Kayley Chartier

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an in-progress home project will always make the neighbors wonder what the heck you’re doing with your already-chaotic scrap-metal Millwright Mecca/chicken-haven of a property.

There are streaky lines in the stucco where enormous cracks have been patched, and the once turquoise-green trim has been sanded into ugly patches. If that weren’t enough, there’s a commercial shipping container that looks like a train car in the driveway to temporarily house my dad’s work materials.

My boyfriend can attest that I was happy about none of this for about a week. First world problems, I know. For the 20 years that I’ve lived here, our house has been white, and in my stability-seeking, change-fearing mind, this did not need to change—except since my parents are trying to refinance, it totally did.

The other day when I was whining about how much I hated the new paint color, I asked him if I was being ridiculous. His look, though supportive and gentle, said something along the lines of “you are freaking out over a PAINT COLOR, so yes.” Turns out moving back and forth between military houses where you can’t just paint the walls or change the carpets gives you a healthier perspective on things. Paint and carpets and even houses are just things! They’re temporary. And the sooner I learn to let go of the things I can’t change, the easier my life will be. (And I actually do like the new color now!)

That was lesson one for this month.

Lesson two could be filed under any of the following: 1) Learning to Ask for Help; 2) Learning to Ask for Help When You’re Standing in the Dark Behind the Church and Bleeding; or the ever-practical #3) You Should Have Sucked it Up and Gotten Stitches, You Big Dummy. I urge you to exit this page now if you’re the squeamish type (I’m not) because the cut isn’t worth the trouble telling you about if I can’t show you.

(Seriously. Leave now, or at least squint a little bit as you scroll if blood makes you puke.)

On Wednesday night, one week after a high school youth group student accidentally kicked me full-on in the shin during a game of yoga ball soccer, I cut open my other shin. It was a game similar to a hide and seek scavenger hunt for the adult leaders, and I was NOT going to be found. Except I was found… twice. After being discovered behind a palm tree, I decided enough was enough, tried to jump from a 3’ high ledge in the dark, and landed in a pile of leaves behind the church. Honestly, I would’ve been fine had my leg cleared the ledge. A searing pain shot up my right leg. I hoped it wasn’t broken.

Knowing that I was injured but too stupid to give up my position just yet, I limped down a dirt road and hid behind the church, waiting for the game to end while wondering where the water dripping down my leg was coming from. (I thought it was runoff from that morning’s rain but later learned it was blood.)

***

Asking for help is not my forte. And neither is sitting it out when I know that I’m probably incapable of going on. When I cut my knee open on a loose nail in my grandparent’s rented RV, 5 year-old me opted to keep my leg completely straight for three weeks to avoid getting stitches. Just last week, I hit my head on a brick staircase and, despite my suspicion that I had gotten a mild concussion, drove home anyway. The next day at work, just minutes after discussing my dizziness and light sensitivity with a co-worker, a freestanding whiteboard fell on my head and either gave me a concussion or just made the existing one worse.

I asked Calvin the other day, “What exactly is God trying to teach me with all of these injuries?” I recounted my schedule—how I’ve been getting up at 4:00am recently to prep for work; teaching during the day and working at church in the evening; stressing about silly things like paint colors; and carrying these things day after day like a pack mule. He said he didn’t know, but that it probably had to do with pride.

Ah, yes. That old familiar friend who convinced me that drinking 5 cups of coffee a day my junior year of college was worth getting all As, even though it also meant developing stomach ulcers. Pride tells me that I am capable of controlling the outcome—that working myself to death is somehow worth the pat on the back.

But is it? I’ve been trying to work out whether this is a good exchange rate, and the bandage on my leg is telling me it’s not.

Pride says to strive, but God says to rest (Psalm 46:10).

Pride says perfection is attainable, but God says He’s perfect in my weakness (2 Cor. 12:9).

Pride promises praise but ultimately keeps me unsatisfied, because even when I’m busting my butt making the world’s greatest lesson-plans, I can’t control the level of effort my students put into their work.

So maybe, just maybe…. seeking perfection and control is a sham and God is right:

“I have seen all the works which have been done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and striving after wind.”

Ecclesiastes 1:14

Striving for perfection and control can be as self-centered and useless as speaking in the tongues of angels without love (1 Cor. 13:1). Plus, I’m of little use to anyone if I’m knocked out or literally unable to walk.

***

Before the trim on the house was painted, all I could see were the course spots where the old paint had been buffed out. I quietly wondered what our neighbors thought—if they thought we’d leave the house in that state. But it doesn’t matter. Those ugly patches are being revealed, and that’s potentially embarrassing.

But the thing is, they’re being revealed.

Now the new paint will stick—and though that process isn’t very attractive, it’ll result in something fresh and beautiful and worthwhile and new.

In college, a woman from my Art History class handed me a tiny Bible made from two fun-size Hershey’s, tin foil and some felt.

“Happy Reformation Day!” she said as she thrust the minuscule package into my hand. My mind shot back to freshman year world history when I learned that October 31st was a real church holiday. October 31, 1517 is known as the day Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg, and that rainy 8am lecture was the first time I had witnessed someone actually celebrating the day we commemorate the start of the Protestant Reformation.

I will say that Luther’s protest against the Catholic church’s sale of indulgences (slips of paper guaranteeing an already-passed loved one’s entrance into Heaven) has always been one of my favorite moments in church history, and I can’t help but think that celebrating such an act as incredibly relevant to today’s social, political, and even religious environment. While we don’t have clergymen in the streets selling the remission of sins in order to fund a new basilica, the reality is that we do have insidious ideologies floating around, ready to deceive the majority of Christians whose discernment muscle is honestly pretty atrophied. The coming election has made that fact more obvious to me, anyway, and in the age of moral relativism we need our Luthers—our discerning men and women who are willing to walk in the Spirit and stand for truth.

At my school, Reformation Day is a school-wide festival and, as I’ve described it to friends who are confused as to why I’m wearing a velvet bodice to work, it’s basically the Christian Ren Faire.

Kids are sorted in houses (at first I thought it was very HP, but it turns out that this is normal with Classical Schools) and compete in games for house points. Foxtail, dodgeball, and some soccer-related game are Reformation Day mainstays, but my favorite part is the costume parade.

Last year’s costume contest had me wondering if I had wandered into an episode of Parks and Rec. Since the school is small, the morning assembly allows time for every child to take the stage and announce their costume, which can come from any of the following categories: Royalty (King/Queen/prince/princess, but not Disney); townsperson/peasant; animal; inanimate object (kid you not, last year one kid was a sword); Bible character; and person from church history.

Last year there were mostly knights and princesses, but a good number of Bible characters and church martyrs were thrown into the mix, too. One second grade Paul mounted the stage with dignity as he held his scroll and tried to keep his little beard from falling off while a dragon, aka a kid in one of those inflatable T-Rex suits stumbled up the steps, his taped-on cardboard wings flapping in the ascent. There were at least three Moseses (all under the age of ten), one St. Teresa of Avila, and one very detailed St. Sebastian, who was famously tied to a tree and shot through with arrows. Not only did this high school boy have bloody arrows sticking out of his shirt, but he also tied a huge tree branch to his back, giving the full appearance of the early Christian martyr.

My favorite of all, however, was a tiny second grade girl with a tent peg and mallet in hand. I nearly fell out of my seat when she took the mic and announced deadpan in the tiniest voice, “I’m Jael.”

This year’s Reformation day was obviously different thanks to COVID, and we ate Costco pizza instead of the usual Oktoberfest-esque feast of sausages. Still, there was lots of laughter, friendly house-against-house competition, a refresher in church history, and plenty of pie. The change in pace was so refreshing, especially for the younger students whose daily routines are scheduled down to the second to allow for minimal contact with students outside their class. Seeing my high school kids pummel their opponents in dodgeball was almost as great as watching one kindergarten knight wander onto the dodgeball court unawares, pull out his sword and shield, and hunker down against the enemy (not the opposing team, but every ball that came his way), fighting with bravery and conviction until the end of the round.

All in all, it was a good reminder that sometimes, the kind of reform we need is found in fewer rules and some room to run around. I liken it to the paradox of sanctification—that process of falling backwards into the arms of Christ as he unmakes the old us and fashions us into something new. We really do get that process wrong when we try to white-knuckle our way into holiness and forget that it’s God who softens hearts and sets us free from our old ways. Jesus explained this to his bickering, power-happy disciples when he said, “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it” (Mark 10:13-16). In His upside down Kingdom, it’s the humble that are put first, and the Lord of the Universe is laid in a manger. One of my favorite verses, Psalm 8:2 explains how it’s the praises of babies that can win a war:

“Through the praise of children and infants you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger.”

If Jesus expects me to be like a child, then I want to be that five year old knight who wanders into a legitimately dangerous arena and fights, sword in hand, with all joy and conviction and no fear.

“Ms. Wilson, I’ve read the little instagram devotionals you do. They’re really good. But you do use A LOT of commas.”

Ah, yes. After months of online school, I had nearly forgotten the average teenager’s unique ability to give a compliment that encourages and kinda stings at the same time.

I like to spend at least half of my lunches hanging out with students. Thanks to my stature and the pesky zit that seems to have taken up permanent residence on my forehead, when hemmed in by the usual small group of high schoolers, the unknowing stranger might lump me right in with them. Not every lunchtime involves a discussion about (or critique of) my punctuation tendencies, of course. Some days we sit in a group and pass around my coworker’s 40 year old guitar and a packet of worship music and sing together. Some days we chat about everything from Edward Cullen (how do they even know who that is??) to last night’s presidential debate, to ranking local thrift stores by how wealthy its donors are. Being a teenager in 2020 is a trip and the last thing they need is another adult who thinks they ‘get’ them but doesn’t. I’m at that age where I can quote their memes but I don’t have a Tiktok, so I’m not quite cool, but I’m accepted.

When I was in middle and high school, none of my teachers were particularly young. The closest thing we got to young was “cool” and those frisbee playing enigmas always struck me as inaccessible. I’d like for my students to at least know that I’ve been through what they’re going through now. And while this is also my first pandemic, I have felt out of place, too awkward, too shy. Part of me wishes they knew that I sometimes feel these things in front of the classroom.

Anyway, I’m teaching English now!

Of course, with any new role comes new opportunities for embarrassment–and my best one had to be the first day back to in-person learning. I had picked a favorite thrifted find of mine to wear for the first day/picture day: a navy chiffon INC dress that I intentionally wear backwards so the little pearlescent buttons face the front.

Well, the dress wasn’t a bad pick for a shoulders-up photo, but it was ultimately a mistake. I didn’t notice when I was getting ready, but a few of the bottom buttons must have peaced-out on my drive to work, because it wasn’t until parents started arriving with students that I realized that my outfit had gone from conservative to club-worthy. With the buttons from the bottom gone, the split, which blew wide open when I walked, came about three inches above my knee. Yikes.

With less than one class period to make my dress a little more Kate Middleton and a little less Miley Cyrus, I grabbed an extra jump ring from my keys and pulled the bobby pin out of my hair. I had to put a small hole through the fabric, but better that than greet parents and put a permanent hole in my reputation. The rigging looked a little ridiculous while sitting down so I just… didn’t sit at all. In fact, I felt myself trying to cover it up the entire day–with my lunchbox; with a folder full of syllabi; with a stack of books that I dropped and then awkwardly had to scramble to pick up while still trying to keep covered. It was a first day to remember for sure!

I’m lucky to have since avoided any more wardrobe malfunctions, but I have felt myself running for cover, embarrassed at my own inexperience. I’ve never taught English before. I’ve never actually taught the same subject or even had the same group of students two years in a row for the three years I’ve been in the classroom–and there’s a certain beauty to that. I learned different things getting 7th graders to memorize the Fruit of the Spirit than I did doing science experiments in the hallway and getting a Bible degree on the side. In a way things have beautifully come full circle. The high school class which got me interested in English and Bible in the first place was Classical Literature, and now I get teach it 5th period every day.

Now that it’s October, we’re deep in the trenches with Senior Thesis projects and Augustinian confession write-ups, but if there’s one thing I want my current students to learn, it’s that they’re not finished products. That God is still working on them and in them–because He’s clearly still working on me. When I see my need for His grace, I have more grace for them, even on days when I’m sure that particular reservoir has run dry. Their teacher is impossibly human, and sometimes she has to Wikipedia who Catiline is when Augustine mentions him or gives the wrong root for ‘predicate’ and remembers it halfway through class because oops, she took Spanish and not Latin in high school. But she’s trying. Oh is she trying.

It brings me so much joy when a 9th grade boy comes to me at lunch telling me he’s been making a model of Hector’s helmet at home because he’s enjoying the Iliad that much. But it brings me even more joy when I see the kid who has consistently counted himself out as a non-writer actually give himself grace and try again.

I’m sure that’s just God giving me a glimpse of how He feels watching me. 😊

Philippians 1:6 “And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.”

Also, here’s the song that’s been running through my head for the duration of my writing this. What a great throwback!

We crossed the threshold of the sliding glass basement door, inhaled deeply, and let out a tandem “that smell!” kind of sigh. I’d say it’s a bit like pine mixed with dust and sunscreen. The pool table and crystal glasses atop the dusty bar were exactly as they were over a year ago. Upstairs, my grandparents and aunt were waiting, eager to share hugs after months and months of corona-induced distance.

My grandparents built The Cabin in the 70s, and I say you can tell in the most affectionate way possible. The cherry red carpet, dark wood, macrame accents and wooden ducks harken back to a time when my mother somehow rode around on the back of my grandpa’s motorcycle without a helmet and my Nana wore a swimsuit. Now the house is a family get-together spot for summer lake days and a retreat from snow tubing in the winter.

I climbed to the third floor “Jungle Room”—the third-story loft with three twin beds, tiger-print blankets, and safari hats and spears on the walls. On the main floor is a “Strawberry room” where my mom’s childhood bed and strawberry printed bedding have a permanent home. The ground floor, complete with pool and foosball tables, Coors signs, and a full bar comes as close to any bar I’ve seen, minus the people and actual alcohol. The main part of the house is the family room, and the theme is Cabin. Think brown wood-paneled walls, brown chairs and a brown sectional… basically, everything is brown, but stylish, and I’m in love with the place.

I checked the Jungle Room desk drawer for my sister’s (clearly) unsent letter to a friend from probably 2009. Still there, and still hilarious given that her promise of a daily report of events did not come to fruition (the events of day one are listed in detail while “Day 2” is a title and nothing more).

To be completely honest, I didn’t want to make the trip up this summer. A brand new class, plus prep work for the upcoming school year have been weighing on me, and I wasn’t exactly jumping at the opportunity to mix all of that with terrible WiFi. Still, I knew that this would be a good opportunity for my family to be a family. With Kenna heading back to Canada in a little over two weeks, me starting working full time, and the travel challenges Corona will inevitably create in the future, there was really no better time. Plus, I could read on the beach!

Time is passing more quickly than I remember it did as a child. Nana is 79, my sister is halfway through college, and despite the fact that it feels like it’s been five minutes since it began, my mom is nearly five years into her cancer journey. These nights of laughing over games of Apples to Apples and mornings watching romcoms like My Big Fat Greek Wedding over eggs and Keurig coffee are not guaranteed to come again, and I’m savoring them. My books, homework, and missing my sweet boyfriend as he backpacks in Big Sur are taking up space in my mind, but I’ve made an extra effort to be present in these moments that are not, and never were promised.

So, until Tuesday morning you can find me floating in the lake at Dunn Ct., or reading with Nana on the upstairs deck, or running the winding paths around the lake with Rooie, or playing pool downstairs with Grandpa. Grandpa and my dad had a blast (heh) at the shooting range this morning while we vegged out in front of the tv for a couple hours, and later on my mom took me to town to buy a dress for dinner because for once in my life, all this over-packer packed were my comfiest, rattiest gym shorts and some running shoes. I found a cute, black gauzy thing on a rack outside the only boutique in town, and it was only $19! Later on we had burgers and took sips of Nana’s (VERY salty) Bloody Mary at The PML Grill, which overlooks a lovely golf course.

• 

• 

What a gift it is that time does not stand still. I am famously not a fan of change, but I’ve learned that living wisely means expecting the changing of the seasons and walking in gratitude. So here’s to Grandpa playing 50’s hits while he and Nana make spaghetti in the kitchen. Here’s to bad WiFi and good conversations.

Here’s to savoring Summer’s end and all the blessings that come with it.