I'm thinking about change. A year ago, I was learning and teaching history at Conway Christian School, watching my daughter Emma prepare for those last two years of high school that would see her off to college, leaving Dan and me home alone in our big empty house. Our lives were set, for the most part.
Then, in the spring, Dan had an opportunity to move an hour away to Searcy, to become a full-time faculty member in the College of Business at Harding. To reenvision your life is brave; it acknowledges that you understand that we are all unfinished. Teaching is certainly not something one masters overnight, and teachers are forever refining their methods. But I know he will be good at it. Sometimes the process of newness is uncomfortable, but that's how it is for each of us when we are becoming something altogether different. These days, every day is a new revelation for him, and for us all.
We pulled 16-year-old Emma's roots up and transplanted her to Harding Academy, a place where she will be well-served, but every day is a brand new to her as well. She is adjusting to the changes from being an Eagle to a Wildcat, and we pray that God teaches her the lessons that will serve her best, and will glorify Him, through the transformation of her life, and of all of our lives.
As for me, I left my classroom and my familiar set of high school students behind for a few revelations myself. In these Harding classrooms, I'm not the teacher; I'm the full-time graduate student, schlepping my computer bag around campus vaguely shocked when students defer to me and call me "ma'am" in line at the printer in the library, for I am one of them -- at least on the inside. On the outside, I am somewhat shopworn with highlighted hair -- a sign of a woman uncertain as to exactly how much gray she actually has, and vaguely afraid to confront the reality.
This is a good place to be, although in a way exhausting every day with its newness. Some people are more resilient by nature than others. I think I am the most naturally "bendy" of anyone in my family, and still, the transition is a little wearing. Every task I have to do for the first time, no matter how mundane, requires a decision to be made: the eye doctor, the oil change, the dry cleaner, the best place to get coffee.
Which brings me to Midnight Oil. This morning I'm sitting in the corner of a coffee shop on the edge of campus, where I was greeted by a young, open-faced blonde barista beaming with welcome as she took my order. She sized me up, intuitively understanding I might not know how they did business here, and carefully not making me feel foolish for not understanding that I had to sign my credit card slip with my fingertip on the iPad register setup. I like it here. The beveled glass in the windows rattles as the doors open and close. The floors creak as customers pass with their mochas and their laptops; the millwork is beaten and worn. Avett Brothers tunes flow from the speakers and the windows are open to the first cool promise of fall as the sun streams in. A gentleman across the room spontaneously falls in next to a young female nursing student and asks whether she has any questions to prepare for her test. She asks something about edema, slightly mispronouncing it, and he kindly explains it to her. She seems very grateful for the consult.
The walls are covered with the photography of Philip Holsinger, whom I do not know, but I think I might like to. They are exhibition-sized, glossy, mostly black and white, high-contrast photos of everyday life in Haiti. The one called "Madonna and Child" haunts me. In it, a Haitian woman sits on an expanse of dark, desolate, unappealing ground with the ocean in the distance, a child in her lap. The child's face is hidden, turned toward his mother. Her arms encircle him; her body twists upward and to the right, and her graceful neck extends like a Degas sculpture. Her face reflects a kind of resignation. She stares into the distance at -- her past? His future? I make a note to attend Holsinger's gallery exhibition to see more this afternoon.
Some days I look around and cannot believe that we live here now. After 25 years of Dan's commuting to Little Rock from Conway and being out of contact during much of the day while I was in a classroom, Dan and I now discuss his new life of teaching and we eat lunch together frequently. We often have a house full of college students -- fourteen for lunch on Sunday. We anticipated such, and bought a house with a room for them to hang out, as much out of self-defense as hospitality. The students seem not to care that I am not exactly Martha Stewart; they're just thankful to have a place to go. It is low-pressure entertaining and we enjoy having them in our home.
These young people are full of infectious energy. Some are self-consciously clueless; some feel they have it all under control; some are awkward; most are reveling in these days when they are surrounded by friendship and the promise of travel abroad and the world opening up to them and them to it in turn. They are smart and funny and fresh. Each has a story; some have been coddled by helicopter parents and some have been on their own to a great extent. But they are beginning to become what they will be, apart from Mom and Dad.
I guess we all have this in common: we don't know what we don't know. I pray that the teachers and staff who minister to my daughter -- and it is ministry -- while she studies here will be gracious to her. I pray they will hold her to a high standard of performance, that they will call her out of the unexamined life, and will remind her that she serves a loving God who requires that she be pliable as he transforms her.
I pray that they will make her profoundly uncomfortable with the status quo from time to time, and will sensitize her to the relative luxury of her safe life. I pray that part of her reinvention will include a mental screenshot of Holsinger's "Madonna and Child," who might someday benefit from her gifts and the gifts of other students here as they disperse into the world. And I pray that each student who walks these sidewalks will learn more daily about the God who doesn't always tell us in advance where He's taking us, but who always walks beside us and transforms us on the journey. Because if we are open to it, every day is a new revelation, no matter where it takes us.
To learn more about the mission of Midnight Oil, aside from being a purveyor of excellent caffeinated beverages, you may go here: http://www.midnightoilcoffeehouse.com
