When the bad times come

After James 1:1-4 

When the bad times come,

and they will come, as night

follows day, don’t quake,

don’t t collapse, don’t withdraw

into yourself. Instead, consider

the joy of the bad times,

for they serve a purpose.

 

The bad times are a test,

a test of faith. Don’t be

surprise at the idea

of a test, because a test

serves to strengthen,

forcing us to use muscles

and resources previously

ignored or discounted.

 

The testing of bad times

produces steadfastness,

perfecting and completing

your faith. You will learn

that you lack nothing.

 

Photograph by Anthony Tran via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Some Sunday Readings

 

Preach Like a Poet – Stephen Witmer at Desiring God.

 

The Abuja Affirmation: A Global Definition of Anglican Identity – Adam Carrington at Mere Orthodoxy.

“Learn to Learn” by Zak Schmoll

I fell into speechwriting like most people fall into speechwriting – by accident. In the mid-1970s, I was working on a big issue project for my company, an executive needed a speech on the topic, and so I wrote one. I’d written speeches for myself before, but not for someone else. But it seemed to go OK, the executive liked it, and soon I was writing more speeches.

It was a learn-by-doing effort. And one of the things I did was to read speeches – famous speeches, business speeches, political speeches, not-so-famous speeches. A good friend suggested I start reading poetry on a regular basis, because it would help in speechwriting. He was right. I started with T.S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, and Dylan Thomas, and went from there.

Almost 20 years later, something very similar happened with electronic communication. In the early and mid-1990s, it was beginning to explode in public consciousness. I started my team on an email newsletter. Then producing a CD-ROM. And then the company’s first web site. And all through this process I was reading everything I could get my hands on (which wasn’t much) – I was trying to understand why this form of communication was so appealing to me.

I was learning to learn. I did it frontwards, backwards, and sideways. But there is a better way, and writer Zak Schmoll describes it in Learn to Learn: 8 Steps to Developing New Skills Efficiently and Effectively.

In this compact book, Schmoll describes the learning process in eight steps, starting with what is probably the least obvious – assume that you don’t know everything. It sounds obvious, but I worked for corporations for 40 years where it could be a career disaster to admit you didn’t know everything. For effective learning, though, beginning with a good dose of humility is vital.

Zak Schmoll

From there, you become familiar with the new material you want to study. You fill in the details. You identify problem areas and bolster them. You test and quiz yourself. You identify gaps and work to fill those. You then practice by explaining the new information to someone else and let them ask questions. And then you look for and move into associated fields.

Schmoll is very methodical in his approach. I did variations of all of these, but not necessarily in order. I might have learned better if I had followed an orderly process.

Schmoll received a degree in Business Administration from the University of Vermont in 2013, and he’s working in Ph.D. in Humanities degree at Faulkner University. He’s a member of the Vermont Chargers Power Soccer Club for power wheelchair users. He blogs at Entering the Public Square. He is also the author of Contending for the Christian World View: 30 Days of Reflections on Faith, Culture, and Apologetics (2016).

I wish I’d had Learn to Learn available a few decades ago.

Top photograph by Aaron Burden via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Miss Roark and Louisa May Alcott

My ninth grade English teacher was named Miss Roark (we still said “Miss” in those days). She was from Alabama, and her distinctly Southern accent stood out in a school in suburban New Orleans, where most people sounded like they were from Brooklyn.

The class that year focused mostly on British and American literature. We read Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar – the curriculum tsars thought it might appeal to a class of all 14-year-old boys. We read Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. We read Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage (boys like war, right?). Our major project was to take one British and one American author, do a deep dive into their worlds and lives, and write two papers (and oral presentations) on how their lives shaped and influenced their writing.

We chose our authors from a list Miss Roark put on the blackboard. We chose in alphabetical order, which meant I would get whatever no one else wanted. The two names left were Shakespeare and Louisa May Alcott, Miss Alcott prompting a great deal of laughter from my classmates because she was the only female author on the list. (Some poor soul thought he was choosing a male when he chose George Eliot, the pen name for Mary Ann Evans.)

Miss Roark bristled at the laughter, and upbraided the class for their ridicule of an author she called, in her delightful Southern accent, “one of America’s most beloved authors.”

We had to read a number of their works. For Shakespeare, I read Julius Caesar (with the rest of the class), Hamlet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. For Alcott, I read Little Women, Little Men and Jo’s Boys.

Miss Roark said she was available to help anyone on their projects if they needed it. I was the only one who took advantage of her offer. We’d meet at lunch or after school. And she guided me, mentored me, and suggested several themes I could pursue. I loved that project, as much for the interest she took in me as for what I was reading and learning. Perhaps even more.

I thought of Miss Roark as I read the chapters on mapmaking, attachment and learning in The Social Animal by David Brooks. We started the group discussion on this book last week at The High Calling, and Laura Boggess continues to lead us this week. These three chapters start the story of Harold (son of Rob and Julia, whom we met last week) from the time of early childhood to high school. He finds his Miss Roark when he’s a senior – and she’s an English teacher, too.

Reading Harold’s story, and how he struggled, thought, read and wrote, and how he ran into roadblocks and was guided around them, I realized how it was virtually identical to my own project in ninth grade. The high school cliques he navigates are the same, although, unlike Harold, I was never part of the athletes’ clique. He learns a lot about himself, and he learns how to study deeply, do research deeply and think deeply.

Author David Brooks uses Harold’s story to illustrate the science and physiology that studies say go on in the brain with this kind of learning. It’s interesting, but it was less important to me than to recognize the overall process I experienced 45 years ago.

I never saw Miss Roark after that year. I changed schools for tenth grade. She called me at Christmas that year to thank me for the Christmas card I sent her; like Harold with his teacher, I was likely a little in love with Miss Roark. I sent her a card the following year, too, but it was returned; she had moved with no forwarding address.

But she had an enormous impact on my reading, my education, my future career and my life. I hope she knows that.

To read more posts on these three chapters of The Social Animal, please visit The High Calling.

Thanksgiving

It’s a new year, and instead of starting with resolutions (which I’m always bad about keeping anyway), I’d like to begin with thanksgiving for all of the things I experienced, all of the things I learned, and all of the blessings I received in 2011.

I learned about disability. A bulging disc pressed a nerve and turned my life upside down. I learned dependence upon others. I learned to slow down because I had to slow down. An activity that had been a big part of my life for more than six years – biking – suddenly wasn’t. I learned a little about patience.

I learned about writing. I wrote more than I ever have before. If what I write on this blog is representative of my writing overall, and it is, then I wrote more poetry than I ever have before.

I read more than I have in recent years (possibly because I wasn’t biking). My reading was almost exactly, if unintentionally, in “thirds” – one third fiction, one third poetry and one third non-fiction. That’s a shift from previous years – more poetry. And of the non-fiction I read, a significant chunk was about writing fiction and poetry.

I learned that I like ebook readers (Kindle) and tablets (iPad).

I learned that I still cry at movies. And it’s still embarrassing. (I even cried at “The Muppet Movie.”)

I learned about publishing a book. I’m still rather amazed that it happened. It’s a lot of work. Writers generally don’t like to hear that they have to promote their work, and learn marketing and publicity. Writers want to write. But these days, writers have to promote and publicize, too.

I learned publishing also means trust. I trusted my editor, my publisher, my cover photographer and my cover designer. Trusting them was the smartest thing I did in publishing Dancing Priest.

And publishing means learning how readers respond. You hope people will like what you write, or be inspired or provoked or encouraged or challenged or something. But I’m still surprised. I’ve read blog posts and reviews and emails about my book, and I don’t feel gratified; I feel humbled. I’ve been brought to tears a few times.

I learned how much I don’t know. The older I get, the more I realize how much I don’t know.  I was a lot smarter in my 20s and 30s, or at least I knew a lot more then than I do now.

I learned about family. My oldest discovered he was to become a father again, which meant I discovered I was going to be a grandfather again. My youngest moved from Kansas City to Florida, and I learned, or relearned, that distance involves the pain of separation. I learned that my wife is a rather extraordinary project manager, with the remodeling of our kitchen, laundry and bathrooms and new flooring everywhere. I learned that my grandson loves to dance, and that he creates music in my heart.

I learned that my grandson and I are a lot alike – especially in how we’re learning about the world, learning with a child’s heart. I hope that’s something he and I never lose.

I learned I have much to be thankful for.

Photograph: Candles in Church by Vera Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.