I lost my keys.
My syllabus came out orange instead of white.
I told a student that his answer was incorrect with which he followed, "but I pulled it straight out of your notes."
I forgot the answer to the question I was asking.
I left part of my lecture notes behind.
I had the wrong cord to connect my computer to the smart desk.
I didn't know how to turn off the light.
The night is over and I am amazed at how quickly 3 hours goes by from the front of the class (and how dry my throat can get!). It's going to be a long semester, but an amazing one. My students are fantastic. Quite a few seemed to engage with the class material and show an interest in learning. The remainder are respectful, albeit skeptical. I've got a tough task on my hand to make philosophy accessible to them. Hopefully, I can be faithful in seeking out answers for them and guiding them to the truth.
I'm a little overwhelmed, very scared, but thankful for the support I have. I came home to find a bouquet of flowers, an apple, some chocolate and a card addressed to Prof Atkinson from my roommate, Linsey. It brought a smile to my face and will again when I feel insufficient or overwhelmed.
I learned about a third of their names.
They left understanding the correct version of modus ponens and modus tollens (although, for a whiel there, I wasn't sure they would).
I made them feel comfortable with me.
I found my keys.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
On Epiphany
I knew of Ryan long before I knew him. He was mentioned every Thursday morning in staff prayer as we prayed for healing for the men in our church who were undergoing chemotherapy for rampant cancer. I knew his name but not his face. His troubles, but not his hopes.
He stopped by the church one afternoon and asked to play the piano. I helped him make himself at home at the baby grand which sat in the cold sanctuary, where we did not run heat during the week. I offered him a space heater, recommended a jacket and turned on the stage lights before heading back into my office on the other side of a thin wall from where the piano sat.
One day, the cold in the sanctuary gave him a bloody nose, so he sat in my office with a box of tissues, embarrassed. We talked about our eclectic music tastes, his diverse musical skills and my utter lack of them, and we became friends.
He came in often. A few months prior, the treatments had become so harsh on his body that he simply could not work. The weeks alternated between his treatment and his piano playing. I grew accustom to hearing "Breathe" by Greg Maroney for hours each day. I told him I admired his playing, and he offered to send me a list of his favorite piano songs.
It took me a month to list to it all, not because it was long, but because I rarely choose instrumental songs in the office. Last Wednesday, on my first day back to work after the holidays, I sent him an email telling him that I finally listened to his list and giving him my favorites.
The next morning, at staff prayer, I learned Ryan had moved home. In the two weeks since I had been in the office, Ryan's tumors had grown. The cancer was pressing against his internal organs and causing him immense pain. The doctors said it was time for hospice.
Hospice. Where people go to die. Where people go when all hope is lost and the end is near.
Epiphany. The day the historical church celebrates together the kingship of Jesus. The culmination of the Christmas season, in which we celebrate the life of Christ and all that he has done for us. We cheer together as a church that light has overcome darkness and that the hope of the Messiah is present with us.
My church is liturgical; therefore, each year we celebrate Epiphany. We talk about the Magi, the bearing of gifts, and the hope that this truth gives us. This year, we still did these things. We still sang "We Three Kings" on our way out of church and talked about the nations coming to worship their king. We also talked about Ryan. We talked about death and fear and sadness. We talked about loss, about young life, about cancer. Pastor Jeff mentioned Ryan's faith, his willingness to see what God had in store for him, without anger or resentment. He talked about Ryan's way of rejoicing in the Messiah on his deathbed.
We printed in the bulletin, one of his drawings which he made for our Advent theme this year. It is a picture of an open door, shining a bright light into darkness, and a crowd of people standing in the back. Some are choosing to enter the light while others remain in darkness. Ryan has chosen the light.
Rev 4:1 -- "After this I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this."
He stopped by the church one afternoon and asked to play the piano. I helped him make himself at home at the baby grand which sat in the cold sanctuary, where we did not run heat during the week. I offered him a space heater, recommended a jacket and turned on the stage lights before heading back into my office on the other side of a thin wall from where the piano sat.
One day, the cold in the sanctuary gave him a bloody nose, so he sat in my office with a box of tissues, embarrassed. We talked about our eclectic music tastes, his diverse musical skills and my utter lack of them, and we became friends.
He came in often. A few months prior, the treatments had become so harsh on his body that he simply could not work. The weeks alternated between his treatment and his piano playing. I grew accustom to hearing "Breathe" by Greg Maroney for hours each day. I told him I admired his playing, and he offered to send me a list of his favorite piano songs.
It took me a month to list to it all, not because it was long, but because I rarely choose instrumental songs in the office. Last Wednesday, on my first day back to work after the holidays, I sent him an email telling him that I finally listened to his list and giving him my favorites.
The next morning, at staff prayer, I learned Ryan had moved home. In the two weeks since I had been in the office, Ryan's tumors had grown. The cancer was pressing against his internal organs and causing him immense pain. The doctors said it was time for hospice.
Hospice. Where people go to die. Where people go when all hope is lost and the end is near.
Epiphany. The day the historical church celebrates together the kingship of Jesus. The culmination of the Christmas season, in which we celebrate the life of Christ and all that he has done for us. We cheer together as a church that light has overcome darkness and that the hope of the Messiah is present with us.
My church is liturgical; therefore, each year we celebrate Epiphany. We talk about the Magi, the bearing of gifts, and the hope that this truth gives us. This year, we still did these things. We still sang "We Three Kings" on our way out of church and talked about the nations coming to worship their king. We also talked about Ryan. We talked about death and fear and sadness. We talked about loss, about young life, about cancer. Pastor Jeff mentioned Ryan's faith, his willingness to see what God had in store for him, without anger or resentment. He talked about Ryan's way of rejoicing in the Messiah on his deathbed.
We printed in the bulletin, one of his drawings which he made for our Advent theme this year. It is a picture of an open door, shining a bright light into darkness, and a crowd of people standing in the back. Some are choosing to enter the light while others remain in darkness. Ryan has chosen the light.
Rev 4:1 -- "After this I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this."
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