My Envelopment as a Teacher, Part Three: Finding My Excellence

           That same year, as it turned out, I was needed to teach language arts, reading, writing, and spelling part-time in the fifth- and sixth-grade class. Paige and I had spent the summer bulking up the new library, so it was ready to go. I was her co-librarian, as well as—now—a teacher. I felt good actually about sharing that load. I wasn’t sure I could handle a full-time class. My subbing experiences had made me rather gun shy. It was decided that part of my duties would also include a part pull-out, part assist-in-the-classroom gig for fourth grade language arts.

I was somewhat amazed that Mr. Wallace had hired me, but I was grateful and definitely wanted to do my best. I poured myself into the curriculum, devising fun ways to spark the kids’ creativity and reading ahead in their novels (I think I had three different groups) so that I could write good higher-order thinking questions to expand their comprehension. I had the kids decorate soup cans, and once a week we’d do “Soup Can Spelling.” They’d save the words they’d missed in their cans for further review. I’d been given a chance to show my worth, and by golly—I wanted to be the best possible teacher I could be.

In 2006, all those fifth- and sixth-graders had moved on to other schools. There were no real plans in the works at that time for us to add middle school, and they wanted a long-term situation. I was enjoying doing library but a bit sad I wasn’t teaching. Still, I wanted to make a difference at CCS—it felt like the right place for me to be, and I’d certainly prayed for God’s help in all that I’d been involved in there thus far, which included overseeing the Young Authors program. I was happy doing what I was doing though. I knew Mr. Wallace’s confidence in me had grown—and that pleased me greatly. I was going to miss him. It was at the end of the 2005-2006 school year that he had announced to us his intention to administrate for the Christian school he’d worked at before, as their middle school principal.

Without the funds at that time to hire another full-time principal, the school board took charge of hiring and overseeing the teachers. Toward the end of October, the first-grade teacher, Monique, and myself were called into a meeting with the board chairman and another board member. There were to be some significant staffing changes—one of those would be fairly immediate and would necessitate a teacher taking over a second- and third-grade class until Christmas break. But the fourth- and fifth-grade teacher would not be returning after Christmas break. So after Christmas break…Monique was to inherit the second-graders, and I would be needed to teach grades three-through-five! There was palpable shock in the room, and Monique voiced the question that was on both our minds, “Do we have a choice?” What she meant, in short, was—is there another way? But there simply wasn’t. The numbers wouldn’t allow for new hires at the time, so in some ways it was a blessing in disguise—but at the time, it didn’t seem like it.

I had flashbacks of my “failure” with a three-grade class before. How on earth could I do this? But at the very same time I was doubting myself, something rose up in me—and it wasn’t of me. God seemed to be speaking gently to my spirit, My grace is sufficient for you.

That first day, I had a parent volunteer to write one group’s spelling words on the back board. After she’d written several, I realized that I was having her write the wrong words. Things were definitely in disarray because, under the circumstances, I’d not had a chance to preview anything. I experienced a panicky moment, but then I simply took charge and proceeded onward, explaining to the kids that it would take some time for us to settle into a new routine. It was as if God gave me the right words for the moment, as well as giving me peace about this new situation. I had no idea what the next week—or even the next hour—would bring, but I was okay with it. And that was so unlike me. In the natural, I was heap of worrisome energy, but in my spirit…I knew God had the situation under control.

As Christmas break drew to a close, I became anxious. We had lost three of our third-graders and, with the switch, four of our fifth-graders as well. This left me with a class of six fourth-graders, two fifth-graders (one of them being my daughter, Kalina), and only one third-grader. It seemed like a manageable number, but I knew that I’d still have three sets of lesson plans to do for many subjects. I enlisted as much parent volunteer help as I could. But I didn’t have anyone assisting during math time, which proved to be the hardest to orchestrate. I was trying really hard, but I was concerned whether the kids were actually learning.

And aside from learning…this was a class to be reckoned with. Made up of a majority of, shall we say, spirited individuals, it was a challenge to keep them well-focused and well-behaved. Several playground rules were broken by my class that year, and dodgeball was banned because of them. If there was a line, they seemed willing to cross it. They weren’t bad, but they were a determined and push-the-envelope kind of bunch. I had to find ways to connect with them. One of those was music (Toby Mac was becoming popular at the time); another was humor. I was, by nature, a grace-giver, but I had to have clear limits with this group. And Kalina wasn’t altogether thrilled that I called her out when she displayed the wrong kinds of behavior. There was a bit of a head-butting battle that ensued between the two of us. She was a leader in the class, so there was no way I could let it slip by. Still, I didn’t like having to crack down.

By the end of the year, I’d grown to love each one of my students very much. I remember crying as I shared a poem on promotion night. It was a pivotal year. With no middle school in sight, even our fourth-graders wouldn’t be returning. There were awards given to those who’d been with the school the longest, and each student received a brick which read, “You’ll always be a part of our Cornerstone.”

The following year, I was called upon to teach a second-and-third grade class. I looked forward to a full year with the same group of kids, as I’d only ever taught for half a year. This too was a small but challenging group—and I had to push some outside their comfort zones and find alternative outlets for others. I became keenly attuned to individual needs, strengths, and struggles. I wasn’t always sure I was doing the right thing, but one thing I knew God had put on my heart—and that was to love these kids. I was excited when He directed me creatively to choose projects that they liked, such as the “create-a-planet” project.

One of the best things I decided to do was Operation Flat Stanley. Flat Stanley is the main character in a series of books by Jeff Brown. He becomes as flat as an envelope one night when a bulletin board falls on him. He finds that in this state he can fit in places he couldn’t before and even serve as a kite for his brother. And best of all—he can be mailed to visit his friends in other places. Our Flat Stanleys traveled to other countries, as well as different parts of the U.S. We kept a pin board of the world on which we marked with green pins the places he went and with red pins the places from which other Stanleys were sent to us. It was educational and fun.

It was a growing year for me as a teacher, as I had many different levels of students within the two grades I was teaching. And it was a rough year emotionally, because our son, Josiah, was struggling and we didn’t know why. He was only a first-grader, but something was clearly amiss. Once it became clear he could no longer continue at school, I was forced to resign—that was February.

God, in His grace, provided for my absence. Melanie Pfaff, who was our office administrator at the time but had done a lot of teaching in different forums, was able to take over the majority of the class day while Karri Bauldree, our P.E. teacher took on math; it was a strong subject for her. Since the kids already had an established relationship with these two wonderful ladies, the transition wasn’t as drastic as it could have been otherwise. I felt badly though—I had come so close to getting a whole year of teaching under my belt—and I missed my students from the moment I knew I must resign. But my family came first.

Josiah needed me more than ever. We spent the next few months with me trying to home school and trying even harder to understand the strange outbursts I knew weren’t who my boy truly was inside. We had heard of a local center that did testing for neurological issues—after testing, it was clear that there was some dysregulation, probably stemming from some steps that were skipped in his development as an infant. This could be largely corrected. But it was going to be expensive.

I sent out letters explaining the situation, and God provided generous donors to fund the necessary treatment. I knew that if I could just make it through this school year, things would get easier. Josiah began the program in June, which was three hours a day, five days a week. A few weeks into the program, we were noticing marked changes in his behavior and response to parental requests. His brain was literally being remapped. There were never any academic concerns with Josiah—his brain just wasn’t receiving messages correctly in terms of responses to outward influences, which included injury (for things that would make most kids scream in pain, he would barely whimper), changes in routine (we had to learn to alert him with a heads-up for any changes that were coming up), and cause-and-effect situations.

Cornerstone was absorbed by Willamette Christian that year. In August, I began looking for work with WCS. I knew there wasn’t anything available on the Keizer campus, where I’d made a home for myself over the past eight years, so I checked in with the south campus in Turner. In fact, they were in need of a middle school Bible teacher. I interviewed and felt it went well. The position was offered to me. Nervous to accept the job, I talked to a couple friends; they encouraged me to take it.

From the get-go, I could tell that these students had been through too many Bible teachers. They were prepared to test me…and I wasn’t prepared for the test. As a result, I tried to keep them busy and in hindsight, probably asked too much of them academically. But I believed them to be bright and capable. What I found I wasn’t really able to do was bridge the relational gap and gain their trust. This too was some sort of training ground for me, for in the days ahead I would feel just as overwhelmed in a different facet of life.

In September, the center Josiah attended in the afternoons unexpectedly closed. I had to quickly figure out what would happen with him. In meeting with the principal, some numbers were worked out so that he could attend half-days at WCS. And it was a marvelous success.

But in October, things went awry. My mother took a fall, and my dad couldn’t get her up, nor figure out what to do. Finally, a neighbor friend called the ambulance. She had severe edema in both legs and was forced to go into a care center. My dad, who’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease in September, obviously needed someone to take charge of his welfare. My mom had been the one to compensate for his decreasing mental abilities and tell him what to do—to keep him safe.

We brought him to our home, but he couldn’t really be left alone all day. Since my job was in the afternoons, I had to drop my dad off in Albany with the part-time caregiver. Then I’d go to work, Josiah would go to school, then we’d go get my dad afterward. This went on for several weeks. Work wasn’t getting any easier, I had a lot to focus on with Josiah (while trying not to neglect my other two kids or husband), and having my dad there was like having another kid to look after. He’d get lost in the house sometimes at night on his way to the bathroom. I had to make sure he took his medication at the right times. There was just a lot to remember that I wasn’t used to having to track.

The end of October, we placed my father in an Alzheimer’s facility in Dallas, one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I knew it was important for both my parents to see me regularly. Unfortunately, my mom was still in the facility in Albany. I was doing a lot of extra driving to see both parents and advocate for them. Plus, I was the one who had to take them to appointments and such. And I was working my part-time job (that by now I felt I was failing at) and trying to support/be involved in Josiah’s school experience. There just wasn’t much left of me to go around, and I could tell my family was starting to suffer for it—and I felt that I must be on the verge of some kind of breakdown. But I kept going.

Until one day toward the beginning of November. I stopped at the principal’s office between classes. And I cried. Pastor Jerry Huhn, our administrator, was so sympathetic. I told him all that was going on with my folks and of my classroom struggles—I remember saying, “Something’s got to give—and I think it has to be my job.” Pastor Jerry was nothing but supportive and understanding.

At that point, Tod Scheler, who had previously taught Bible at the school, was in a position where he both wanted and needed to come back—the timing could not have been more perfect for him. And I felt a great sense of relief. Perhaps, I reasoned, I was just warming the seat for a while.

By January, Josiah was able to start attending school full-time. We were so thankful for all the progress he’d made and how God had orchestrated everything. In February, my mom was able to be placed in an excellent care facility in Dallas. I would pick my dad up from his facility, then we’d go and visit Mom together. Things were finally falling into place—but I wondered if I’d ever set foot in a classroom again—except as an occasional sub for WCS.

The following year, I worked as a paid librarian at the Keizer campus. It felt good to be back “home.” The teachers there were my friends and had been a great support system for me through the previous year’s trials. My family had lost both our home and business—as well as a van, but that seemed like a minor thing comparatively. I served in other capacities while I was at the school, on a volunteer basis, including Young Authors. Young Authors is a major undertaking in which all the elementary students write their own books, which are judged for awards. It culminates in a big day of workshops at the end of the year—put on by various authors, drama and music professionals, puppeteers, and the like—it’s a massive immersion in the arts. And it requires a lot of time to put together. I was definitely back in my element.

For the next three years, I had the privilege of teaching language arts pull-outs for the classes with multiple grade levels. My son was able to rejoin his old friends at the Keizer campus during 2009, so I got to be his language teacher for a couple years. I also continued doing library and Young Authors. During that time, our school’s name changed to Crosshill Christian School, and our principal, Pastor Jerry, retired after 35-plus years of service in Christian education. I sensed the Lord speaking to me about change as well.

I knew I was a writer—from the time I was in the third grade. God was telling me that I needed to take the next year off and write. It seemed ridiculous, even foolhardy, in the natural—but I believed with all my heart that it was the right thing for me to do. Teaching language arts and writing had been a dream for me—seeing the kids’ abilities grow and develop was a joy like no other. It would not be easy to give up.

The relationships I’d built with the kids were priceless to me, and I had the honor of knowing that my fellow teachers respected me and saw me as “a real teacher,” even an excellent one. In fact, in 2007 and 2011 I received the “Wings of Excellence” Award for teaching. For so long, I hadn’t even thought of myself as a good teacher—now my peers were saying I had excelled.

I reflected on all that had transpired up to that point, the personal hardships, the horrors of failed lessons and thankless students—which in no way compared to the blessings I’d received along the way. I learned how to improve in my classroom management skills and come up with systems that worked. I was able to take my classes further than I’d envisioned academically—we even produced a school newspaper, The Gliding Gazette. I had gotten to venture “outside the box” in ways that many teachers never get to. I got to show the kids that the English language could truly be fun. And they had shown me how fun—how incredibly rewarding— it could be to teach in the area I felt most passionate about.

My heart is still in the classroom, even though it’s also in the pages of my yet-to-be-published written works. I don’t believe I could have done all that I did with just any classes in just any school; it was a unique opportunity that has given me hope for the future, confidence as an instructor, and gratitude for God’s ability to continue to pull me up and carry me through in the most difficult seasons. Though I developed as a teacher in many ways, it was being enveloped in God’s grace that caused it all to be possible.

I still don’t know when I may walk through my own classroom door again—but I know one thing to be true—I will always be a teacher—it’s part of who I am, how I’m made, and what I love. I pray that if you are a teacher or are considering it, you will allow the Lord to encompass your every move and that you will be open to Him doing the unexpected; that you will embrace the goodness He is sure to bring out of your hardest trials—and look back to see how fully and gently His love enveloped you.

My Envelopment as a Teacher, Part Two: Just a Sub

Adjusting to street navigation in an even bigger town proved to be rather daunting. I relied heavily on Byron for right turn-left turn play-by-plays every time I went somewhere. At the same time, I was adjusting to living with another family—with different schedules, habits, and ideas about raising children. Though we thought we’d made a forward-looking decision, after a few months I began to feel that all stability had slipped away.

Byron wanted a job that would give him Sundays off—church had always been a major source of stability and purpose for us. He began working at Waremart, but Sundays off would not be a likely proposition for a while. After a brief stint there, he landed a job as a school bus driver. It was a rather thankless job, to say the least, but he had Sundays off—and a regular schedule. With much trepidation, I began to look for work, but I didn’t have much confidence in securing a teaching job—especially since the school year had already started. I finally settled on a job at a daycare center. It was a low point for me—not what I had been trained for at all—but it felt safe.

I soon learned that a class full of 18-20 two-year-olds is not at all “safe.” Though I liked the kids, I longed for a different environment. I wasn’t really sure what that was, but it had to be more fulfilling. Sure, I was doing a good service—taking kids to the bathroom, changing their pull-ups, rubbing their backs at naptime, serving them snack, singing songs with them—but it wasn’t where I fit. And it didn’t seem right that I was caring for other people’s children while missing my own little girl, who was then almost a year and a half. We had found an excellent childcare provider, so that was some consolation, but I knew I couldn’t keep doing this long-term.

After six months of living with our friends, the relationship had become strained. Though we’d planned for a year, we felt it best to find our own place…quickly. So we moved into a very spacious three-bedroom apartment. Thinking we could handle one roommate better than three, we invited a co-worker of mine to move in with us and share rental costs. I ended my brief employment at the daycare and began substitute teaching for the Beaverton School District.

My certification allowed me to teach some high school classes, so I sort of ran the gamut. Most of the time, I would have a job secured the night before—there was an automated system that would call; jobs could be easily accepted or declined. If something sounded too scary to me, I generally would decline it. But then I felt guilty. So I ended up taking a few jobs that were way outside my comfort zone, like teaching sophomore boys’ P.E. It proved to be somewhat disastrous because I couldn’t monitor the locker room.

I plugged away and tried to work at least three days per week. Sometimes that was a real strain. It was nice when I got a couple long-term sub jobs. I got to know the people I worked with and had the comfort of knowing where I was going each day. The long-term assignments were classified employment, so they didn’t pay as well, but I felt like I was almost better-suited to these tasks than classroom teaching. Perhaps I should have gone into special ed—but now I had a child to love and care for, and the prospect of going back to school for more training wasn’t overly appealing.

After three months, our roommate left, and life began to settle down…except for our upstairs neighbors. They didn’t take kindly to my husband going up and asking them if they could be quieter. The dad and teenage son had been wrestling around on the floor, and it was pretty noisy. This would often happen at night—usually when we were trying to get Kristiana settled into bed. For a few months, they were very unkind to us, and one day when we came home the lady of the house waited for my husband to get out of the car and proceeded to cuss him up one side and down the other. They moved not too long after but made it a point to whoop and holler, slam things around, and vacuum the last night they were there. This was after eleven p.m.

With that stress gone, we could focus on enjoying our little family. I took on a couple daycare kids to earn some summer income and soon learned that I was expecting. We were devastated a couple months later, in August of 1994, when we lost that baby. My emotional recovery took a while, and as the school year drew closer my anxiety loomed larger with it. I knew I didn’t want to keep doing daycare. Byron didn’t really relish the idea of another year monitoring bus behavior for relatively little pay. I also didn’t want to sub anymore in the city, so what was the solution?

My friend from college, Kim, had grown up in Hermiston. After our Master’s graduation, she had gotten a job in her hometown fairly quickly. In communicating with her, I learned there was a great need for substitutes in Hermiston—and there was always the chance that becoming a known quantity there could lead to permanent employment. The drawback was that we’d be much farther from friends and family. But we were young, unfulfilled, and still a bit spontaneous. What did we have to lose?

Byron ventured over one day to scope out an apartment for us. I wished later I had specified “not right next to railroad tracks,” but it was a decent place all the same. And what Kim had said was true. Once we got settled and found childcare, I worked nearly every day. But Byron still couldn’t find work and was getting discouraged. Finally, it seemed there was no alternative but for him to go back to school bus driving in Beaverton; he would “camp out” with friends during the week and come home on the weekends.

After about a month of that rigmarole, an apartment managing job in Hermiston caught our eye. We had no such experience, but Byron did have supervisory experience and customer service skills. He got the job, which came with an apartment. So we moved a little ways across town. I continued subbing but found we could survive with me working less. I enjoyed the extra time with Kristiana.

I was glad Byron had work in town, but the job proved to be more than we had bargained for. Over time it became clear that the property management supervisor was crossing some lines of ethics and legality. And she wanted Byron to participate in some of it. We began to pray, asking God for an escape route. He put the Willamette Valley, where we had started out, strongly on our hearts. One property management ad, in particular, seemed to be “the one.” I just knew that if Byron applied for it, his chances would be good. He got an interview, and from that moment I felt confident that God was saying the job was his.

The new position was at a brand-new manufactured home complex in Albany. I relaxed for a while and got our house in order, trying to make things fun and comfortable for our then three-year-old Kristiana. I subbed in Albany for a few months, but after our daycare provider decided to close her business we never found what we considered a quality situation. Soon I learned I was expecting again, and I felt my teaching days may, in fact, be over.

After Kalina was born, I remember working a few days here and there, but I just didn’t feel like my baby’s needs were being met. I desperately wanted to be there for her, as I had been for Kristiana during her infancy and toddlerhood.

Several months before, we had moved my parents from a poor housing situation in Mapleton, Oregon to the complex Byron was still managing. We felt it would be better for their health, social development, and morale—as they would be close to us and the grandkids. Health was really a primary concern, because my mom seemed to be on the verge of another breakdown. We’d be close to doctors and hopefully be able to get her the help she needed.

When Kalina was three and a half months old, my milk production died decreased significantly due to the stress of my mom having a full-blown psychotic break and having to be committed and hospitalized. I stopped nursing. I also asked Byron if we could move from our upstairs apartment--where we had to go up and down, to and from the laundry room below. It was a small thing, but it was adding to my stress. So he agreed without hesitation.

My mom got stabilized, and in the fall Kristiana started preschool at Good Shepherd Lutheran School in Albany. I often spent time with my parents while she was in school, and after school we’d go to the park and feed the ducks with Grandma and Grandpa on a regular basis. The following year she attended the same school and had the same teacher and assistant for kindergarten. These were good times.

But for Byron, working for the housing agency came with a lot of politics. Decisions he made got overridden, and the fallout (tenants who shouldn’t have been approved causing domestic havoc) sometimes required police intervention. After three and a half years there, he knew he couldn’t work in that realm all his life. It was at that point that some friends in Salem began talking to us about a historic home they wanted to preserve. Perhaps we could live in it, and Byron and our friend (whom he’d gone to high school with) could start a renovations company, specifically to restore such homes. Of course, they’d have to generate income before they could do much on this one, but we could work off some rent costs by fixing things. It seemed like an appealing deal after being cramped in a less-than-800-square-foot home with two kids. Again we asked ourselves, what have we got to lose?

At this point, I was working in Corvallis at a reading clinic, which I absolutely loved. We didn’t want to pull Kristiana from school, so since we moved in December we commuted for a while for work and school—until she finished her kindergarten year.

Since I’d had three interviews in Hermiston but no job to show for them, I was wary of applying for work in Salem. I laid low for a while, then had a low-volume tutoring business for a time. It became clear though that I would need to work outside the home. I believed I wanted to work in a Christian school, even though I knew the pay was not as high. I got a job at a school called Cornerstone Christian, teaching grades one through three.

I struggled and burned the midnight oil. I’d never had my own classroom of one grade, let alone three! The girls missed me, for it seemed that even when I was home I was always doing schoolwork. Honestly, I was trying to wrap my head around how to have three different things going at once in one classroom and be able to help everyone who needed help. It was not a natural way of thinking for me, and the more ideas people tried to give me, the more overwhelmed I became. But this was my first class! I had to make it work. But how?

One day, I had a terribly failed lesson when my principal came to observe—I got so discombobulated that I had to stop in the middle and do story time. After that, my friend Vonnie (a fellow teacher at the school and friend I’d known for many years) met me in the hall. All she had to do was ask how things went, and I burst into tears. I remember saying, “I don’t think I can do this.” I felt I was failing at the one thing I had been told I was born to do. And it felt awful.

After one month in, I resigned—I felt God give me a peace about it and release me. But emotionally, I felt like I must be from the Island of Misfit Teachers. In my heart, I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover.

Not long after that, I began subbing for the Salem-Keizer School District, as well as a couple other outlying districts. Truth be told, I enjoyed working for the “country schools” the most. Salem-Keizer had lots of rules—lots of things subs couldn’t do, particularly in regard to classroom discipline. It was way different than working in Christian school. For one thing, I could always bring God into the equation—and address matters of the heart from a Christ-centered perspective. I missed being able to do that and felt like I was in foreign territory to some degree. I had a couple really bad teaching experiences where the kids were so badly behaved, I told the district I would never sub in those particular schools again. But for the most part, it was acceptable. Not entirely fulfilling, but do-able.

Then I got a job offer. A teacher was retiring mid-year, and I would be teaching at a middle school. Little did I know, this was one of the “rougher” schools in the district—one that housed not only some gang members but a lot of gang wannabes. If my classroom management skills were lacking before, they were about to be put to the ultimate test. Not only that—the students had grown unaccustomed to actually working. I was to be the seventh and eighth grade reading and language arts teacher for the second half of the year…mostly with kids who for the past several months hadn’t been required to do much of anything. And their attitudes said “make me.”

After that experience—which one staff member referred to as “the class from hell,” I felt even more convinced that Christian school would be my niche…if I ever taught again.

We enrolled Kristiana in third grade and Kalina in preschool at Cornerstone in 2000. I was then expecting another baby, whom we’d decided would be our last. I became as involved as a volunteer as I possibly could. I did the Friday Fun Lunch program our second year there--with baby Josiah then in tow, filled in for a teacher who had to be out for a few weeks due to medical reasons, and in 2002 helped spearhead a Young Authors program for our school.

After working for a year at a private school as a reading specialist (through a Salem-Keizer grant), I started another tutoring business and with double the clients I’d had before, but I continued to sub occasionally under our principal at the time, Brad Wallace.

In 2003 I applied for a job at the school and was extremely disappointed, even hurt, when I didn’t get hired. But I still wanted to do something useful. My heart was definitely there, and my girls were thriving. Would I ever teach again? I somehow felt I wasn’t cut out for classroom teaching. I liked working with individual students or small groups of kids. Maybe that was what I was meant for. But the bills continued to come.

Kalina’s fourth grade year, another parent, Paige, and myself had a vision to start a library. Our school’s “library” consisted of some old Christian biographies and a couple rows of Hardy Boys books. We drew up a proposal, got thrift store and donated books, and received some hands-on training from an experienced Christian school librarian. I loved doing library with my friend, running our crazy read-a-thons, and seeing the kids get so excited about reading. We poured our hearts into it, and it was amazing. Especially that first year. But eventually, God had other things in mind. The library was to serve as my launching pad. Sure, I’d had a couple short-term jobs, but at this point I still felt like I’d never truly be a “real teacher.” Maybe I was just a sub.

My Envelopment as a Teacher, Part One: How I Got My Teaching Degree

I first decided to pursue teaching when I was a junior in high school. At first, I considered Journalism, but I decided that wasn’t for me. Looking back now, I’m not even sure exactly why—except that I shared a story I had written with some second graders (their school was on the hill above my high school building) that year—and they loved it! I loved their enthusiasm, the questions they asked—just being with them, and I thought to myself, I could do this. I recalled how I’d “taught” neighbor kids in the past—making up little lessons and practice exercises for them; and I also recounted how I’d held “school” with my dolls and stuffed animals from the time I was little. Teaching seemed to be in me.

After graduating from high school, my biggest event on the agenda was getting married. We planned to move from the coastal region to Corvallis, where I’d been accepted to Oregon State University. I never considered any other college. It was where two of my cousins had attended, and a third—my senior classmate, Tricia—would be going with me. It promised to be fun!

My first year at OSU whizzed by, and I struggled in some of my classes, receiving D’s in two of them. One was due to lack of understanding—and not even knowing what questions to ask; the other was due primarily to lack of attendance (it was an early-morning history class). I felt a bit beat up by it all, but I still wanted to be a teacher. Byron had begun attending Linn-Benton Community College and suggested I transfer there. At first, I saw that simply as confirmation that I wasn’t cut out for university—in short, a failure. But the more he talked about it—how the instructors were so helpful, class sizes were manageable, the campus had a welcoming feel to it (not to mention being much smaller)—the more I decided it might be just the ticket I needed to get me back on track. 

While at LBCC, I completed a three-week experience called Sophomore Block. There was a small Christian school at the church we attended at the time, so I asked the Block advisor, as well as the teacher of the classroom I wanted to help in, if I could complete my training experience there in his third, fourth, and fifth grade class. Some of it was observation, but some of it was interactive, and I had to plan and conduct a certain number of lessons. My supervising teacher, Steve Bittner, told me I was a “born teacher.” I wasn’t so sure I believed him, but it did give me the motivation to keep at it and pursue my teaching degree.

After about a year and a half at Linn-Benton (which I loved, by the way), I transferred back to OSU. I gladly retook my history class and got a B this time. But doggone it, I still had to take one more of the series of dreaded math classes—the one I’d gotten a D in. I put it off as long as I could, but my final term I had to take it—Math for Elementary Teachers. It may not sound so scary, but it required a type of learning I’d never had to do, involving determining several possible ways of solving a problem and then choosing one of those by which to find the answer. The concepts were foreign to me—my brain was not wired in such a way! I knew I was floundering, even though my math-brain/also an elementary ed major friend, Kim, helped me over and over. 

The College of Education would be offering a one-year Master’s in Teaching program the following year. Only fifty applicants would be chosen. One consideration factor was specified courses…another was grades. A screening interview was another hoop in the process. My main worry was my math class. I went to my advisor to see what, if anything, I could do. I was working hard but failing exams. Somehow, as I later came to understand, she went to my instructor and persuaded him to make sure I got at least a D in the course. To this day I don’t know if I earned the “D” I ended the term with or if it was an act of mercy. Either way, it got me in the door. 

Being directionally challenged, I was struggling to find the school that had been chosen as the interview site. I was feeling quite panicked and praying that God would somehow come to my rescue. This was before cell phones and GPS’s, of course. I managed to find it but arrived a few minutes late. I worried that would look really bad and be a mark against me, but I took a deep breath and dove into the interview. The professors were gracious and didn’t seem too concerned about my late arrival, so I took it as a good sign. I left the interview feeling I’d done my best…but would it be good enough?

About a week later, I received word that I was indeed one of the fifty chosen for the Master of Arts in Teaching program. So shortly after graduating with my Bachelor’s, I began summer courses for my Master’s. My friend Kim was also one of the fifty. Some were doing the secondary education track, but most of us were elementary. We became known as the elementary ed cohort. I was actually part of something that had to do with education. We were tomorrow’s teachers—it was thrilling!

My teaching internship began in September. I was placed in a kindergarten class with a seasoned, very matter-of-fact teacher…and I was utterly terrified. Each day it became harder and harder to go; each day I made some sort of mistake or error in judgment that seemed to upset this teacher. She was supposed to be a mentor…but what I needed was a friend who could also be a mentor. After a month of feeling like I just didn’t fit with this person, let alone in a kindergarten class, I told my major professor what was going on—how I was sick to my stomach every morning and couldn’t really connect with the classroom teacher or level. 

There was hope. There happened to be an opening in a second grade class at a different school. I went to meet with the teacher. She was welcoming and laid back—she didn’t seem to have unrealistic expectations, and she didn’t make me feel at all inferior. It was refreshing. I signed right up.

But soon there was another reason to feel sick to my stomach. In October I found out that I was pregnant. We had planned on me teaching for a few years before starting a family. And my due date was supposedly in May! What if I couldn’t finish my program?! Again my professor, Barb, was understanding. She was excited for me and assured me that things would work out, even if I was a few weeks shy of full completion. Huge relief swept over me. I knew my mentor teacher would be supportive as well—she had grown children, and I had learned that things didn’t ever really shock or flap her. 

Teaching while pregnant, though, had its definite challenges. I had to do three supervised lessons, create units, and develop a plan for classroom management. It was the latter that proved to be my downfall. My mentor teacher, Jan, believed in natural and logical consequences. There were several kids in the classroom with moderate to severe behavioral/attentional issues. Before I started my internship, I thought one could simply make kids behave—I learned it wasn’t quite that simple. One lesson, in particular, resulted in my mortification. I couldn’t get control of the class, and Barb was watching. It was awful. I thought for sure I’d be kicked out of the program and never receive my teaching credential. Barb had to finally step in and take over. Completely devastating. She was kind, but she did let me know that it was a serious problem.

From then on, I worked hard on classroom management…but never felt that I fully got a handle on it. And then, in my seventh month, my mother had a thyroid storm and ended up having a psychotic episode. Not only was I very pregnant—I was basically just in survival mode…and now I’d lost the mom I knew. The person I went to see in the hospital I simply didn’t recognize. As an only child, the weight of this hit me really hard. It was hard to tell up from down, but I prayed fervently. And I got through the school year, my due date having been upgraded to June 25^th. The kids in my class threw me a wonderful surprised baby shower.

I applied for a few teaching jobs, but now that I knew a baby was on the way my heart wasn’t fully in it. After turning down an offer to teach in Lakeview, Oregon, we decided I would stay home for a while. Byron would quit school and work full-time. 

A week after walking in my Master’s ceremony, I gave birth to Kristiana Lorraine Kephart. My heart was immediately captured, and I stayed home with her for ten months. But we needed more income. So I finally resorted to applying at a local preschool. It wasn’t what I wanted, but there was a daycare on site for Kristiana, so I could be close to her. 

I got the job but after a couple months began to have conflict with the management. I had an unruly four-year-old who was getting the best of me at times, but the rest of the time we had remarkable interactions. I had had some great successes, such as robot art, the brownie train, journaling…but at this point, I was not living up to expectations. After three months there, I resigned, feeling like a first-class failure. Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t gotten a teaching job—I probably would have botched it anyway.

Perhaps there would be more opportunity for both of us elsewhere—in a bigger city—not Portland proper but perhaps the Beaverton area. We made a risky decision to move in with some friends and embark on our first real adventure since having Kristiana. That’s when I started running from the teacher in me.