God is too big to be left out

I've noticed this week an increase in the number of social media posts that bemoan the absence of God in public schools. I think that we are all trying to make sense of the continued violence that plagues our country, especially in the sacred hallways and classrooms of our nation's schools.

Yet God could never be left out of our schools.

Our schools are populated by the children of God. Every child and adult is a beloved soul. We carry God's light with us and within us. When students and teachers walk through the doors, they don't leave behind that light.

Our libraries are filled with beautiful prose and poetry, a reflection of gifts from God. Our hallways are filled with student-created art. Surely God is present in those places.

I understand that there are people who believe that our country began to disintegrate when the Supreme Court ruled in 1962 that school-sponsored prayer violates the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.

Yet no court decision dictates when an individual can petition God. Nothing gets in the way of a silent prayer between a human and God.

My classroom is filled with children from multiple faith traditions -- and in some cases, none at all. I never want a single child in my room to feel belittled or maligned because of their family's religious or spiritual beliefs. Why do we think that forcing a specific religion on a spiritually diverse population is going to solve a single problem? 

During our daily moment of silence, I have no idea what's on their hearts and minds. I know what's on mine. Sometimes it's, "I need to record third-period attendance now, before I forget." Sometimes it's, "I'm proud of these sixth-graders for standing silently."

Sometimes I take a small moment to thank God that a student has returned after suffering from the flu or that a student who has been struggling is showing signs of improvement or that Cooper drove safely to high school that morning.

Sometimes I seek specific favor, asking for patience with a child or clarity with a problem or wisdom before sending an email.

Sometimes I ask forgiveness for an edge in my voice or a conversation that lacked sufficient grace.

Sometimes I ask for safety for those children in my room and all the students on our campus and all the adults who take seriously the job of protecting them.

God may not be reflected exactly the way some would prefer in our schools, but there is no doubt that God is present wherever humans are gathered. God is too big to be left out.

He said, "My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest."

-- Exodus 33:14

Parenting is preparing children for their real lives right now, not just adulthood

My column from Saturday's Briefing:

Parenting often feels like a tenuous balance between coordinating daily events and preparing these children for their adult future.

Right now: It's time to get up. Your alarm went off 20 minutes ago. You have to be ready to leave in half an hour.

Future: You need to figure out how to wake up reliably because one day you'll be on your own, and I won't be there to see if you hit snooze too many times.

Right now: Make sure you have all your clothes laid out for tomorrow. You need running clothes, school clothes and your concert uniform.

Future: When you're in college, you might not have time to do laundry every other day. You'll need to plan ahead to make sure you have what you need for at least a week.

Right now: Where is your agenda for the week? What assignments are due tomorrow? How many hours do you need to set aside to study for that test?

Future: You need to find a system that works for you to help you organize deadlines independently.

Parenting is also preparing these children for their real lives right now — not just the logistical gymnastics but the moments that sharpen and reveal character.

We adults tend to divide a lifetime into two easy segments: childhood and adulthood. We sometimes forget that children are fully engaged right now, listening to what we say, mimicking what we do. Their lives don't magically launch when they graduate high school or college. They're entrenched in the real world today.

My 12-year-old is in the middle of seventh grade, learning how to calculate the area of a circle, how to write a short-answer response with embedded quotations and how to play increasingly difficult melodies on the oboe. She's picked up a few other skills, too.

This week she was in a small group of young people. A boy began to make racist comments.

"You have to stop," Katie told him. "That's not OK, whatsoever."

He insulted her. She didn't back down. He insulted her again. She held her ground.

Katie,
yesterday after church

She summoned courage and relied on strong conviction to speak truth. She moved beyond self-advocacy, a skill we've been working on for years, to advocate for others.

Katie isn't practicing for real life. She's in the middle of it.

We talk through all kinds of scenarios at home. What would you do if you see someone being bullied? What would you do if someone offers you drugs? What would you do if someone texts you, asking for a nude photo? What would you do if you're at a party and you're not comfortable with what's going on around you?

I think in some ways I've considered these conversations sort of good luck charms. If we talk about the possibilities enough and prepare for them, they won't actually ever happen.

Instead, I'm realizing, there's no way to anticipate every possible conversation. Because I've never once asked my children, "What would you do if someone starts maligning an entire group of people based solely on race or gender or religion?"

We can't provide our children a script for every possible encounter or event. We can't inoculate them from trouble. We can't expect that they'll behave with grace or common sense every single time, either. That's not because they're children — but because they're human.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

We have a problem.

We have a problem, Americans.

There is absolutely nothing normal about human beings being murdered in classrooms or in hallways or on sidewalks.

Or in churches.

Or at outdoor concerts.

Or in airports.

Or at dance clubs.

What puzzles me about it all is that we Americans are, by nature, problem-solvers. Solving problems is part of our heritage.

This problem, though -- we can't even seem have a conversation about this problem.

There's a lot of shouting and pandering and name-calling. It's not the guns. It's mental health. It's education. It's poor parenting. We're over-medicated. It's lack of a collective backbone in Congress. It's deregulation. Laws would only punish law-abiding citizens. We have the right, guaranteed by the Second Amendment, to bear arms. More people are killed by (fill in the blank) than by guns. The NRA controls Congress. The NRA is an innocent rights-advocacy group. This could never happen here. This could happen anywhere. It's too soon to talk about solutions. Thoughts and prayers are empty gestures. We can't allow gun rights to erode. We need stronger gun legislation. Look at Chicago -- gun laws have done nothing there. Americans have the right to defend ourselves.

I've hesitated for years to express in public an opinion on the gun violence problem in our country. I don't want to insult my friends who are pro-gun rights, and I don't fully understand every aspect of the issue.

I'm no longer comfortable remaining silent.

I don't know how many more school shootings our collective hearts can bear.

I don't know how many more stories we can read about teachers who shield their students, who are willing to die to protect those babies from bullets sprayed from an assault rifle.

This is a heavy burden to bear, friends. We are responsible because we refuse to collaborate and compromise. We refuse to acknowledge that rights must be placed in priority, that not everyone can "win," but a whole host of people are losing while we do absolutely nothing.

God did not create us to hunt one another down. God did not create us to sit idle, to allow evil in whatever forms it presents itself to rule over our hearts and cloud our judgment.

God created us to live in community. God created us to care for one another.

God created us to love -- to love God and to love one another.

We're doing a really awful job. This is not heaven on earth. This is not even close.

We deserve better. Our children deserve better. We have a problem, but, glory be, we can solve problems. It's way past time that we unite to name this problem and then step by step work toward solving it.

We need to fix a common parent problem: Showing our kids we're proud even when they fail

From Saturday's Briefing:

When I received word that my beloved grandmother died 13 years ago, I was on deadline in the middle of the newsroom. One of my editors, a dear friend, was by my side immediately.

I'm certain that Sharon shared a deep well of comforting words, but the only ones I remember are those that helped to sustain me through the next few hours: Your grandmother was proud of you.

I've returned to that phrase countless times since.

I was thankful in the moment for someone who recognized my profound loss and offered words that I didn't even realize I needed to hear.

As a mom, I've thought many times since of how my grandmother's love never wavered, despite actions and words that surely disappointed her.

When I'm struggling with a creative endeavor, I think of Gramma's belief in me. She was a poet and a dreamer and a problem-solver, and though I can't hear her Alabama-bred voice anymore, I stored up enough of her musings and snippets of verse to last a lifetime.

When I see one of my students struggling with self-confidence, I wonder who whispers words of pride to that child at home.

When one of my own children makes a poor choice, I wonder if I've shared "I'm proud of you" often enough.

Maybe all those children — yours and mine — aren't always listening. Or perhaps we adults aren't always skilled at expressing love and pride while at the same time correcting and guiding.

My love for Cooper and Katie doesn't change based on a test score or report card, a solo performance or a 5K time. And though I'm proud of them when they work hard and proud of them when they perform better than the last time, my pride doesn't falter when they have a bad day or a bad week.

I cherish and value these children entrusted in my care, and I want them to believe in themselves as much as I do.

Yet there are moments when I question every parenting decision I've ever made, when I wonder, "Who are these creatures and what have they done with my actual children?"

In those moments, they may not be aware of the full depth of my pride.

One of my goals this year is to be more deliberate about expressing my unabashed pride and devotion, even in the middle of one of the inevitable lectures necessary in the raising of young people.

I have a similar goal with my students, that each of them know I'm one of their biggest fans — even when they turn in assignments late or forget to study for a quiz or spend more time talking than working.

Imagine a world in which every single child knows without question that a whole crowd believes in them, cherishes them, loves them — even in the middle of apathy or poor judgment or turmoil.

It's the kind of world I dream about, a legacy from that poetic grandmother of mine.

Some days, for no discernible reason, a couple of lines will pop into my head. They're from a poem Gramma Kathryn wrote about me when I was tiny:

A package full of dynamite,
A bundle full of charm,
It takes a lot of dousing
For a fire that's five-alarm

That's how she saw me — spunky, engaging, determined. Those words, penned in the 1970s, have shored my confidence on rough days ever since.

Each of us has the same power, to offer words that echo warmth and comfort and love, long after we're gone. It's a gift we should lavish with abandon.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.