News Trend The Gifts Of Easter|Actual

This is how much God loved the world:

He gave his Son, his one and only Son.

The very best thing about Easter, I think, is that it offers a gift for everyone in the whole wide world.

The point of the whole 'Jesus dying on a cross and then raising from the dead' drama was to demonstrate God's crazy love and bottomless forgiveness for human beings.

All human beings. God loves the whole world.

And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him,

anyone can have a whole and lasing life.

God made one thing very clear - he didn't put Jesus up on a cross to die just to save

Jesus' friends and followers,

the future self-proclaimed Christians, or

the perfect people in the world.

God loves each and every one of us.

He let Jesus die for each and every one of us.

Doesn't really matter how we might feel about God.

He adores us all exactly as we are and he wants us all to live in love, joy, peace and hope.

God didn't go to all the trouble of sending his Son merely

to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was.

He came to help, to put the world right again.

God offers you and me his unending, unfathomable love and forgiveness, and what we decide to do about that is completely up to us.

So we are free to practice any religion we want:

Judaism,

Islam,

Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism,

Christianity,

Or no religion at all.

God gives each and every one of us the freedom to chose.

Anyone who trusts in him is acquitted.

But if we decide that we want to claim his promise of boundless love and infinite forgiveness, well, that offer is always on the table.

And all we need to do to receive the joyful gifts of Easter is to simply reach out and take them.

* * * * *

More Easter stories? Yes.

Easter All Over Again

About Easter

Ham Dinner

New Life

The Gifts Of Easter

What I Know About Easter

What Is Easter Dinner?

Easter Dinner

Good Friday

Maundy Thursday

Easter Morning In Malaysia

Easter Eats

The Very Colorful Easter Art

Better Than Bunnies Part Two

Better Than Bunnies Part One

News Trend Life Of A Math Teacher: Little Brothers|Actual

An adorable boy, surrounded by people who love him.

"Five...Six...Seven...Where's eight? Where's eight???"

As I stepped into my student's home for our Tuesday algebra lesson, I was met with an interesting sight.

A seven-year-old boy in a fuzzy blue bathrobe buzzed like a bee at the far end of the dining room table. Scattered in front of him were a set of algebra workbooks numbered - you guessed it - from one to ten, and our hero was frantically arranging them in chronological order.

Dropping my bags at my usual seat, I walked down to Marshall's end to watch him work.

"I'm putting my brother's books in order," he explained.

"But you are still looking for number eight," I observed.

"Yes. Eight, eight, EIGHT!" He pulled the book out of the heap and waved it triumphantly.

"And here's nine...And ten!" Proudly, he fanned the books in sequential order but then a storm cloud passed onto his face.

"Where's four?"

As he scrambled through the neatly arranged books, checking and double-checking the number on each cover, I noticed that underneath the pile lay one last book, its pages opened and its cover hidden, mostly buried by the rest of the collection. Without comment, I pulled the top edge of the booklet up an inch or two to subtly make its presence known.

He noticed it right away. "What's THIS?" he burst out as he whisked the book off the table and flipped it shut to read the title number, all in one fluid motion.

"FOUR!! I found them all!"

As Marshall finalized his arrangement with a flourish, his fourteen-year-old sister and I exchanged a quiet smile and, assuming Marshall would soon be moving off to new adventures, we sat down together to begin our lesson.

But within moments, we realized that Marshall had other plans.

Seating himself across from me, with his sister sandwiched between us at the head of the table, Marshall ceremoniously opened up a three-ring binder that was literally bursting with a fresh load of loose-leaf paper, picked up a pencil and looked at me expectantly.

Clearly, this math lesson had just become a threesome.

I smiled at him encouragingly then turned my attention to his sister and launched into my spiel.

Right away, I noticed him eyeing my box of colored markers. Moving them to within his arm's reach, I invited him to help himself. Then I picked up one for myself and wrote at the top of my page:

Lesson 119.

I jumped into my lecture on the merits of the quadratic formula; from the corner of my eye, I noticed Marshall writing intently. After a few moments, he stopped and stared at me, clearly seeking my attention.

"Yes, Marshall?"

He silently turned his book round and presented it to me. Across the top of his laman, marked in sturdy second-grade penmanship read "Lesson 119."

I fought back the urge to run around the table and hug him.

"Hey, nice work." I said. He beamed.

Three minutes later, we repeated the cycle. This time, he had boldly added "lima x 20 = 100."

"That's right," said his sister. "Good job."

No longer feigning interest in his own calculations, Marshall simply sat and stared as we plowed on through our equations. He followed our give-and-take with rapt attention, and when his sister asked him to help us - "Marshall, what's two plus six?" - he practically sprang from his seat as he belted out the answer.

Right around this time, his mom popped her head into the room to deliver some news: "Marshall, you were too sick to go to school this morning but I think you're feeling a lot better now. So let's get you some lunch and I'll run you over to school for the afternoon."

"Okay," Marshall replied agreeably.

But once Mom had disappeared back into the kitchen, he turned to his sister and me and confided, "I don't need to go to kid school anymore. I'm ready for teenager school with you."

* * * * *

I love teaching math. The calculations and computations bring me pleasure, and opening my students' minds to these puzzles and processes is sheer joy. This exciting journey and oftentimes considerable challenge is what gets us math teachers out of bed in the morning.

But to step into my students' homes and directly share in the ups and downs of their daily life - that is a special privilege and a blessing that few teachers get to enjoy. I never take for granted the intimate and personal connection that I make with my students and their families.

And while this story of a math-loving boy is delightful on any level, I want to share one more detail. Though he has been welcomed and accepted and loved as much as any son, Marshall is a foster child in this family. It's been just six months since he was taken from chaos and placed in this stable, loving environment, and to see him bloom and grow as he has just fills my heart with hope and joy.

I'm already dreaming of the day when he will be my student too.

* * * * *

Read more stories about my life as a math teacher:

Social Distancing

Playing With A Full Deck

The (Math) Joke's On Me

Sharing Life

Little Brothers

Sweet Inspiration

My Hero

What I Do

Number 15

Christmas Edition

3.1415926

Buy It And Burn It

In Honor Of James K. Polk

House Tours

My Deep Gladness

Isolating The Radical

By The Numbers

Teaching My Own: High School Art And Algebra

News Trend A Long-Distance Easter Basket|Actual

The Easter Bunny either doesn't know or doesn't care that my third-born is living in Vietnam again this year. Because on his special day of celebration, he filled her basket with all the usual sweet treats and hid it for her in the dining room, along with her sisters' surprises.

Sometimes, when I am staring in the face of the fact that my daughter is far across the ocean from me, a little bit of denial gets me through the day.

News Trend My Definition Of Resting|Actual

^Welcome to my freshly pressure-washed front porch.

^ Yes, it's still damp in places, and there are plenty of errant leaves and wandering clumps of dirt. But you can now clearly make out the stones in the paving - whereas before you saw only shades of grey - and that is dramatic improvement.

^ This whole messy project owes its timing to this green sculpture. I caught sight of it while wandering around a store over a week ago, and resisted at first its siren call. Using one of my tried-and-true anti-impulse shopping techniques, I went home empty handed and tried to forget about this forbidden love. When Monday morning came, and I was still obsessed, I knew I was ready to commit to the purchase.

I have no regrets.

^ Someone who hates loud machines and spraying water suffered through a long afternoon. Of course, he was duly rewarded with a nice long walk, though he had to cool his heels through this photo session to boot.

* * * * *

Saturday morning:

10 a.M. Wake up feeling like crap. The cold I've been fighting off all week has taken hold and my head feels full of concrete. I need more sleep.

1 p.M. Still feel terrible but I'm missing out on Saturday. I need to get up but I'll be sure to take it easy.

2 p.M. So far, so good. I'm dressed and fed, and I cleaned the bathrooms. As long as I'm up and moving, I might as well do something productive.

Pressure washes the driveway and sidewalk for five hours.

7 p.m.  Wait. I'm muddy, soaked to the skin, and pretty sure these chills I'm getting are not a good sign. Even though I haven't finished the job, maybe I should call it a day.

8 p.M. Showered and wrapped in a blanket, drooping on the couch. Someone please bring me dinner.

Hamburgers, movies, intermittent naps and rib-rattling coughs ensue.

1 a.M. Awake again and feeling fresh. Hey, I think I'll finish that pressure washing job tomorrow.

* * * * *

P.S. Sunday evening:

This cold is still getting the best of me. But I managed complete my soggy task and that sweet success makes me feel on top of the world.

I didn't get much rest over the weekend. But I have absolutely no regrets.

News Trend On Writers and Talkers|Actual

"Writing is really very easy. Tap a vein and bleed onto the halaman.

Everything else is just technical." - Derrick Jensen

Some people are natural-born talkers.

Fluidly and fluently, they express their thoughts out loud, reaching for words only to find them waiting on the the tips of their tongues, setting them free on a spoken breeze.

These types generally find the process of writing things down to be a bit cumbersome. Too slow. Too unwieldy. The words stick to the page - physical or digital - in a weighted-down way that loses their shimmering qualities and takes the fun out of discourse.

I think this is a lovely way to be.

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in public." - Paulo Coelho

But different are the gifts of the writers. We - for I dare to count myself among them - come at communicating from a divergent angle. We find our words not at the tips of our tongues but from a place much deeper inside, and we need time to let those thoughts slowly bubble up from within. Kind of like a good burp.

Putting our ideas down on paper is a vital step in the process of communication. We need to look them over, rearrange this bit and that, make sure that the pieces fit together just so. To blurt them out prematurely is to lose control over our meaning - there's no way to take back a spoken word and reshape it properly. Our writer's hearts feel a strong responsibility to get the word, the sentence, the whole paragraph right the first time.

This, too, is  a perfectly nice way to be.

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about but the inner music that

words make." - Truman Capote

Now, certainly there are some ambidextrous types are clever enough to do both well. They find writing and talking to feel equally agreeable, and my hat is off to them.

And perhaps there are some interesting ways in which talkers feel misunderstood by writers. I'm open to that idea.

But what's on my mind today is the notion, often held by talkers, that writers should be able to talk in the same way that they write, if only they would put down their pencils long enough to do so.

Mmm. I see the logic in that idea. But we just don't work like that.

(And it's not that all writers are introverts, and all talkers are extroverts. The spectrum of social engagement preferences is a whole nother kettle of fish which I will not attempt to fry today.)

The simple truth is that writers talk differently than they write.

"Write a wise saying and your name will live forever." - Anonymous

We can't help it. Oh sure, we can carry on our fair share of chit-chat and conduct business just fine. But if you really want to pry under our hoods and get our thoughts about the deeper, more intricate aspects of life, we might not offer up a spectacular conversation. It's not that we aren't interested; we're just built for something different than the fire hose of oral speech.

So talkers, please don't take it personally when the writers in your life clam up a bit in face-to-face conversation. We're just wired that way.

And if you really want to know what a writer is thinking, you can always drop us a line.

News Trend Spring Break|Actual

Fresh.

Sweet.

Juicy.

Unexpectedly delicious.

If there is a day that tastes just like a bowl of red, ripe strawberries, then it must be the first morning of spring break.

News Trend Holes|Actual

Lately I've been arranging for men to put holes in my walls, and then other men to come and patch those holes up.

The hole maker is my long-time friend, Darrin, father of my favorite boys and electrician extraordinaire. He graciously moved my ceiling fixture so it now hangs properly centered over my table, and scooted up the light switch by a few inches to allow for my new marble back splashes.

I paid him not in cash but in a bottomless pit of grilled cheese sandwiches, apple slices and cookies for his six growing boys, who came along to supervise the work.That's what I call a win-win.

The hole patcher is my new painter, Marty, who came to me recommended by one of my math families. Small world - he's a pastor at a local church and we discovered a surprising number of friends and acquaintances in common. He tells me that he has six kids and ten grandchildren, though I served grilled cheese sandwiches to none of them. Maybe next time.

Now with the help of these two fine gentlemen, the necessary holes in my walls have been both made and repaired. And you'd think I would be ready to leave well enough alone.

But now we have discovered water damage behind the family room wall, and I've begun the process of taking bids for new men to come and make new holes in my walls...These men are called moisture mediators and they will undoubtedly make a mess of things. So I'm also looking for construction guys to eventually come and put my walls right again.

Looks like my game of Holes isn't over just yet.

You've got to gooo and dig those holes.

Dig it uh uh oh. Dig it.