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Showing posts from July, 2013

When One Door Closes...

Shortly after Gretch and I moved into our current place, I was given a calling in church as an Assistant Webelos Den Leader. I was later made the Webelos Den Leader, which is a responsibility I've had for nearly three years. I have loved working with my boys and my Assistant Den Leaders, as well as with the Cub Scout Committee Chair, the Cubmaster, and the other Den Leaders. Over the years, I have advanced all but one of them into the Boy Scouts. All but one earned their Webelos badge and the Arrow of Light and many earned the Compass emblem and one, two, or three Compass Points. Many have earned the religious square knot for our church. So I feel that we have had a very successful Webelos program. The Cubmaster we had when I started was one of my best friends, and so I worked with him closely in planning Pack Meetings and filling in for him when work or school presented a conflict. I was essentially the Assistant Cubmaster without actually having the title. He was released from

A Summer of Long Good-Byes

Gretch and I started dating on August 16, 2007. (This is what we refer to as our first anniversary. Our second anniversary is our wedding, June 20, 2008.) From the day we went on our first date until about November 18 or 19, we saw each other every single day. It was either that Sunday or Monday that I left Champaign to go home for Thanksgiving Break and get a bunch of assignments completed. Upon returning to Champaign on Thanksgiving Day, we continued to see each other every single day. We maintained this daily contact until we got married and then onward for a few years. I think the first time we were apart for any period of time more than a day was when I went to the Illinois Teen Institute one year without Gretch. Or it may have been when she went to Chicago with her best friend for a weekend. Over the past six years, we have rarely been apart for more than a week, and then only once a year. But this year has been different. First, Gretch went to Utah with her mother to visit

Being The Third Trumpet

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My oldest brother, Tom, recently started a blog on which he muses about life, religion, family, parenting, economics, and politics. I love it, of course. His most recent post was about his role in a community orchestra. Tom was always a "first trumpet" throughout grade, middle, and high school, but he is playing the third trumpet part now. You can read his musings on this topic here . His post got me thinking. You see, I, too, have played the trumpet since I was in fifth grade. I have been in bands and other ensembles for most of the past twenty years. (I am currently on my longest hiatus since leaving for my two-year mission in 2002 due to scheduling conflicts and the lack of a car to get me to rehearsals on time.) And for most of these twenty years, I have been assigned the third trumpet part. I may have played first trumpet my senior year of high school and I played first with the St. Joseph CAR band last summer, but other than those brief times, I've been on the

Two Weeks

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I love my job. I love my profession. I love what I do. I love getting paid to do what I do best: teach, educate, guide, inspire, influence, shape, mold, produce. It brings untold joy, even though there are days that I feel like beating my head against the wall in frustration. Teaching is hard, challenging, and difficult to do well. But it is oh so rewarding to see the fruits of my labours. But there is one part of my job that I don't particularly enjoy: the comments, sometimes cruel, sometimes tongue-in-cheek, made by others not in my profession. This poem by Taylor Mali is often how I wish to respond to some of the more obnoxious things that I hear from my friends. Right about the time May comes around, I hear a really silly statement from people not in education: Gee, teachers are so lucky! They get paid for a full year but only have to work for nine months! It must be so nice to have three months of paid vacation every year! I wish I had three months of vacation!