Standing in the chaos of a sixth-grade classroom, I realized the noise felt less like my old routine and more like a hurricane. That moment forced me to admit that I am no longer a teacher who writes, but a writer who occasionally teaches. It turns out that “turning pro” isn’t about the size of your paycheck, but the internal decision to finally embrace the work you were called to do.
I recently stepped into a sixth-grade classroom and was met with a literal tsunami of energy that made me thank God I spent most of my career teaching seniors. Watching kids with the attention spans of gnats on caffeine reminded me that while there is a beauty in staying “young at heart,” there is a hidden danger in staying “childish in spirit.” If you find yourself easily unsettled by the noise of the world, come read why spiritual maturity isn’t about losing your joy—it’s about gaining the stability to spot a counterfeit from a mile away.
His son stared up at the doctor with wide-eyed curiosity — right until the needle hit. Then he turned to his father with a look of pure outrage. How could you let this happen? It’s the same look we give God when the job falls through, the prayer goes unanswered, the grade comes back at 52. But what if the needle is the protection? What if the closed door is the blessing? A retired AP Economics teacher looks back at crushed students, career disappointments, and a mother-in-law’s quiet wisdom at a funeral — and finds a Father who never betrayed anyone.
I leaned across my desk and told a young man that his “real self” simply wasn’t very employable. It was a blunt moment in my classroom, but it sparked a realization about why we all need someone who loves us enough to tell us the unvarnished truth. Real friendship isn’t about constant flattery; it’s about having the courage to offer a “faithful wound” that leads to a better life.
I spent years listening to a voice on the radio tell me I had missed my window, convinced that a mortgage and a family had made my dreams impossible. At thirty-two, I found myself delivering pizzas and feeling like God had shipwrecked my life, only to realize that “if only” is a ghost that doesn’t know how to tell time. Whether you’re facing a broken relationship or a career that feels like a dead end, come read why there is simply no such thing as “too late” when a sovereign God holds the calendar.
I reached for my first-day-of-school coffee expecting a much-needed jolt of caffeine, but I ended up with a mouthful of hot, cleaning vinegar instead. The shock of that bitter brew stayed with me all day, serving as a vivid reminder of how easily our own words can sour the lives of those around us. If you’ve ever caught yourself shifting from praise to complaining in the blink of an eye, come read why it’s time to rinse out the bitterness and start building others up.
I spent years watching high school students roll their eyes at the grainy, black-and-white footage of The Grapes of Wrath, only to see them lean in when the story finally gave a name to the suffering. We treat modern tragedies the same way, scrolling past headlines until a specific face forces us to stop and feel the weight of another’s pain. It turns out that statistics are easy to ignore, but a neighbor in a ditch requires a decision.
Tomorrow begins my 24th year of teaching, yet I still remember the first hour of my first day—hands shaking, voice thin, wondering what I was doing there. Since then, the classroom has been both a crucible and a gift: seasons of exhaustion, unexpected laughter, heartbreak, and joy. I’ve taught lessons in economics and literature, but life always had lessons waiting for me too. Students grow, but so do teachers—shaped by storms, successes, and the steady rhythm of showing up. This journey has never been perfect, but it has always been worth it.
By the second year of pandemic teaching, exhaustion had settled in like a fog. Lessons felt heavier, students more distant, and the energy I once carried into the classroom drained away. I kept moving—grading, planning, adjusting—but often wondered if I had the strength to finish the year. What carried me wasn’t technology or training, but people: colleagues, family, and the quiet resilience we found together. Survival gave way to something deeper. We learned that even in uncertainty, strength grows step by step, and sometimes just finishing the journey is itself a victory.
When schools closed and classrooms went online, I thought technology would carry us through. Laptops, webcams, and digital platforms promised connection, maybe even innovation. Instead, I stared at blank screens and muted microphones, unsure if anyone was really on the other side. Teaching became a strange mix of isolation and improvisation—part lesson plan, part troubleshooting call. I learned quickly that technology can support learning, but it cannot replace presence. The real work of teaching has never been about the tools in our hands, but the people on the other end.