House on the Rock

 It's day one of trimester three. You'll sit in swivel chairs alphabetically until I learn who talks to who and I'll secretly try to pair up those among you that seem to flirt or fix their gaze, but mostly I'll put such lovers on opposite sides of the room to protect you from preadolescent heartache. I'll tell you that we'll learn about gerunds and participles, but really what I want you to walk away with is how deeply loved and treasured you are -- not only by your English teacher but also by a Holy Creator of the Universe who spoke galaxies into existence and deemed your life worthy of a spot on that eternal cosmic blueprint. I hope you learn that you are more than your number of followers; that your life won't look like famous Tik-Tokkers and that's a good thing -- your life is real. I hope you learn that you are more than your grades but that you are capable of being the spark that starts a fire in every sphere you settle. I hope you know participles...

I wonder when it was that I fell deeper in love with you. Was it when you were going to be away for an evening and you let me leave every single light on so I wouldn't be scared alone? Perhaps it was that morning that you got out of bed and scraped the ice off my windows because I had to go to work early and you didn't. Maybe it was the last bite of cheesecake or the fact that you repeatedly, lovingly, sacrificially refrained from challenging my Scrabble words like fird. It might have been the small mid-prayer knee touches on wintry Sunday mornings or the selfless willingness to keep the lamp for my unkept promise of "just one more page." Maybe it's the empty dishwasher that could have only been you or the open Bibles sprawled across our kitchen table as you daily devour the life-transforming truth. It might be the hugs after granting forgiveness or the Monon walks where we feel no pressure to talk, but simply to walk in stride, a pace slightly faster than you...