.unedited.version.

Brutal honesty, right? Here it is.  I have not thought this through, I have not mapped it out, I will not edit it or apologize for it.  I’m going to speak the truth as my heart sees it in this moment and hope that, at some point, it begins to make sense.

 

I hate my job.  Which is kind of ridiculous, because anytime someone asks, I always say, “It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever experienced, and I love it.”  Which is kind of a white lie.  But you know the deal with white lies.  Anything that’s close enough to a lie to actually have the word “lie” in it…well, it’s not to be trusted.

 

Teaching is a kind of like a whore for me, to be brutally honest.  You have this craving, this passion, this need.  And it overtakes you in a way you can’t explain, so much so that when you have no healthy outlet for the passion, you have to create one.  And the created one is always at least somewhat false.  You always end up paying it more than it’s worth to you, and it never satisfies the longing.

 

Yep.  I just compared teaching to a hooker.  This is why I rarely leave myself entirely unedited.

 

The truth is this: Teaching, for me, is an excuse to be around kids.  My passion is not teaching.  Honestly, it’s my least favorite part of my job.  I hate having to make lesson plans, I hate doing paperwork, I hate staying on task, I hate having mapped out expectations for getting to an intended goal.  I hate that last week, when a student asked me for personal advice during independent working time in class, I got dirty looks from a colleague when I took three minutes out to help a student work through something that, however trivial it might seem to an adult, mattered to her at that moment.

 

The raw truth.  I do not care if my students learn music.  I do not care if they walk out of my classroom having no clue what an eighth note is.  I do not care if they meet the standards for student achievement set by the government in regards to music class.  Which sounds terrible coming from someone who eats, sleeps, and breathes music.  But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few years, it’s that music, no matter how much I love it, is not my greatest passion nor my end goal.

 

My passion in life is a little girl who sought out my friendship five years ago.  A little girl who was broken beyond my realm of comprehension, who had known nothing but hurt and devastation and broken trust.  And over the course of five years, I have done nothing but LOVE her.  I have laughed with her, cried with her, lived life with her from hundreds of miles away, and because of that, she has seen a vivid image of what love looks like.  What friendship and caring are.  I love her for who she is and where she is.  I have no short or long term goals or objectives for her.  It is love with no performance-related strings attached and no expectations other than that she be wholly, relentlessly honest with me.

 

So where does that leave me?  Where is God going with the mess that is my heart at this moment? I know my heart’s passion isn’t for nothing and yet I know it’s only barely tapped into at the moment.  And that aches.  I am a person of deep heart and deep conviction, and not one who finds it in the least desirable to live out only a portion of my passion.

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