He Spoke Her Name

She would not flee
his deserted grave,
where she wept
in the garden alone that day.
In deepest anguish,
she bore her pain,
not expecting to see his face.

He spoke; she failed
to recognize
who stood before
her tear-filled eyes.
"Where is he?!"
in despair she cried,
and then he spoke her name.

He spoke her name;
at once, she heard
such tenderness in that sweet word.
Her heart, in recognition, stirred.
She ran to him in haste.

Speak my name, I long to hear
that voice familiar in my ear,
the tone, inflections, so sincere,
his offer of generous grace.

Like her, I want my heart to be
yearning for him to speak to me,
hear my name and, like Mary, see
my Savior face to face.

(Based on John 20:10-18)

Apples Of Gold

Seven years old with brown eyes, she looked at me after overhearing my casual comment that I couldn't decide whether to cut my bangs or leave them long.

"I think you look pretty both ways," she said slowly.

Her comment slightly threw me for a moment. She was typically not as expressive or communicative as my other students. I usually could not read whether she even enjoyed her lessons or held any affection towards me. Her simple words lightened the doubt and weariness I had carried since my alarm clock woke me this morning.

The impact of words. We spend years trying to undo the damage caused by hateful, careless words flung in our direction, then more years trying not to let our self-confidence hinge on others' appraising words.

I Started A New Fashion Trend That Spring...

I dressed carefully for the Good Friday service at the church I grew up in. I was in my early twenties and loved the Easter season, all that it celebrated, and the first signs of spring bursting into life all around me. I put on a dainty, pastel top and nice pants. I slipped on a pair of delicate, dressy white and gold sandals---the first time I had worn them.

Unfortunately, the weather ignored my hopes for a beautiful spring night. When my boyfriend and I left church after the service, winter's chill stubbornly clung to the night air. Still shivering after getting inside, I tried to burrow my frigid feet into the cushions of his couch, realizing that I had pulled my spring outfit and fragile sandals out of the closet way too early.

These Regrets

"I don't regret anything because everything I've been through helped make me the person I am today."

Have you ever heard anyone say that?
Good for them.

But I don't always feel that way.

I do have regrets---regrets that twist my heart and trigger laments:

"If only I had been wiser..."
"If only I had realized my worth..."
"If only I could go back and do that over..."
"If only I had known then what I know now..."

I've had times when I felt mired in regret, caught in its circular cycle of anguish.

But . . .

Lessons From A Broken Fingernail

"Your finger looks gross," my seven-year-old student remarked, wrinkling up his nose.

"I know," I laughed. My finger did look gross. After turning purple and black since being mashed, the fingernail had split, then fallen off. It was gradually growing back, not neatly or smoothly, but in jagged layers with a huge bulge in the center. Not even a fake nail would be able to adhere to its broken surface.

"You think it'll ever look normal again?" I asked, holding my poor finger out in front of us. My students' disturbed response to my unpleasant wound amused me.

"I don't think it will," he shook his head emphatically, then his face lightened up. "But maybe if you pray about it! Have you prayed about it?"

Boxed Potential

"I didn't practice this one," she said, pointing to the page. "It was confusing." 

I resisted rolling my eyes and sighing with frustration. How often had I heard this excuse when a student doesn't want to put forth an effort or becomes disheartened when a new attempt is not easy?

"How many times did you try it?" I asked.
   

"Well....I tried the first two lines once...but it was really hard."

 
I probably did sigh out loud as I tried again to convince a child not to simply quit trying every time something is hard. "You're too smart to give up that easily," I coaxed. "Be more determined than that!"

  

But inwardly, I felt my conscience prick me at my own words because I have felt tempted to give up some of my efforts lately. But isn't my reasoning different, more logical? Being much older than my students, I have already spent years striving after goals. Perhaps I have reached the end of my capabilities and bumped into the dead-end of my own limitations. "I'm not 'giving up,'" I sometimes argue with myself, "just accepting reality." Don't people reach stages in life where they face the retirement of some of their dreams?