We’re a rag-tag group of people vigilantly pursuing self-sustaining educational & employment opportunities with and for students and their families living in rural communities in developing countries. We believe in asking hard questions like, “What do you need and how can we help?” We believe that communities know their needs better than we do and that it’s our job to listen. We’re big on being kind for the sake of kindness and we believe that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a big difference. We believe in keeping vigil over one another and watching for opportunities to help, no matter how far off the beaten path those opportunities take us. We’re vigilant in our belief that God has given each person unique gifts and that one of the highest forms of worship is using those gifts to serve others. We believe God has a purpose for each life and Vigilante Kindness is our purpose. Join us as we live out wild adventures in service of God and others. Join us in committing acts of Vigilante Kindness.
This morning I’m thinking about some of my former students. Teachers aren’t supposed to play favorites, but there are some children who will always stick with me, always reside in my heart. And in the quiet morning of the first day of Christmas vacation, one darling little girl has tiptoed to the front of my mind.
I taught her for most of her first grade year, but she left before the year ended, and like so many students who have come and gone too quickly, I’m left wondering about her.
Wondering if she still writes. Wondering if she’s going to have any presents to open this Christmas. Wondering if her bootstraps are still holding strong.
I have a wonderful bunch of kids, but the reality of increased class sizes paired with decreased aide support leaves me feeling like I’m stretched impossibly thin. I’m not giving my students all they need, all they deserve. Many days I go home feeling defeated, feeling like I hardly even got to talk to some of my kids, let alone teach them.
At night I lay awake thinking of all the holes I need to fill in their understanding of words and numbers. But the holes are numerous and I am only one.
I’m giving my all this year and it’s not enough.
That is the searing truth that rumbles in the pit of my stomach and snaps my eyelids up like window shades at 2:13 in the morning.
Today was one of those days. I woke in the small hours of the morning, trying to solve this puzzle, to put the pieces together in a new way that creates a better picture. The solution eluded me, slipped away as the moon and sun changed guard.
I went to work exhausted. I had a good day with my kids, they all put forth their best effort and so did I. We are loving the nearness of Christmas and simultaneously feeling the pangs of being away from each other for two and a half weeks.
After school, I sat in my room overwhelmed by all the little tasks that had to be accomplished before I could even think about big things like lesson plans for January.
And then a familiar face poked his head in my door.
I knew this face when he was a first grader in my class a few years ago. This face, this little boy, will have my heart forever. This was the face of the boy who belted out his solo in our class musical and brought the house down. He peeked in and I hugged him tight, noticing how he comes up to my armpits, remembering how he used to barely come up to my waist. Time is such a quick bird, flying away with little children and returning them to me as adolescents.
I asked him if he’d come by to help. Many are the children who pop in after school wanting to help, wanting a little extra time to talk. He said he’d be happy to help and I sent him with a note to his after school care teacher. He returned a minute later with the okay from his teacher and with another boy in tow. This boy has the most expressive eyes. The second boy asked if he could help, too. Suddenly all those little tasks that were stacked up against me didn’t seem so daunting. The second boy returned with the okay from his after school care teacher and when he returned, he brought with him a third boy. The third boy was another former student, a boy with a sensitive spirit and impish dimples. These three boys set about sharpening pencils, filing, cleaning my boards, washing dishes, and while they worked, they talked.
They talked about all the things we did when they were in first grade. About the Mr. Bear Crime Scene Investigation unit. About the leprechaun who left tiny green footprints all over our desks and turned our milk green. About the pleasure of choosing a book out of the Santa sack. About our 100th day Olympics. About the piles and piles of books we’d written.
“We really had some great times together, didn’t we?” I smiled at them. “I’d forgotten about a lot of those things.”
And then the boy who will always have my heart said “Maybe we should write you a list of all the fun things we did so you’ll remember them and remember to do them with your class.”
“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” And that’s the truth. Because somewhere this year I’ve let myself only see my failures. I’d lost sight of some of the magic, some of the sparkle of teaching young children.
Half an hour later, all the little jobs were finished. As were my lesson plans for the next month. I hugged these three angel boys and told them that their help had been the best Christmas gift. Then the boy who’d belted out a solo so many years ago told me he’d see me tomorrow at the school sing-a-long because he was in the choir.
“I always knew you were a singer.” I grinned.
“I remember you telling me that.” he replied. And in that moment, we were both so full, so content with memories of our year together.
Before they left, one boy asked if he could have one of the pencils they’d sharpened. And so I paid them each with a brand new pencil, such a small price to pay for the important lessons they taught me today.
the little girl who told me that I have beautiful hair like a movie star. I didn’t ask which one because I thought I’d just better leave well enough alone.
walking my old neighborhood with my mom
the jar of peppermint nougat Christmas tree candies my mom gave me
falling asleep to the sound of rain
the light of the Christmas tree
sitting on my couch reading O magazine after a rough day at work
my student who got a paper cut on her finger and said, “It feels like my finger has a headache.”
the dragonfly necklace my friend made me for Christmas
the little boy, who moved away earlier this year, and called me this week to tell me all about his new class, his new house, and to tell me about his letter to Santa. I only told him I missed him 7 times. And my eyes only watered a little bit when it was time to say goodbye.
my friend, Abby, who was featured here for the stunning necklaces she creates
Today my friend, That Laura, sent me the following text:
“Hey, did you know you are on the back of ‘Biking the Best’? How cool are you?”
Biking the Best is a booklet of maps of twenty-four of the best road rides in and around Shasta County. I did not know I was on the back cover and I have to say it went to my head a little bit. This was my reply.
“Send me a photo of it. Wait, am I upright?”
Unfortunately, that is a valid question on my part.
“Yes, you’re upright. It’s a picture of a bunch of people at a rest stop.”
Laura sent the photo to my phone but I couldn’t quite make it out.
“Oh good. I was afraid it was when I fell over or something. How do I get my own copy so I can brag about being big and famous? And do you want me to autograph yours?”
Laura called a minute later and asked if I wanted to meet her at the bike shop because she was going to buy a copy. Of course I wanted to buy my Very Own Copy. I think she was actually buying it for the routes. I, on the other hand, felt compelled to buy it because I was obviously the star of the book. And bike routes are nice, too. That way when I get lost because I didn’t look at the map in the first place I can still find my way back home.
So I puffed up my chest and strode into the bike shop. Funny thing is, nobody in the shop stopped and asked for my autograph. They didn’t even recognize me. Didn’t they know the back cover model of “Biking the Best” was in their presence?
I swaggered over to the counter and picked up a copy. I didn’t bother to flip through the routes. Instead I turned right to the back cover. And sure enough there were a bunch of my cycling friends.
“Are you sure I’m in this picture? I don’t see myself.” I said to Laura.
“Yep, you’re right there in your Fat Cyclist jersey. See?” She pointed.
I squinted. A lot. And sure enough there I was. Looking like an idiot. True, I am upright in the photo, but that’s the best thing I can say about it. I apologize for the grainy quality of the photo. It’s a photo of a photo, but you’ll get the gist.
Do you see me? No?
I’m the one on the right.
Further right.
Yeah. That one.
I have no idea what I was reaching for back there. My only guess is that I had a sock stuck in my jersey or something.
Still, I’m happy to autograph your copy of the booklet. In fact, you probably won’t mind if I sign in big, black permanent marker, right? And I have a long name so you might not even be able to see my photo underneath the autograph. And wouldn’t that be a shame.
In November I heard the eloquent Charlie Price talk about his writing process and read some of his latest work. After the reading I had a serious Fan Girl Moment wherein I asked him to sign one of his books and then I gushed all over about how I’m a member of Writers Forum and so is he and isn’t it great that we’re both in it together and that we’re both writers, well, one of us is an aspiring writer, and isn’t writing just the best and I just love teaching kids to write and could he please, please sign my book?
Sigh. I am a superdork.
He was lovely about it all and asked if I was going to read anything at the upcoming bi-annual Writers Forum read aloud. I shook my head and explained that I probably wouldn’t read because I am terrified, absolutely horrified, of speaking in public, which is an improvement, believe it or not. Charlie encouraged me to read and I told him I’d think about it.
Well, I did think about it. And I decided to do it, to ignore my profusely sweating armpits and just suck it up and read. The rules of the read aloud are simple: You have five minutes to read something you’ve written. At four and a half minutes you get a thirty-second warning. At five minutes you get the hook.
I did not want to get the hook. I was sure if I did, I would melt into a big sweaty puddle of embarrassment. So I dug through my archives and weeded out pieces that were too short or too long. I whittled it down to two pieces, one a funny piece and one a piece written during the most difficult time of my life. I loved writing them both, but writing the latter piece was one of the things that helped me survive that time.
I thought to myself what if, just what if, I not only took the chance to read aloud, but instead of hiding behind humor, what if I laid down all my masks and read something that mattered, something that exposed vulnerability?
Ooh, that would be risky, scary even.
But maybe it would be worth it.
Saturday morning at Writers Forum, I swallowed my pride along with a big bundle of nerves and signed up to read. I was ninth in line, meaning I sweated through eight other readings before it was my turn. There were some great writers in that room, writers who softened my heart and writers who made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt.
And then it was my turn. I was impossibly nervous. Oh, Lord, when will speaking in public get easier?
I stepped up to the microphone and I read this piece.
My heart was pounding and at some point during the reading I seemed to lose contact with my legs. I don’t know if it was because my heart was pounding in my ears, but it seemed to me the only sound in the room was my voice. My timid voice, reading about dragonflies of all things. Reading about how dragonflies helped me pick up all the broken pieces.
After I finished reading I sat down and waited for the feeling to return to my legs. At the break, many people came up to me and said kind things about my piece. Charlie Price, the Charlie Price, was sitting next to me and said some of the nicest things I’ve ever heard about my writing. I was touched and humbled.
The woman sitting on the other side of me called me the Dragonfly Lady. And I kind of like it because, dear reader, I’m happy to say I no longer live in that mire. I have shed my sorrowful skin and I’m winging my way through this beautiful life.
Dragonfly Lady, yup, I can live with that, especially because dragonflies have six legs. So the next time I’m reading some of my writing aloud and I lose feeling in my legs, I’ll rest easy in the knowledge that I’ve got four more to stand on.
When raising dragonflies at school, I was surprised and delighted at the spot this new dragonfly chose to rest.
Vigilante Kindness 