somethin’ else mixed in ‘em,” Peaches observed.
“Otherwise, they’re just white with that do-nothin’ hair that they’re always tryin’ to tease so it’ll stand up like ours.”
I agreed, putting the last pin in place.
* * * * *
I spent hump day in team meetings, listening to a variety of teacher concerns from problems in the cafeteria to curriculum issues. I took note of their concerns and put them on my lists of things to investigate, do, or delegate. I closed each meeting with the good news about our test scores and with reminding them about the next day’s career fair. I got moans and groans when I asked the teachers who were off during the morning to drop by and monitor for just a few minutes during the exhibit.
Eighth grade was receptive to me, but I could tell that something was going on with seventh grade. Especially with Ms. Ashton’s academic team, the Pacers. They didn’t give me the courtesy of letting me know that they had changed their meeting place, so I ran around the building for a good twenty minutes looking for them. Then they scheduled a parent conference for the second half of the period, and the team secretary claimed to have misplaced the agenda that I e-mailed them the previous week. I couldn’t put my finger on which of them was the ringleader, but they were all in on this display of group unprofessionalism—griping about their duties, complaining about this and that, but offering no alternatives to solve problems. I explained to them that it was okay to complain about a problem, but it was also incumbent upon the complainer to suggest a solution.
“Isn’t that your job?” Mr. Baudin, a language arts teacher, asked.
“That job belongs to all of us. We’re a team,” I answered slowly.
After I met with them and their nasty attitudes, I was just about ready to call Peaches and tell her that I was ready to come to Northcomp because I was fed up with being a vice principal. I went in every morning trying to do my best, but it was never good enough. For as much as I got done, it seemed there was twice as much left on my to-do list by five o’clock. Bottom line, I was frustrated and I wanted to quit that morning.
You know how it is sometimes? Sometimes one little thing can make you just want to run off to Mexico, build a hut, and set up a jumping-bean store—anything to get away. You just get sick of it all.
When I got back to my office, I slammed the inner door and prayed at my desk. The enemy was getting on my last nerve, and the week wasn’t nearly over. I needed strength. And even before I was finished praying, I heard the words of an old Clark Sisters song, “Count It All Joy.”
I laughed at myself as I stood again. I knew that someday I would look back on all of it and be able to see what was happening and why the Lord had put me on a staff that needed so much work (myself included). I couldn’t think of a trial to date that hadn’t worked to my advantage in the end, and I knew that working here at this school, even with Mr. Butler, would be manipulated for my benefit.
When I got home from work, I found a package on my doorstep. It was from Jonathan. I grabbed the box and unlocked the door. An all-too-familiar smell assaulted my nostrils as I realized that I’d forgotten to take the trash out again. I set the bags back into the garage. They’d have to wait there until Monday. I could almost hear Daddy in my ear:
“See, if you had a man, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”
I ripped the box open, knowing that there would be some thoughtful gift enclosed. Jonathan had a knack for finding just the right things to give. I tore through the paper with no regard for the beautiful print. He hadn’t let me down.
“Oh!” I put my hand before my lips and gasped. It was an old picture of Jonathan and me outside, leaning over the balcony, when we used to live in the old apartment. It was blown up, framed in antique gold, and the frame was engraved:
To
“Otherwise, they’re just white with that do-nothin’ hair that they’re always tryin’ to tease so it’ll stand up like ours.”
I agreed, putting the last pin in place.
* * * * *
I spent hump day in team meetings, listening to a variety of teacher concerns from problems in the cafeteria to curriculum issues. I took note of their concerns and put them on my lists of things to investigate, do, or delegate. I closed each meeting with the good news about our test scores and with reminding them about the next day’s career fair. I got moans and groans when I asked the teachers who were off during the morning to drop by and monitor for just a few minutes during the exhibit.
Eighth grade was receptive to me, but I could tell that something was going on with seventh grade. Especially with Ms. Ashton’s academic team, the Pacers. They didn’t give me the courtesy of letting me know that they had changed their meeting place, so I ran around the building for a good twenty minutes looking for them. Then they scheduled a parent conference for the second half of the period, and the team secretary claimed to have misplaced the agenda that I e-mailed them the previous week. I couldn’t put my finger on which of them was the ringleader, but they were all in on this display of group unprofessionalism—griping about their duties, complaining about this and that, but offering no alternatives to solve problems. I explained to them that it was okay to complain about a problem, but it was also incumbent upon the complainer to suggest a solution.
“Isn’t that your job?” Mr. Baudin, a language arts teacher, asked.
“That job belongs to all of us. We’re a team,” I answered slowly.
After I met with them and their nasty attitudes, I was just about ready to call Peaches and tell her that I was ready to come to Northcomp because I was fed up with being a vice principal. I went in every morning trying to do my best, but it was never good enough. For as much as I got done, it seemed there was twice as much left on my to-do list by five o’clock. Bottom line, I was frustrated and I wanted to quit that morning.
You know how it is sometimes? Sometimes one little thing can make you just want to run off to Mexico, build a hut, and set up a jumping-bean store—anything to get away. You just get sick of it all.
When I got back to my office, I slammed the inner door and prayed at my desk. The enemy was getting on my last nerve, and the week wasn’t nearly over. I needed strength. And even before I was finished praying, I heard the words of an old Clark Sisters song, “Count It All Joy.”
I laughed at myself as I stood again. I knew that someday I would look back on all of it and be able to see what was happening and why the Lord had put me on a staff that needed so much work (myself included). I couldn’t think of a trial to date that hadn’t worked to my advantage in the end, and I knew that working here at this school, even with Mr. Butler, would be manipulated for my benefit.
When I got home from work, I found a package on my doorstep. It was from Jonathan. I grabbed the box and unlocked the door. An all-too-familiar smell assaulted my nostrils as I realized that I’d forgotten to take the trash out again. I set the bags back into the garage. They’d have to wait there until Monday. I could almost hear Daddy in my ear:
“See, if you had a man, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”
I ripped the box open, knowing that there would be some thoughtful gift enclosed. Jonathan had a knack for finding just the right things to give. I tore through the paper with no regard for the beautiful print. He hadn’t let me down.
“Oh!” I put my hand before my lips and gasped. It was an old picture of Jonathan and me outside, leaning over the balcony, when we used to live in the old apartment. It was blown up, framed in antique gold, and the frame was engraved:
To
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