug, you just hugged me and wished me a better day. I’ll never forget that conversation. Those hugs and messages of encouragement were nearly daily last year at a time when I needed to know I was affecting someone’s life for the better. Your hugs caught on with a few of your peers; I hope that doesn’t offend you. Those hugs, as I stand sideways with my hands above my head while you and your peers collide with me, have been an incredible gift to a teacher who was feeling burnt-out after so many years of teaching.

One of you spent last year nearly deafening me, only to return this year with a softer approach and a kindness I’d previously missed. Your overwhelming joy and frivolity have challenged me to return to a focus of finding the fun, even amongst this thirteenth month of blursday we call quarantine.

Two of you, who I like to refer to as “the twins”, have sought me out in the halls, have asked me to be part of your middle school journey – by your invitation, not because I was already one of your teachers. You have sought my advice, shared highs and lows, and even commissioned a piece of art in my honor, and I’m not actually one of your teachers this year.

One of you challenges me daily to teach the child I was in school, with as much love and care as I needed when I was your age. If my teachers had understood what executive functioning disorder was, and that the hyper-active boy in their class wasn’t trying to drive them absolutely out of their minds, I may not have become a teacher because I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to see a hole in which I might have been able to fill in teaching. What makes this student of mine different from what I was as a child is the unending joy and respect with which he dances into my classroom and therefore my life on a daily basis.

The last of you seeks to…everyday, even in virtual classes…bring me joy through a wit and wisdom unseen in students your age. The art that you’ve created of me, animating me into some of the funniest “sketches” I’ve ever been part of, gets picked up and held in a folder for days when things are not looking up. Each time you’ve been in my  presence, you’ve sought to bring laughter and joy with a wit I’ve never before experienced from someone your age, let alone mine. But the action, by far, that has affected me most, and has made me believe I could teach middle school until I fall off this mortal coil, is your daily appreciation for my class and for me as a teacher. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I appreciated your class today. Have a good evening,” is just one of the many things you’ve said to me over the last 2 years as you left my classroom. 

Each of you, in your own right, have changed my perspective and reminded me just how much I really love what I do. Teaching can be very tiresome and thankless. You have filled my bucket to keep doing what I do for probably another 22 years.

Thank you.
— 
Sincerely,
Thom Johnson

The Journey…

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The process by which Good Grief?!? came into being was just that…a very long, difficult process. It started with the death of my first wife and meandered through the dark mire of confusion, pain, and grief of which no one is really prepared. It took nearly 2.5 years to write.

When I sat across from Carolyn on what I hoped was our “first date,” I asked her to paint the cover scene of my soon to be published book. God had given me a clear picture in my head the day before and I was excited to find out that He’d given her the same picture. (Some day soon, I’ll post about that first date!) I had no idea that progression of the cover picture would show the process of grief and my book in stages.

It began with a fog. The trepidation of not knowing what was lurking in the fog is similar to the trepidation of looking into the heart of fear and wondering what horrific thing awaits along the road I must travel.

As death lurks, the breath of life is gone. The beauty of life is gone. The color of life is gone. “What’s hiding behind that next tree?” “What could be waiting for me at the end of this path?” “Why must I travel this path… seemingly alone?!?” Questions that bring anxiety and stir up more fear.

Hope only happens when we turn our eyes toward God’s promises. And, just like life, those promises sprout up near the end of the path, illuminating the world, while driving much of the fog and darkness away. Just a bit of Hope seems to bring with it the light that previously was absent.

Through the witness of a few different family and friends, I was reminded that the story I’d lived was one to help others find that hope amongst the terrors of the walk through grief.

It was also at that time when I knew life had to begin living again. I couldn’t continue to walk numbly through everything. God gave me a new job. God paved the road for Micah to go to college. And God was beginning to pick up the pace of life again. The dreary was slowly departing, not completely, just slowly.

Once a few of those promises come into sight, the darkness recedes even more, and true sight begins to take form. The path gets clearer and easier to follow. The looming question of the fog no longer is in view. Yes, death is still present, but the pain brings memories of beauty, the memories of warm laughter, and the memories of hope begin to take shape. You realize that the memories are a gift. Yes, they are often painful, but God turns pain into beauty quite regularly. If that’s a hard pill to swallow, contemplate childbirth.

The day before our “first date,” after having purchased the “Streets of Gold” painting, I woke to a clear picture of a man walking down a path through trees in Fall, leaves of all colors and shades. My heart heard it as plain as day: “Thom, grief is like Fall.” God’s whisper might as well have been shouting. It all made sense.

In the Fall, when the leaves turn, our world erupts in beauty. The once beautifully bright, vibrant world becomes more cozy as leaves turn to darker shades of reds, and oranges, and yellows.

The work of grief is hard. It’s time consuming. And, I’ll clue you in on a secret people don’t like to talk about…it doesn’t just go away after a few days or weeks or months…the season of grief, like the season of Fall, stays around for what sometimes feels like an eternity.

When the trees release their pretty charges, our yards are filled with a beautiful mess. I’d never thought of it that way before God showed me the picture for the cover of the book. If we want our yard to be healthy, and the neighbors to not hate us, we take the time to rake the leaves. Then there’s the task of getting rid of them. It’s hard work, but at the end of the day, there is satisfaction.

We go to bed knowing we worked hard, but we took a shower and went to bed. When we wake up, we find that there are a few leaves that have wandered into our well manicured lawn. It’s a bit irritating, but we quickly pick them up so that our home looks pretty again, so no onlookers see anything out of place.

A couple days go by, a windstorm alights in the night, and we wake to more leaves on the ground than when we initially raked leaves at the beginning of Fall. It’s seemingly a never ending cycle, never knowing how many leaves we might have to deal with when we wake in the morning, or come home from work, or see swirling while we stare out the window during dinner.

Those leaves are like memories of our dearly departed. They are beautiful and rich with color. But they are also decaying, falling around us, causing painful work to be done.

When I shared my vision for the cover of Good Grief?!? with Carolyn, she understood it immediately and the picture in her mind was instant. Had she stopped at the above picture, I would have been happy. It would have been missing someone, but it would still carry the metaphor. When I saw the end product (below), it was as if I’d stepped into a vacuum of time and sound.

I was overwhelmed and instantly in tears.

When Carolyn unveiled the final picture, I felt like the horse blinders had been removed and I could understand more of the message God was using us both to portray, one in black and white print, and one in vivid brush strokes.

I was the one in the picture! Not a random man. Me. ME! That is actually my shadow walking in that picture.

The irony is not lost on me. I teach English to Middle Schoolers. Irony is part of my daily language.

It had never dawned on me that the person I “saw” walking through the grove of Fall trees was me. I often, like many romantics, look at the world with a bit of rose colored glasses. Why insert my actual image? That might tarnish the picture. That might awaken more pain. That might be a little too much reality. I’m sure that sounds absurd, especially since I’m the one who walked through the season of grief written about in the book.

I can’t imagine what you’re thinking right now… I had never let myself be part of this space before (the space of oncoming blessing), yet I’ve encouraged many others to do just that…I mean…I’ve had a relationship with Abba God for a very long time. I know how good the God of Creation is. I know how much our Father God wants to bless us, I’m a father myself. I know how good Heaven/blessing sounds, but I’ve always pictured myself as a stable boy, worthy to only clean the stables of Heaven, and happy to be allowed to have the opportunity.

I stood for a beat. Then the tears began to roll.

Looking at the finished painting for the first time, it dawned on me that “I” was walking into the sunrise… into Streets of Gold. I wasn’t walking into death. I was walking away from it into the life that is brought with Spring. Me. Carolyn didn’t paint me at the bottom of the picture, just entering a dark and dreary Fall, with Winter in the background.… and she had painted ME!

When I first showed “Streets of Gold” to one of my best friends, she said to me, “Thom, look at the leaves.”

“I know,” I said, eyes downcast, looking at the ground covering.

“No, not those leaves,” she said. “Those are blessings God’s already given you. Look at the ones in the trees!”

Time seemed to stop. The ground covering seemed like a meager amount to the limb packed trees!

I’m still struggling to wrap my head around all this. If the leaves on the ground represent the miracles I’ve seen while walking with Abba God through many decades, the lifelong friends He’s paired my life with, the nearly 19 years of a marriage to Amy, 3 beautiful souls who call me dad, an incredible career, and many more things too numerous to talk about here, and that number pales in light of the blessings to come?!? Peace. The book. New life and new love. Carolyn. A future with my boys and the families God intends for them. Prior to the day I first saw the finished picture for the book, I’d never before felt this loved by LOVE Himself! I’d never really known Abba had blessed me and love me that much. I had just claimed it as a promise… that one day I’d finally FEEL like I hope my boys feel about me as their dad.

The book has finished the first editorial round. There are about 10 weeks before Good Grief?!? will arrive in stores on real and virtual shelves to be purchased, and it finally feels like it’s actually happening. Thank you for walking this journey with me!

Who am I?

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I’ve been asking for many years, “Who am I?” Being an orphan with two living parents, from an abusive childhood, the answer to the question, “Who am I?” has become multi-layered. Yes, I’m a dad of three. Yes, I’m a middle school Language Arts and Social Studies teacher. Yes, I’m a writer with a passion. But who am I?

My birth name was John Thomas Johnson, Jr. My parents couldn’t agree on my name so my father’s mother – who happened to also be the “delivery nurse” – named me after her son, without either of my parents knowing she’d filled in the birth certificate. In order to give me my own identity, my mother called me “Tom” from day one. Growing up with my birth name was difficult. It didn’t seem to fit. I felt compared to my father all the time. He and I are nothing alike and I didn’t want to grow up to be just like him.

In high school, I was taken by the stories of name changes (Saul to Paul, Abram to Abraham, Jacob to Israel, etc.). I felt misnamed. I prayed, asking God what my true name was. After months in prayer, the new name God chose for me was very clear: Thomas Michael Johnson. On my 18th birthday, I legally changed my name. Because of my family heritage, I chose the Celtic spelling of “Thom.” My mother was happy and my father was not. He wanted to get his name changed so that I would be a “Jr.” again. I said, “No.” He took it as a slap in the face, like I didn’t love him anymore. I tried to explain the journey I’d been on. I truly believed God was the author of my name change; He was defining my identity. My father didn’t understand.

Fast forward a few decades, and I found myself asking the same question again: “Who am I?” The question has kept me awake many nights.

Just days before the wedding, Carolyn and I were talking about the power of names. She asked me, “What’s the spiritual connotation of your names?” I was puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.” Then Carolyn said, “Let’s look you up.” She handed me a very unique book of names. In it, the author lists multiple layers to the meaning of names we sometimes over-simplify. Each tells the…

Language/Cultural Origin
Inherent Meaning
Spiritual Connotation
Scripture

…connected to each name.

I quickly cracked the book and began my search.

“Thomas” means “Twin.” I’ve known that for nigh 30 years. Many told me it meant “duplicitous” or “deceitful,” possibly even “double minded.” With the Apostle in mind, it definitely meant “doubtful.” I thought it was odd that every time I took a personality test, I seemed to come up with the personality of polar opposites: the extroverted introvert. What I did not know was the spiritual connotation the name “Thomas” holds which indicates “one who is Divinely Preserved.” Proverbs 2:11 has been connected to the name Thomas: “Discretion will guard you, understanding will watch over you.” That’s far from the “possible explanations” I’d been given.

It wasn’t new to me that “Michael” is a question which means “Who is like God?” It’s a name of one of the highest ranking angels in Heaven. The fact that the name is a question has always puzzled me. The name book defined the spiritual connotation for “Michael” is “Esteemed,” and it led me to Exodus 15:11 – “Who is like You, O Lord, among the gods? Who is like You, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?” I was no longer puzzled by the question mark buried within my name. I got the impression that my name was a question of worship, of awe.

Just for grins, I looked up “John.” John means “God is Gracious.” Other translators have said, “Gift of God.” It brings with its name the connotation of the “Strength of God.”

I sat for a beat, then said to Carolyn, “So my name means ‘One who is Divinely preserved – by discretion and understanding – Esteemed, and a Gracious Gift of Strength?”

“That’s what it looks like to me,” Carolyn replied.

“Well, maybe without the strength part,” I snickered, “since it is no longer my name.”

That’s not how Carolyn saw it. She reminded me of a prophecy spoken over the five of us. We were each given a one word adjective describing how God sees us. Mine: “Unbreakable.” I nearly laughed. I’d had a “brain” tumor on my pituitary gland in college that caused my bones to be two and a half times more dense than an average man’s bones. “Basically, you’d have to be going 80 miles an hour at a brick wall nearly a mile thick in order to break your bones,” were the bone specialist’s exact words. I saw the irony of it and chuckled a bit.

“So I can’t break a bone. That doesn’t mean I’m unbreakable.”

Carolyn didn’t let go.

“You’re unbreakable,” she began. “You’ve been through something that would take many out of the church, would take their focus off God and maybe even cause them to question if there really is a god. But you still not only believe in God, but are following Him passionately. You’ve even written a book about stuff that would break most people. You are unbreakable, Thom, because God has made you unbreakable. That’s strength. It’s been in your name all along.”

I looked down at my last name and that’s where my brain hit the proverbial wall, pondering what Carolyn had just said.

Johnson.

My brain divided the word into its two pieces.

John-son.

I shook my head and looked again.

John Son.

Tears sprang from nowhere. I didn’t even know I was in “one of those conversations.” Carolyn and I had many of “those conversations” where God caught our attention and held it fast. He’s taught us much in the last 5 months through many of “those conversations.”

Carolyn once told me of a conversation she’d had with God where she asked Him, “What do you call me?” His reply, “Beloved.” I was taken by that conversation and asked God the same question. Nothing profound hit me. I didn’t have a life altering experience. I simply remembered Him calling me “Thomas Michael Johnson” so many years ago. I was satisfied with that…almost. After a few weeks of no answer, the question began to gnaw at me. I figured that if I knew what God actually called me, then I might know the answer to my other question: “Who am I?”

As I sat there staring at a book of names, the answer to both questions was very clear. Who am I? Thomas Michael Johnson. Thom to most of the world. What does God call me? Son. I know the theology that we are all sons and daughters of the Most High, but the head knowledge had never settled into my true knowing. I no longer felt like an orphan. Abba God called me “Son.”

I may, like Paul or Jacob, be in process of becoming the man God defined by the name He gave me – “A Gracious Gift of Strength who is Esteemed and Divinely Preserved, by discretion and understanding” – but I am not in process of becoming a son. I simply am His son. At 46 years of age, I finally know who I am!