What a Drag it is Gettin' Old

Arrived at work with my usual Monday morning enthusiasm. As I was finishing taking roll and preparing to lecture in my 0 period class, a gracious young lady came up and whispered, "Mr. Falk, your shirt is inside-out."

More Than a Test Score

I've spent the last few years with a rather low opinion of myself as a teacher. Why? Mainly test scores. Mine are low. Though they would be good at most schools, they are at the bottom as far as Foothill is concerned. I've done what I can to raise them, including observing another Algebra 2 teacher for the entire year last year to see what I was lacking. I learned a lot from that. But when it comes to a choice of applying the hammer or showing grace, I usually take the path of least resistance, which is showing grace. Every year I promise myself to be as tough as everyone else, then wind up a pushover. If a kid can't finish a test during the period, I'll give him/her more time, even though that increases the likelihood of cheating. My kids love me, their parents love me, but my colleagues don't have very high expectations where I am concerned. Thus my low teaching self-image.
I mentioned on my fB page about having dinner last weekend with a couple of members of the Tustin High class of 1980, one of whom I didn't know at the time, and another who was one of my favorites. This caused me to go looking back through some old yearbooks to remember what they looked like then, and the byproduct of that has been that my stock has risen in my own eyes. Naturally, some of the things were written by kids I honestly don't remember. But there were some very special things written by kids of either gender that reminded me why I got into teaching in the first place. Probably the most common phrase was, "You were more than my teacher, you were my friend." As I enter the last 3 months of this career, it is impossible to convey to you the meaning those words hold for me. So much of we do in education is not quantifiable, thus my frustration with being judged by test scores. Most of my former students are "successful" and it is impossible to tell how much of that was because of me and how much was in spite of me. But those yearbook scribblings, written up to 35 years ago, remind me that, "With all that I've done wrong, I must have done something right." As the years go by, memories of those test scores will fade for everyone, especially me. But I have 36 yearbooks to remind me of why I followed the path I believe God chose for me. And that doesn't include those of you who were in my Sunday School classes yet continue to speak to me!
I'm excited about the next phase of my life, serving my tax clients, deepening my involvement and service in my new church, adoring my family, traveling with Jan, and maybe even returning to coaching just for fun. But with the help of FB I have reconnected with about 300 former students now. They are my legacy. They tell me I made a difference. What more can anyone ask? (Oh, yeah, higher test scores!).

Mad At God?

I've talked and blogged about being the poster boy for answered prayer. I feel I've been blessed far more than I deserve, and am extremely thankful. But there's one prayer that God is taking His time answering, and like any spoiled child, I'm angry that I'm not getting my way.

See, my Mom is still alive, and she, my sister and I wish that were not the case. It's hard to admit in the same sentence that I love my Mom and wish she were dead. Christians may understand that a little better because they know that something infinitely better awaits her, but it still seems very heartless to wish death on anyone. Those of you who wish you still had your mother, especially if they were taken at a young age, may not be very gracious toward me at this point.

Mom will never read this post. One reason is that she doesn't have a computer, and the other is that she is nearly blind in both eyes and cannot read. She's the one from whom I learned to love books, and she can no longer read them. I cannot discuss this post with her, because strokes have left her unable to converse with anyone who doesn't see her every day. She can't correspond with me, because her fingers are permanently bent. And she used to write for a living. So she is no longer, at age 92, able to do ANYTHING that she loved or was gifted to do. She wakes up, is lifted into her wheelchair, is wheeled to meals or the TV room, has her diapers changed, and goes back to bed. She has lost 3 friends in the last few weeks, and tells her friend Pat she doesn't think God wants her in Heaven. (Pat reads my letters to her and talks to her daily. I sent some of my blogs but Pat couldn't finish reading them because mom started sobbing uncontrollably).

I don't believe in euthanasia, and I even have a little trouble with a DNR instruction, because I believe it's God's decision when we take our last breath. And He's decided it's not part of His plan for her to die just yet. So I'm ticked at Him. (I'm sure that doesn't depress Him too much to call in sick from running the universe today.) He knows that, and He's OK with that. Most of the bad things in my life that have happened to me I deserved, and I get mad at myself, not God. But I just don't understand why prayers (mine, my Mom's and my sister's) for release from this earthly body have not yet been answered.

So, as before I'm asking for your prayers. If you can bring yourself to the point of praying like Mom, Karen and I, so be it. If you can't then pray that all of us will be more understanding as God does what He knows is best.

Songs I've Sung in Church #2

Haven't blogged in about a week, which means maybe I've said everything I have to say! So I thought I would talk about another of my favorite songs, which I got to sing in church a few years ago.

This song has a history with me and with that church. One of my very good friends sang it four or five times and was never able to get entirely through it without becoming emotional. Verse 3 was especially meaningful for him as he thought of how it applied to his life. The song is an adaptation of a poem, and was popularized by Wayne Watson. It was special to me that I was able to sing it, as it definitely has applications for my life also.

The Touch of the Master's Hand

Well, it was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer thought

It was hardly worth his while

To waste much time on the old violin, but he held it up with a smile.

"Well, it's sure not much, but it's all we've got left.

I guess we ought to sell it, too.

So what am I bid for this old violin, just one more and we'll be through."

And then he cried, "One, give me one dollar, who'll make it two?

Only two dollars, who'll make it three?

Three dollars twice, now that's a good price.

Who's got a bid for me? Raise up your hands, don't wait any longer,

The auction's about to end. Who'll give me four, just one dollar more,

To bid on this old violin?"

The air was hot, and the people stood around as the sun was settin' low.

From the back of the crowd a gray-haired man came forward and took up the bow.

He wiped the dust from the old violin, and he tightened up the strings.

Then he played out a melody pure and sweet, sweeter than the angels sing.

Then the music stopped.

And the auctioneer, in a voice that was quiet and low, said,

"What am I bid for the old violin?" And he held it up with the bow.

And then he cried, "One, give me one thousand, who'll make it two?

Only two thousand, who'll make it three?

Three thousand twice, now that's a good price, now who's got a bid for me?"

The people cried out, "What made the change? We don't understand."

The auctioneer stopped, and he said with a smile, "It was the touch of the master's hand."

You know, there's many a man with his life out of tune,

Battered and scarred with sin. And he's auctioned cheap to a thankless world,

Much like that old violin.

But then the Master comes, and the foolish crowd, they never understand

The worth of a soul, and the change that is wrought

By the touch of the Master's hand.

Then he cried, "One, give me one thousand, who'll make it two?

Only two thousand, who'll make it three? Three thousand twice, now that's a good price.

Who's got a bid for me?" The people cried out, "What made the change? We don't understand."

The auctioneer stopped, and he said with a smile, "It was the touch of the Master's hand."

Michael W Smith Said it Best

When I was 9 years old we lived about a block from the city limits of our small town. One day I walked towards the "country" and saw a boy named John playing at the corner house. He had just moved in from Oregon. Turns out we shared a love of all sports and we grew to be fast friends. His dad was a banker and got transferred away for a couple of years, but the family moved back to town in time for us to spend our last 3 years of high school together. We played basketball together--he was a varsity starter, I got cut my senior year--baseball together--I replaced him as the center fielder when he blew out his ankle our senior year, went to the same church. He loved music and had a beautiful voice. I supplied the lyrics when he forgot them. Today we would be called BFFs.
After high school he went to Pasadena College (now Point Loma Nazarene) and I went on an academic scholarship to USC. I was miserable, so through his efforts at "selling" me to the baseball coach, I transferred to Pasadena and played 3 years of baseball, met my wife-to-be, and formed other lifelong friendships. I also became friends with his 3 other brothers, rooming with his younger brother Terry my senior year before getting married to Jan in the middle of the year. Brother Tom sang at our wedding and John and Terry stood up for us. One of my most poignant memories of that time was when John sat down in my room and plaintively said, "I hear you guys are getting married." The realization our relationship was going to have a dramatic change was unsettling for him.
John and Terry moved to the Northwest after college and Tom settled in Central California. John is a community college administrator, Terry has his own law practice and Tom is now Superintendent of Schools in King City on the central coast of California. So we rarely see each other.
But the last few days have been one of thos serendipitous (sp?) moments when we return to the "thrilling days of yesteryear." It has become a tradition for the brothers to come down for the PAC-10 basketball tournament, and since we moved to Huntington Beach they stay with us for the 4 days of the tournament. We went golfing Friday and Saturday, basketball Wednesday through Saturday, and it was very apparent that if we lived in the same area we would be as inseparable as always.
We buy seats in the upper level because they are cheaper and then use all sorts of trickery to wind up in seats we didn't pay for. This year I was the lucky guy because on Friday I ran into a "kid" I coached in 79-81 and he had two extra seats on the floor which he gave to John and I. When UCLA lost he felt he had no reason to come back and gave us those 4 choice seats for the championship game between USC (one of my alma maters) and Arizona State (Terry is a grad of ASU law school). Terry left after the game to be with his wife, son and grandkids in San Diego. Tom drove back to King City with his wife who had flown down to ride back with him. John and I had Saturday evening to ourselves (Jan was at a wedding in Arizona), went to dinner at El Ranchito in downtown HB, watched a little basketball, and then I dropped him off at LAX on Sunday morning.
There was so much more to those 3 days that involved all of the little "triggers" that only lifelong friends care about. There was laughter, arguing (just the brothers of course), reminiscing, and remembering childhood friends that are no longer with us.
I've said for many years that one of the best things about heaven will be no more goodbyes. I was thinking about that after John gave me a quick hug and headed to the check-in counter. And I drove home humming, "Friends are friends forever......"

One Child Left Behind

When I was a beginning teacher, I would have enthusiastically embraced, "No Child Left Behind," as a reachable goal--reachable if every teacher cared as much about their students as I did. Now as I prepare to leave this profession, I am a bit more jaded and "realistic." I realize that most teachers care as much, if not more, for their students as I do. But children do get left behind, and will continue to be left behind, because they are imperfect, and their friends are imperfect, and their parents (if they have them) are imperfect, and their teachers are imperfect.

Today's post is about one such student. I'll call him Jonathan, because that's his name and I doubt he will ever read this blog. Jonathan is in my Algebra 1A class, which is the lowest level of math we offer. Jonathan was also in my Algebra 1A class last year as a freshman. In this, his 4th semester of high school, he has passed PE and Auto Shop. I have met with his counselors, his parents, we have had a student study team, and nothing seems to change. Since this is his second time with me, he knows I give multiple versions of tests so that I can tell when someone copies because their answers are the same as someone with a different test. Yet, he has copied someone else's test. Three times. I am alternately angry, frustrated, tolerant, sympathetic, heartbroken and indifferent when it comes to this child.

When we had our study team, we asked Jonathan what he liked. He said, "Music and baseball." I immediately perked up. His band teacher gave him great marks for effort. We discussed with Jonathan the reality that he could not participate in either of these activities without passing grades. I asked our baseball coach if Jonathan had tried out. He had, and had been cut, partly because of lack of ability and partly because his attendance was sporadic. Two weeks after our meeting he was dropped from the band because he stopped showing up for that, too.

We search in vain for reasons why it has come to this with this child. His father is a pastor of a small hispanic church close to the school. So you know Jonathan has been prayed for. It sounds like his family often takes in other children, so it could be the classic case of a pastor who spends more time on other people's children than his own. But we can't assume that. He has been tested for special education and doesn't meet their mystifying criteria. It has come to this: My assistant principal has Jonathan's 16th birthday marked on his calendar, which is the day he can be sent to continuation school and become someone else's problem.

Jonathan is not a bad kid. He's not defiant. He's remorseful when caught cheating, not angry with me. I'm sure by this point that every time something goes wrong it just fits the image he has formed of himself.

So, why write about him? Because I don't know what else to do. Some of you may read this and say, "I know someone like him," or "That used to be me." And we know a God who changes people. I'm not praying for Jonathan to become an honor student. I'm not even praying that he graduates from high school, though that would be nice (the percentage of students in Algebra 1A, who graduate from our high school is about 35%). I'm praying that this child will make it in life. I'm praying that he will realize that the God his father preaches really does love him and has a place in his kingdom, and in this world, for him. I'm praying that he will somehow overcome the damage he has done to himself and that has been inflicted by others. And I'm asking you to do the same.

Songs I've Sung in Church #1

One of the nice things about going to a smaller church is that I occasionally got to sing a song of my choosing (it was nice for me, can't speak for the rest of the congregation). I sang this song one year for Father's Day. I guess you could call the genre, "Empty Nest Country" It's by Trace Adkins. The title is "Then They Do."

In the early rush of morning, trying to get the kids to school
One's tuggin at my shirttail, another's locked up in her room.
And I'm yellin up the stairs, "Stop worrying about your hair, you'll be fine."

Now they're fightin in the back seat, I'm playing referee
Then someone's gotta go, the moment that we leave
And everybody's late--I swear I can't wait til they grow up.

(chorus)
Then they do
That's how it is
It's just quiet in the morning
Can't believe how much I miss
All they did and all they do
You pray every dream they dream of will come true
Then they do

Now the youngest (I inserted the name "Jeslyn") is off to college
She'll be leaving in the fall
And (Jolie's) latest boyfriend, called to ask if he could talk
And I get the impression, he's about the pop the question any day.
I look over at their pictures, sitting in their frames
I still think of them as babies, guess that'll never change
You pray all their lives, that someday they will find happiness

(chorus)

No more Monday PTA
No car pools or soccer games
Your work is done
Now you've got time that's all your own
You've been waiting for so long
For these days to come.

(Chorus)

On that particular Father's Day, Jennifer had a photo shoot with the girls in the morning and wasn't there for the start of the service. But she made it in time for me to sing it to her.

A Tax Man Looks at the Charitable Deduction

There has been some ink given to the proposed changes in the charitable deduction on our income taxes. As it’s currently being considered it will not affect many people, but many are still up in arms, most notably the tax-exempt organizations. They have reason to be concerned, considering that of the major deduction categories (medical, taxes, interest and contributions), theirs is the only one that involves a choice made by the taxpayer. The medical community was not alarmed when the medical deduction was taken away for 95% of us, because they either get paid or refuse to treat us. Obviously we have no choice on taxes or interest that we pay, other than to be lifetime renters. But giving to charity is a choice, so if that deduction is taken away, many of those organizations will see a drop in their intake. My question is, should it be that way?

For me, the crux of the matter is this: If I give to my church or a charity ONLY because I get a tax deduction, is it really charity? That doesn’t fit my definition of a “cheerful giver.” Without actually putting words in his mouth, my guess is that my pastor would say, “If the only reason you give to the church is for the deduction, we don’t need your money.”

I give to my church to be obedient, to be sure. But I also give because I honestly believe that obedience is responsible for all of the financial blessings that I continue to experience. (And the unknown financial disasters from which I am so far protected). That makes me cheerful!

So, in that context, the prospect of losing my charitable deduction is a bother, but not something that will send me into either rage or depression. The deduction in its current state is a pleasant byproduct of my giving, nothing more.