The classroom looks different for all us. Some are still all virtual. Some are hybrid. For those in school, things still are not the quite the same.

My desks are in rows. All facing the front of the class.

Never in my career has my classroom looked like this. I’ve had desks in groups, desks on either side of the room creating a center aisle (this is a popular design), tables, I’ve had couches and bean bags and recliners. But never this. So the kids up front are close enough to see me sweating and the kids in the back are not sure what color my shirt is.

Rightly so, we have been discouraged from walking amongst the children too much. I spend most of the time at the front of the room or at my new desk situation at the side of the room. I haven’t had a desk in my class for years. I keep all my personal things in a locker and all the things my students need in pink dresser. Now I use a bistro table and an ergonomically designed drafting chair as a desk area. I can see all the students perched from my chair. But I can’t hug them from here.

When I teach and look out at my students, most of them are wearing their masks. Now instead of standards and agenda on the board (those can be found online, specifically on Google Classroom), I have their 10-minute color-coded break schedule listed. I am especially proud of this very teacher-y idea of mine. Of course, students can take a mask break whenever he/she needs one, but I love the fact that I color coded the desks and the break times.

So, I see only their eyes. I can’t see them smile. I can’t see them scrunch their nose or twist their mouth or bite their lip—in frustration or confusion. I can’t read their faces like I used to. Do I need to repeat this, teach it differently? Does this child need something else, something beyond the lesson? I can’t see my students, not the way I am accustomed to seeing them. And it frustrates me.

But this past week, in second period I noticed something. This class is quiet, which makes it even more difficult to see them. I was at the front of the room, teaching. Looking over the room, searching my students for answers and questions, I saw something amazing. Their eyes.

Now, because of the masks, their eyes had become something more. I relied so much on their eyes to tell me so much. And now, I could see more than I could before. Of course, I have always seen my students’ eyes. Obviously. But now—how striking. How powerful. I had forgotten, or maybe had never realized, how much we can see in a person’s eyes.

It also struck me how fortunate I was to see these students eye-to-eye at all. With the uncertainty this pandemic has created and with the losses I have had in my personal life, I treasure every day I get to spend in the classroom with my teenagers. I also appreciate their willingness to wear a mask to protect themselves, each other, and me—and make it possible to be together at all.

As much as I possibly can, I will look for ways to see good in the hardships and tragedies of this pandemic. Seeing my students in a different way is wonderful, indeed.

Delivered with so much love at their funeral on October 16, 2020

Mamaw wanted me to speak at her funeral. It was an unconventional request made several years ago. I never gave her an answer.
 
But when I was a little girl and wanted ice cream because I was sick, she made a special trip to the store right then just so I could have a bowl of ice cream. And when Mamaw got us Care Bears when we were little, maybe for Christmas, I can’t remember, she got me Tender Heart Care Bear. She told me it was because my own heart was so tender. This gesture said to me that my sensitivity, my quickness to cry, my hyperactive empathy was not a weakness or flaw. I am grateful to her for that.
 
So, of course I am speaking at her funeral. She was my grandmother. I loved her.
 
Sometimes my husband calls me “Darlene” when I retell a story or make a hilarious joke that no one else finds funny. Or when I randomly break into song, inspired by what someone has said. Sometimes it’s a look on my face. But he knows how much I love my mom and that there is no better compliment he could give me. 
 
My daddy sometimes calls my mom “Thelma”. And they are so much alike. They share so much beauty, strength, and goodness.
 
Mamaw made things. Like her daughter one day would, she sewed clothes for her children: matching outfits, a wedding dress for Aunt Cindy. Mamaw painted. I remember us grandkids gathered around her kitchen table while she worked on her paintings. And she made biscuits. But it wasn’t just the biscuits. Everything she made was delicious. In the same way, everything tastes better at Meme’s, my mom’s, house now, according to my son, Joe.
 
Mamaw was beautiful. The younger pictures of Mamaw remind me of my mother and my niece, Charlie. I see them there in Mamaw’s clear eyes, her thin lips. It’s a clear beauty. By that I mean it captivates by its transparency and mystery. It is unadulterated, pure, and unpretentious. 
 
Mamaw was strong, maybe stubborn. My grandmother buried three children, lost three homes, and dealt with so many other heartbreaks. She raised a family and weathered life with resolve and fortitude. She sacrificed so much.
 
 Mamaw was loved by her children. With the heartaches that come with life, through all of the trials and pain, her children never stopped loving her. My childhood is filled with memories of Mamaw with her daughters. The Disney trip with all eight of us crammed into one hotel room. The World’s Fair. Countless trips to town. And so many days and evenings of being together at someone’s house. When my mom had a kidney infection after Rene was born, it was Mamaw she went to. When John decided to come into the world far too early, Mamaw was there. In the same way, my sisters and I love being with our mom, the same way Lauren loves being with her mom. Our moms learned that from their mother. They have passed that on to us. 
 
My mom is her mother’s daughter. She possesses all the qualities that made her daddy fall in love with her momma. She possesses all the qualities I loved about my grandmother. And there were so many.

*

When I was a little girl, I stood in front of Papaw who sat on the couch in his family room. We were eye to eye. “Okay, Little Debbie, I’m going to make this here quarter disappear,” he said. Then the quarter he had shown me was gone. “Where is it?” I squealed, delighted and in awe of my grandfather’s magical powers. “I made it disappear,” he said, laughing. “But where is it?” He turned me around. “Look up yonder at the ceiling. It’s up there, floating all around. You just can’t see it. Maybe if you squint real hard.” I did, but I saw no quarter. I did hear Papaw laughing behind me. When I turned back around, he had the quarter between his stubby fingers. “How did you do that, Papaw?” I was amazed. “Magic,” he said.

I think Papaw is still up to his old magic tricks. Just like that quarter, he hasn’t gone anywhere. Not really. We just can’t see him.

One of my earliest memories is in Mamaw and Papaw’s living room full of people and children and Buddy the Chihuahua. Mamaw sat beside Papaw while he strummed his guitar and sang. Around the room, everyone was singing and it went on and on. And it was happiness. 
 
This scene has stuck with me because it is when I started piecing together who was who and how they were connected to me and why they loved me. In other words, it is when my identity started, while Papaw sang to his grown children and their families. That sweetness imprinted on my soul. That love was powerful.
 
When we were little, we spent a lot of time at Mamaw and Papaw’s house, John Wayne or Spaghetti Westerns on the TV in the background, bunches of cousins running around, and so much laughter. When we were very little, he bounced us on his knees and sang “Old Man Brown.” When we got in trouble and was fussed at by Mom or Aunt Cindy or Mamaw, Papaw would crook his finger and say, “Goody, goody, goody.” And smile. 
 
He told us stories of wompus cats and pole cats, of Santa Claus spitting in our eye. He sang songs with our names in it. And he had nicknames for us: Little Debbie, Blondie, Dump-dump. He wrestled and tickled and played and ran around when he was younger. Then when he was older, he still tried to do all of that. He played volleyball at family reunions with all the young people. He never stopped playing corn hole with his Body and anyone who was around. Until the very end, he never stopped playing.
 
And he never stopped smiling. Papaw found joy in everything. He was a simple man who delighted in simplicity. Make no mistake—by simple I do not mean that Papaw was unintelligent. He saw the world differently than most are capable. He had no use for grudges or contention. He had no time for complaining or arguing. He truly loved like Christ - completely, unconditionally, with grace and joy. Because of that, he saw the world through the eyes of love.
 
My Papaw, the Godly man that he was, is the greatest example of Christ-like love I have ever known. Sometimes it upset me, because it was so true and so fierce that it was unfair to him. Sometimes I wanted him to think of himself. Sometimes I wanted him to get angry. Sometimes I saw his gentle spirit and blindness to the faults of others as a character flaw. But I know better. It takes great strength to love another so completely, it takes great wisdom to see beyond earthly comforts, it takes great understanding of the Biblical truth of what love is in its purest form to live the life my grandfather lived. And because of that, he had a life of joy. Because of that, everyone in this room knows he was a good, genuine man who always meant well.
 
 My own faith in Christ ultimately began with my grandparents, and I am sure I am not the only one here who can say that. My earliest memory of church has Mamaw in it. Gina was asleep on the pew and I stood by Mamaw. And we sang together. I remember how she clapped her hands, closed her eyes, tilted her head back. At one point she cupped my face with one hand, pressed my head against her outer thigh while her other hand was raised in worship. I felt love.
 
There was a time, later in his life, when Papaw attended church with me for several months. I had my own family then. What joy to hear my Papaw’s loud, rough, wonderful voice belting out hymns in my church, with me.
 
But their faith was more than church attendance and following rules. Their faith was truly about a relationship with Christ and a community of other believers. My grandparents were flawed people, just like we all are, but they were forgiven people. Faith is not about living a perfect life. Faith is about love.
 
Theirs is truly a love story. Theirs is a love story that is about devotion and forgiveness. It’s a love that sees beauty hidden beneath wrinkles and pain and grief, a love that forgives completely and finds joy in serving, purpose in giving, delight in humility. It is a love that sacrifices, provides, completes. It is a love so strong that it follows through death into eternity where it will last through the ages in the heavens and through the generations of their children and their children and their children and so on.
 
Near the end of their love story, as the dementia took over, Mamaw was often in a hurry to leave when they were over visiting at Mom’s. Most visits during the last several years ended with “Come on, John,” or “Time to go, John,” or “John, I’m ready.” And Papaw would jump up, “The wife is ready. I gotta go.” And we would all plead with them to stay, just a little longer.
 
And so, with Mamaw hurting, it was time for her to leave this earth. It’s as if her spirit said to her husband one last time, “Let’s go, John. It’s time to go.” And he followed her. His heart would not work without her with him anyhow.
 
*
 
There is so much sadness and uncertainty around death, even for those with the strongest and surest of faiths. But I am certain of this—my Papaw would not want us to weep for him. My Papaw died doing exactly what he delighted in doing-loving and caring for his wife. I’ve heard his voice in the quiet moments over the last week, saying things like, “Sister and Poohdle-loo, thank you for letting me take care of your mama the way I wanted to. You both did great.” I hear him saying things like, “Mule, I’m always proud of you. Keep an eye on my girls.”

I also hear him say, to the rest of us, “I swuneey, there’s a lot of y’all here. But I sure wish y’all wouldn’t be hurting so much on a count of me and Thelma. We’re okay. I love all y’all. I sure do.”

Mostly over the past several days, I have heard him chuckling and laughing as I’ve thought back on memories of him and Mamaw. That is the music I will keep with me most, my Papaw’s laughter.

​And I will wait for the end of the magic trick, when all secrets will be revealed to us. Like it says in First Corinthians, “For now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” I will wait for the time when we will see our Savior and our loved ones. Oh, what a good laugh we will have then.
 
 
 
 
 

​Every year at graduation, the principals and superintendent and several other important people fill the stage and smile for a couple of hours, cheerfully handing out diplomas, shaking hands, posing for cameras. They rarely get much attention—they are all dressed in the same black robes and the focus is on the hundreds of graduates crossing the stage, as it should be. 

​This year our graduation was held in the school’s auditorium. One student at a time was given five minutes and an audience of four family members. That one student crossed the stage, elbow bumped the principal, received her diploma from the superintendent, switched her tassel, and posed for pictures. All of it was recorded, including the commencement addresses and other pomp and circumstance that we will experience virtually later. The graduation ceremony took a week and many, many, many hours. The principal was still in the background, like always, as each graduate filed by.

As these new grads started posting pictures of their separate, private graduation ceremonies on Facebook, I started noticing something about our principal that I think needs to be brought to the forefront.
​
Because he is the principal, Mr. Glass hears about almost every problem in our school, and many are blamed on him, even if they are not his fault. We expect him to solve all these problems without creating more. On any given day, he must deal with disgruntled parents, exhausted teachers, troubled students, and a budget that does not come close to meeting all our school’s needs. He gets emails and phone calls that demand answers and add to his workload. If things go right at our school, students and teachers will get much of the credit. If things go wrong, he will take much of the blame. 

​Even with all of this, Mr. Glass, like any good principal, loves his job. He serves our faculty, staff, and students with genuine kindness and infectious positivity. I saw this in the background of picture after picture on Facebook. Mr. Glass was grinning in each picture with real pride. With real affection. With real joy. For several days, for several hours each day, for almost three hundred students, Mr. Glass greeted each graduate with excitement, with warmth, with love. The smile you see in these pictures is not the fake upturn of lips for a camera. This is the look of an educator who is dedicated not just to his profession but to his students. 

I love this picture of Miranda. She has her diploma and has just switched her tassel. Mr. Glass is in the back, not posing for any picture. He looks on as Miranda’s family captures this moment. What I see in this picture is a principal understanding that his part in the commencement ceremony is something other than drudgery. What I see is an educator who delights in the successes of his students. I see a principal who knows Miranda is important, and so he does not have to pretend to be excited for her.
​
Graduation this year, like any other year, is not about the grown-ups—the teachers or principals or superintendents. It is and should be about our students. But I love that our principal has shown up in the background of so many pictures smiling.
 

On the first day of Mental Health Awareness Month, I thought perhaps I should share some about my own mental health. I’ve always been one to be fairly candid with my heart, but until the last couple of years my mental health was quite a secret. I have found that this is common with people with OCD and other mental disorders. We are afraid of what you might think of us if you really knew what was going on in our heads. And we often don’t know it’s a disorder. We just think we’re bad people.

That’s what I believed. In a thousand ways for a thousand reasons.

OCD manifests itself differently in every sufferer, but at its core, it thrives on uncertainty and breeds fear. It contorts thoughts, sees danger where there is none, makes nightmares real. It is powerful, destructive, and deceptive. There is nothing cute or funny or neat about it. Anyone who has the disorder will tell you that.

Most people are familiar with the manifestation of OCD that causes people to want everything clean or orderly. While this is one way OCD can wreak havoc, it is not the only way and not even the most common way. Most people are unaware of the invisible obsessions and compulsions we are plagued by.

Often OCD will focus on what we value and cause us to create irrational fears around those things. For me, and many others, it was my faith. I became a Christian as a young child and lived out my faith with a fierce devotion, both publicly and privately. There was no pretending—I was and am completely in love with Jesus Christ.

As a young adult, I stayed active in church. Sunday school teacher, VBS director, wife to a seminary student, in the choir, on the women’s ministry counsel, Bible studies in my home. I was involved in everything I could be involved in. The quintessential good Christian woman. It was genuine. I did everything the church asked me to do. Everything I felt the Lord leading me to do. Everything I saw Scripture saying I should do. I was devout, in every area of my life.

While I was a believer, saved by grace, I was also dealing with an undiagnosed mental disorder, and I had no idea. Please pause and read this slowly. It was not a spiritual issue. I was not in unrepentant sin. I was not outside of faith. I was not rebellious. Of course, I was not perfect, but I was living my life to please and honor the Lord as best as I possibly could. But my brain was not functioning properly. Let me write that again. My brain was not processing thoughts correctly. Again---the biology of my brain made it such that intrusive thoughts were getting stuck on a loop and creating anxiety so that I was having to do mental and physical compulsions or just deal with anxieties, and none of it was my fault. And I was completely unaware that I had a disorder—this is a common issue with people with OCD. It often takes people more than twenty years to get a proper diagnosis. They think the thoughts are their own, that this is just normal.

Some of the intrusive thoughts were terrible things like –maybe God will send my kids to hell if I don’t pray the right way – maybe God hates me –maybe heaven is not real, and I need to know if I am to pursue life any further. And so on. OCD is a disorder that craves certainty. Faith exists on uncertainty.

Before my diagnosis, I kept these thoughts, and so many more, a secret, except from my husband. I thought I was a blasphemous, sinful, hypocrite headed for hell. I thought that if I missed reading the Bible to my sons at night they would die in their sleep and go to hell. I thought if I prayed the wrong way, God would kill my children as punishment. None of this was logical, none of it was consistent with the God of the Bible. But OCD is not logical. The torment was endless. And remember, I did not know I had OCD. I thought this was real.

And now, to the church--this is why we must be so careful how we approach those suffering with mental health issues. I heard something today online that broke my heart. The speaker, a Christian, said about mental illness that we suffer because of sin. While I appreciate his zeal for God’s righteousness, this is not what the hurting mental patient needs to hear. While I live in a fallen world, I don’t have OCD because of any particular sin I committed. Jesus said as much as he healed the hurting when he walked this earth. Do we tell those with cancer that sin made them sick? The stigma and shame around mental illness are already so pervasive and potent, we should not add to it.

I also heard today that therapy and medicine is not sufficient, that those suffering from mental health issues are in treatment for years and not getting better and it’s because they need Jesus. Again, I appreciate the sentiment. But let me approach it this way: I spent more than thirty years in church and only got worse and worse mentally. In fact, I got so bad that I had suicidal ideations. I got so bad, that I had to pretend to be happy. Early on when I had mentioned some of my anxieties to a church leader, I was told that I needed to spend more time in Scripture. I was also told once, many years ago, that a Christian should never need to see a therapist or need antidepressants. I was told to just keep praying, of course that person did not know that I was using certain prayers as compulsions, making the OCD even worse. I didn’t know this either at the time.

Thankfully, the church has progressed so much since then, but we obviously need to continue to make strides. My point is this. Mental health is not a spiritual issue any more than a heart condition is. We would never tell someone with a blocked artery to avoid the doctor. Nor would we chastise him by saying, “but going to the doctor is just not sufficient. Your heart is not getting better because you’re not praying enough” when their blocked artery does not improve. We would know it’s biology.

OCD is a part of my brain. I cannot pray it away. I will have to deal with it every single day for the rest of my life. Really, it’s always been that way. The difference now is that I know what I’m dealing with and I’m equipped to deal with it. I also have a lot of support around me. I wish the same were true for all those suffering with the scary thoughts that creep in and threaten to steal everything they value. 

To those of you who have a friend or loved one with a mental disorder or illness, do not presume to understand. Their pain is too deep and too weird. Just be there, without judgment and with lots of love.

To the Christian, I say this. Care for those with mental illness just as you would care for anyone else who is hurting, with a great deal of compassion and generosity. Those suffering with mental disorders need love, acceptance, and medical help. They need hope that comes from God. And they need sweet fellowship from you. 

If you are suffering with mental health issues, I would say this to you: I know there is shame and hurt because I have felt it, too. But I also know there is hope, even if you can’t see it or feel it. I cannot presume to know how to help you, but I can tell you there is help and I can urge you to get that help. I would also tell you that it is not your fault. Let that last part sink in. Not your fault. Mental illness does make you a bad person. 

  **I am excited to share with you a piece written by one of my students, Lauren Redding. The assignment was to write about how place affects our identity. As we are all stuck at home, I thought it more than fitting to share this now, even though she wrote it several weeks ago.  I hope you are blessed by reading this. I know I was! Lauren has a strong voice and is so candid in her writing. I love grading her essays!                                                                        -Rebecca

Staying Home
​
    I gently punch in the code to the garage door and patiently stand there and wait for there to be enough room for me to quickly creep under the door and run to the warmth of my house. I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, I'm home. 
    I live in a town where Friday nights at the only high school we have is the highlight of everyone’s week. In my town, you take a drive down the winding back roads passing several churches just to reach a “famous” abandoned bridge. On this bridge you write out your name with the $3 can of spray paint you bought a few hours before. In the town I live in, many people often mutter the words out of anger and boredom, “I can’t wait to get out of this town.” 
   What about the people who never want to leave? I know I am for sure one of them. In my short sixteen years of living, I have been raised in Lawrenceburg, KY. I have moved for short times, but have always made it back to my hometown of what many call, “The Burg”. Some may say driving around with your friends or going to Walmart isn’t fun, but it’s something I haven’t seemed to get tired of.        
   It’s mid summer and I’ve been counting down the days till we made our way to the beach. My dad drives me to my friend Emily’s house, and I’m ready to leave for summer vacation. My dad and I pull into her driveway, and I prepare to tell him goodbye.  I do not know then that this is the last time I will speak to my dad in the little town of Lawrenceburg, and the last time I will look forward to going to the beach.
  The next day, after 10 hours stuffed in a small Toyota Corolla, Emily's family and I finally make it to the beach. Although I am so excited to put my feet in the water, I know my dad back home is missing me and I miss him, too. Only a few days at the beach pass by, and I am told the next time I will speak to my dad will be somewhere unearthly. 
   Experiences that happen in a specific place can influence how we may think and how we feel. Because I was in North Carolina when my father passed away, I often don’t enjoy going to the beach or anywhere far away because I'm afraid of what may happen at home. As a 16 year old girl, I'm aware I may not be able to stop instances like that, but staying home gives me a sense of comfort. Not only has the feeling of warmth and family kept me loving my hometown, but so have the memories.
  In Maggie Smith’s poem, “Homebody”, she explains her love for staying put. “Thirty years apart we were buzzed through the same ward doors and we emptied ourselves there”, In this quote from the poem, Smith explains that her mother, herself, and her children were all born in the same hospital, in the same town. Similar to the type of fun that goes on in my hometown, the author also explains how “Driving around my hometown is a game”.  Being a homebody, I know that not all happiness is within the warmth of my home. I know that going on a random trip will dampen my smile. I may become worrisome at times, but I know that I will make my way back home to the place where I have become who I am.

                       Lawrenceburg

Because I have been spending a lot of time at home lately, it is fitting this post is about home. Even better, I am excited to share some of my students’ writing about home. Several weeks ago we wrote poems modeled after Carl Sandburg’s “Chicago”. My students wrote lines that are so genuine and particularly encouraging right now. I’m also sharing the one I wrote, but I do so with great trepidation--I am no poet. Enjoy!

Lawrenceburg
Football;
Bearcats;
Main street;
Nonexistent mufflers;
And the roads that never seem to end.

They tell me it is nothing
They tell me it is small
They tell me it is not known
They tell me they’re just passing through
They tell me they do not see what I see

I say to them it’s home
I say to them there is no other
Here is a town that is genuine
Here is a town that’s truly together
Show me another town that make you take a second look as if leaving is the right decision.

Under the water wishing you could stay
Paused in midair after letting go of that rope...laughing
Singing in your friend’s car at the top of your lungs late at night...laughing
Screaming on Friday night lights for that one touchdown that the whole town is counting on…
Laughing
​
Proud to be football;
Proud to be Bearcats;
Proud to be Main Street;
Proud to be nonexistent mufflers;
And proud to be on the road that just never seems to end.
                                                                                                                                    Shayna Villier



Lexington
Basketball and football players
They play their hearts out here
Big, tall, fast
Home of the Big Blue Nation

They say you’re this and that
But underneath that big blue jersey
You’re a farmer and a distiller
An athlete and a doctor
A student and a cop

I tell them it’s more than horses and bourbon
It’s more than slums and basketball
But show me another city where everyone bleeds blue
Where horses hold the biggest importance in sports
Where nearly every person is tried and true.

The Beehive of Kentucky
The home of Ale-8
The horse capital of the world
Home sweet home
Lexington
                                                                                                                                          Jakob Redmon





Lawrenceburg
Stop on the Bourbon Trail.
On the Kentucky River.
On I-64.
Town on top of a knob where we watch the clouds go by.
A city so small no one knows we’re here.
But we are. 

They tell me you are too small to matter--
A bedroom for those who work
In Lexington
In Louisville
In larger places
That show up on maps.
They say there’s nothing here--
Nothing to do
Nowhere to go
Nothing to see.

I say to them--they are looking in the wrong direction.
Show me another town humble enough to make the outsider feel at home--
Offer him a little bourbon, a glass of wine, a bowl of burgoo.
Here is a town that is so Kentucky, so America, so Home--
So much more than nothing.
Show me another town that stands so beautifully 
When so many pass her by.
Like an owl, resting among branches and in barns, in silence you watch over us,
Grinning in the satisfaction of an old woman looking after her own. 
The spreading of darkness is the spreading of your wings, 
Grinning you sail through the openness of these skies, looking into the blue-green below,
You see the farmer, the distiller, the happy child. 
You grin more. 
You see the lonely, the broken, the hurt. They’re here, too. But you’re glad. 
They’re yours. 
You are proud to be a stop on the Bourbon Trail, on the Kentucky River, on I-64, 
A place to sit atop a knob and watch the clouds go by,
A place for the weary to sleep.
                                                                                                                                              Rebecca Potter