It’s finished. I finished my first year of teaching. And while I shy away from considering it a victory, I raise my hands to God to acknowledge His success, His story, His plan. There were so many moments of doubt and uncertainty. Some days I cried in my sister’s office; other days I cried in the bathroom. Early in October, I learned to come to school prepared with an extra tube of mascara. This year hurt me. It broke me in ways I did not know a person could break. It took my strength in moments when I had so little left to give. It stripped me of beliefs I did not think I could afford to lose.
There were some moments where I thought of giving up, giving in, and going home. I could have returned to New York and had my old life back in less than a week. I could’ve been sitting at the kitchen table talking to my mom, getting ready for work at Barnes & Noble. I could’ve been there for my family’s moments of celebration: my mom’s 50th birthday, my parents’ 30th wedding anniversary, my sister’s high school graduation, my older brother visiting from Scotland, my younger brother announcing his engagement. It could’ve been easier, but it wouldn’t have been worth it. This year here in Quito, Ecuador has been worth it. God has taken what I thought to be the best of me, and He said, “I have more to give you, but I have to break you before you can receive it.” And He did.
God taught me what it means to love. He showed me what it means to persevere. He forced me to learn what it means to know humility, and then He blessed me with learning to accept forgiveness.
Yesterday as I cleaned up my classroom, our chaplain came in to say goodbye. He and his family are heading stateside to Kansas where they will work within a church’s youth ministry there. As we talked and he congratulated me on finishing the year, I told him I was eager to come in stronger next year. He spoke into me, then, words that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since. He said, “Just remember. You’re still going to mess up. When you do, though. Fail forward.”
And I realize, I already have. That’s what grace is–failing forward.
a scribble of jo 