"Please, Lord, Give Me Another Chance!"

Saturday morning during my start-of-the-day prayer time, the thought that we would be spending a significant portion of the day in Santa Clara with Doah, including going out to lunch together, floated into my head, and I asked God to send me someone to help. (I was thinking about the H2 Hunger challenge for which I began my H2 Helper blogsite: take a homeless & hungry person to lunch or dinner and get to know the person as an individual.) It had been some time since I have had that kind of opportunity, so I asked for Saturday to be the day that it happened again.

As Donnie and I headed out to lunch with Doah, I had a very specific scenario in mind: someone panhandling, asking for lunch money. Prior to lunch, I wanted to run into Kohl's to look for a new outfit since I have lost enough weight that most of my clothes do not fit properly. As we drove into the parking lot of a shopping mall where we had never been before, having set the GPS to find the store for us, I saw a man with a card on the exiting side of the entrance into which we were driving. Could this be our lunch partner, I wondered and mentally made plans to check for him after we finished at Kohl's and before heading to Roundtable Pizza, the sign for which we had noticed upon driving into the parking lot.

My errand at Kohl's took longer than I thought because I could find nothing appropriate or that fit. Finally, I gave up. By then both Doah and Donnie were hungry. We looked around for the pizza place, but it did not seem to be anywhere near its sign but on the other side of the very large parking lot -- large enough that we had to drive there. I glanced at where the panhandler had been standing, and he was not there. Hm...

Well, there was nothing to be done about that. We went into Roundtable, ordered some rather run-of-the-mill pizza, ate it, and left.

We left the parking lot through a different exit, one with a street that had a light at the end of the block. At the end of the block, by the light, there stood the panhandler who had been at the other exit when we entered a couple of hours earlier. That took me by surprise. He held a card that said "Hello, peace be with you. Please help. God bless."

This did not fit with the image I had had in my head. I had expected to find him before lunch and take him to lunch, not hand him money. Moreover, he looked like he was not desperate, like he did not even really need any money. Although I had no change with me, I did have a spare $10 bill in the car visor that we used for emergency cash, but I hesitated to hand it over. I was focused on the way I had planned on helping, not on this new scenario.

The light stayed red a very long time. I was able not only to think about the situation but also to talk about it.

Doah spoke up. "Belle [the woman in charge of his group home] says not to give my money away." Of course, she says that. He gets very little pin money from SSI and only about $5 a week from his sheltered workshop duties. Nonetheless, he would give all of it away. I have seen him do it. So, Belle was only looking out for Doah's interests in telling him that.

While I was debating whether to be charitable to this man or not, the person in the car behind me held out a dollar bill, and the man walked over to accept it. Well, at least someone helped, I thought.

Before I had time to consider any further, the light turned green, and Donnie drove off. As we left the area, I realized, too late, that this may very well have been the person in need that I asked God put in my path. Why, otherwise, would he appear in the spot where we entered and then reappear in the very different spot where we exited? And why would the light stay red such a very long time? I was so focused on the lunch option, on my plan, that I did not think soon enough about forking over our $10 emergency gas cash. Yet, somehow, I think that is exactly what I was supposed to do, like the people in the car behind us did, setting an example that I did not follow.

I do not know why I hesitated although I could make some guesses. A small part of the reason probably was the influence of Belle's words although they really did not apply in this situation. Another small part of the reason may be something that occasionally (actually, too frequently) causes me to hesitate: I wonder if the panhandler will use the money for bad things, not good things (but I know it should not be up to me to make that judgment). The biggest part, the important piece, I finally realized is that I was so focused on my plan that I probably totally missed God's plan.

I immediately felt miserable; I felt like I had failed God. Actually, I think I did fail God. So, now I am begging God to give me another chance -- and really hoping that I won't blow it the next time.

As I was writing this post -- I started it on Sunday -- I came across a post that helped me see the situation in a different light and thus to react differently. That post was written by Fr. Christian Mathis (Blessed Is the Kingdom -- a site that is on my blogroll because I find many of the posts insightful and educative) and titled Still Hoping for Failure.

Fr. Christian had written:

"May we not let our own failures to follow Christ get in the way of our faithfulness to Him. We don’t have to be perfect Christians. It is enough to simply ask for mercy when we need it and remember that love never fails."

So now, I am going to ask for mercy, forgive myself, and beg God for another chance. (I am also going to start carrying McDonald's gift cards because that way I might not be as likely to hesitate. It seems that I may have to protect myself against my own second guessings if I want to do any good in this world.)

Note: Simultaneously published on Blest Atheist and H2 Helper.

The Positive Power of Failure

Something wonderful happened to my daughter, Lizzie, her 8th grade year when she return to her Arlington, Virginia high school after spending months living and attending school in Russia: she failed algebra and band. Until then, she had not only always been an A+ student but also, with a fall birthday, she had started kindergarten as one of the youngest children in the class and then proceeded to skip second grade and then seventh grade. Promoted to the eighth grade at the age of 11, she was placed in the high school, college-prep classes for high achievers: algebra, freshman English, French, earth science, and music (band). While Lizzie could keep up with her other subjects during her time in Russia, learning to play the flute was not a possibility. Russian schools are either regular schools, i.e. a little bit of everything, or specialized schools (spetsshkoly). Music schools, math schools, foreign-language schools, and sports schools are among the choices. Lizzie attended a foreign language school. Her knowledge of humanities and science did not suffer at this school; it blossomed. Music and math, however, were another story. The math "deficit" was actually a surprise. At the time, Soviet students were significantly outperforming American stduents in math, according to United Nations' statistics. And therein lay the problem. Lizzie also could outperform her peers in her American algebra class because they have not yet been taught the mechanics for performing algebraic operations whereas Lizzie and her Soviet peers had been practicing solving equations all year. Actually, the Soviet children had arrived already knowing how to do basic equations, so over there Lizzie had had to play catch-up, which she did rapidly, thanks to the encouragement of the math teacher, who never withheld approbation for even the slightest improvement and on the first day that Lizzie walked to the board and successfully explained the solution of a problem rewarded her with a warm molodets (an untranslatable positive label for a person who has done something remarkable; in English, "Way to go!" might come close). In her American classroom, however, Lizzie's peers had not begun the mechanics of algebra; they had been concentrating on theory and concepts.

So, when Lizzie, returning home for the last six weeks of the school year, tried to learn a year’s worth of of algebraic concepts, the formidable task overwhelmed her. A series of Fs was all she could pull on weekly tests until the last two weeks of class when the teacher, who happened to be the junior high school principal, introduced calculations. Whiz! Lizzie’s scores soared to A+. “I don’t get it,” the principal confided to me. “She does not know the principles of calculation, yet she never gets any wrong!” Yes, that would be true. Practice makes perfect, and she had had much practice in calculation.

Of course, Lizzie had to attend summer school to make up her never-acquired conceptual algebra skills. It was a fast-track class – 5 mornings a week for 6 weeks. At the end of the course, her summer school grade replaced the F on her report card. She had learned her algebra lessons well enough to earn an A. More important was the other lesson she learned: Don’t fear failure; it can be the first step toward success.

That lesson was reinforced as she took steps 2, 3, 4 and more. In the fall, as an entering freshman, she took the geometry course. Another A. By senior year, she was out of math classes and was allowed to take a calculus course at the local community college; another A. And, of all things, one day she ran into the junior high school principal there. He had retired and was now teaching at the community college. He was considerably surprised when he learned what Lizzie was doing in the corridor of the college.

Band class had been an equally miserable failure for Lizzie. She returned, still trying to figure out how to get actual tones, rather than whispy puffs of air, from the flute, to find her band class playing ensemble music. There was no summer school course for band, and the F would remain on her report card. The question was about her freshman year. The junior high band teacher emphatically stated that there was no hope for Lizzie to be part of the high school band; it was too late. Band instruction began in earlier years, and 8^th grade was the last chance to get initial instruction.

Yet, Lizzie really wanted to learn to play the flute and was willing to practice, and I don’t believe in a no-hope scenario. So, we advertised for a tutor, and the most marvelous person appeared on our doorstep: a flautist from the US Marine Corps band who was stationed in Washington, DC. He came two evenings a week, and our house was filled with beautiful flute solos. Surprisingly soon, Lizzie was playing awkwardly along with him, then better and better. When the school year began, Lizzie talked to the high school band director and asked if he would let her audition. He agreed, she did, and she was in!

Over the next four years, she played ensemble and solos with the marching band, the school orchestra, and the drama club’s pit orchestra. Her junior year, she won third place in a national flute competition. The following year, the marching band was one of several nationwide selected to play in the inauguration of President Bush (the father). She did not play the flute there, though. She played the saxophone. At the end of her junior year, two senior-year saxophone players graduated, and there were no incoming saxophone players to take their place. So, she and a friend volunteered to teach themselves to play the saxophone over the summer, and they did. When Lizzie graduated from high school, she received that year’s Most Valuable Player for the band.

The sax and flute now lie forgotten in a closet somewhere in Lizzie’s apartment as she busies herself with the daily work of a college professor of cognitive neuroscience. However, Lizzie has never forgotten failure’s lesson in hope, risk-taking, and perseverance that dynamited her past what she might otherwise have settled for.

Sunday Sabbath #7: The Positive Power of Failure

Fr. Christian Mathis (Blessed Is the Kingdom has made the suggestion that we "rest" on the Sabbath by taking a break from our normal blogging and sharing an older post of which we are particularly fond. Rest? Gladly! I don't get to do that very often, but now, thanks to Fr. Christian, I get to do it at least once a week -- and it gives me more time to spend with God, which is a wonderful gift.

The older post I chose this week is "The Positive Power of Failure." This may sound like a strange topic for the first Sunday of the new year when everyone is wishing everyone else a happy and successful new year. However, I think we focus too much on success in our culture. God did not tell us to go out and be successful. God told us to love one another, to be kind, to be servants, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and be humble. I have achieved a fair measure of earthly success. Like money, though, where will that get me in the last 30 seconds of my life and thereafter? If we do succeed and/or if we are wealthy, it is what we do with that success and wealth that matters far more than just having it. I don't mind at all having some money to give away to St. Francis Retreat, on the H2 challenge to feed and otherwise help the hungry and homeless (and get to know them), in support of our wonderful old mission here in San Ignatio, or in putting charges that I later have to pay for on God's credit card. Actually, having the money to do these things is wonderful. Likewise, I don't mind having success if I can use it to help my employees who are caught in difficult situations work-wise (as did the extra manager at the meeting that I talked about in the older post I selected a few Sundays ago), who just cannot seem to "fit in," who are hurting in other ways, perhaps even dying (as was the case with Tareq, whose story I also told on this blog), or in some way contributing to world peace. In short, money and success are meaningful, in my mind, only if they help promote heavenly causes on earth or are useful tools in carrying out God-given assignments.

Failure was a topic that was very important to me when my children were growing up. Given two highly gifted children (Lizzie skipped two grades and Shane skipped four) and two talented children among those we took in (Ksenya in music/acting -- she attended the Child Actor's Studio in Hollywood as a teenager and Shurain art -- he was accepted to the Virginia Center for Creative Art as a teenager, the youngest person ever to be accorded that honor), I yearned for them to fail for it is in the failing that we learn how to live; it is not in the succeeding. Success makes us feel good about ourselves, but it does not teach us how to pick ourselves up from the ground when we have fallen or how to learn from mistakes. Moreover, while it does not preclude us from walking with God, sometimes success makes us think that we did it all and don't need God. So, I badly wanted my gifted children to fail, and, thank God, I got my wish for it has changed their lives for the better.

I am re-posting the earlier post here to make it easier to access, but the link will take you to the post plus comments.

The Positive Power of Failure

Something wonderful happened to my daughter, Lizzie, her 8th grade year when she return to her Arlington, Virginia high school after spending months living and attending school in Russia: she failed algebra and band. Until then, she had not only always been an A+ student but also, with a fall birthday, she had started kindergarten as one of the youngest children in the class and then proceeded to skip second grade and then seventh grade. Promoted to the eighth grade at the age of 11, she was placed in the high school, college-prep classes for high achievers: algebra, freshman English, French, earth science, and music (band). While Lizzie could keep up with her other subjects during her time in Russia, learning to play the flute was not a possibility. Russian schools are either regular schools, i.e. a little bit of everything, or specialized schools (spetsshkoly). Music schools, math schools, foreign-language schools, and sports schools are among the choices. Lizzie attended a foreign language school. Her knowledge of humanities and science did not suffer at this school; it blossomed. Music and math, however, were another story. The math "deficit" was actually a surprise. At the time, Soviet students were significantly outperforming American students in math, according to United Nations' statistics. And therein lay the problem. Lizzie also could outperform her peers in her American algebra class because they had not yet been taught the mechanics for performing algebraic operations whereas Lizzie and her Soviet peers had been practicing solving equations all year. Actually, the Soviet children had arrived already knowing how to do basic equations, so over there Lizzie had had to play catch-up, which she did rapidly, thanks to the encouragement of the math teacher, who never withheld approbation for even the slightest improvement and on the first day that Lizzie walked to the board and successfully explained the solution of a problem rewarded her with a warm molodets (an untranslatable positive label for a person who has done something remarkable; in English, "Way to go!" might come close). In her American classroom, however, Lizzie's peers had not begun the mechanics of algebra; they had been concentrating on theory and concepts.

So, when Lizzie, returning home for the last six weeks of the school year, tried to learn a year’s worth of of algebraic concepts, the formidable task overwhelmed her. A series of Fs was all she could pull on weekly tests until the last two weeks of class when the teacher, who happened to be the junior high school principal, introduced calculations. Whiz! Lizzie’s scores soared to A+. “I don’t get it,” the principal confided to me. “She does not know the principles of calculation, yet she never gets any wrong!” Yes, that would be true. Practice makes perfect, and she had had much practice in calculation.

Of course, Lizzie had to attend summer school to make up her never-acquired conceptual algebra skills. It was a fast-track class – 5 mornings a week for 6 weeks. At the end of the course, her summer school grade replaced the F on her report card. She had learned her algebra lessons well enough to earn an A. More important was the other lesson she learned: Don’t fear failure; it can be the first step toward success.

That lesson was reinforced as she took steps 2, 3, 4 and more. In the fall, as an entering freshman, she took the geometry course. Another A. By senior year, she was out of math classes and was allowed to take a calculus course at the local community college; another A. And, of all things, one day she ran into the junior high school principal there. He had retired and was now teaching at the community college. He was considerably surprised when he learned what Lizzie was doing in the corridor of the college.

Band class had been an equally miserable failure for Lizzie. She returned, still trying to figure out how to get actual tones, rather than wispy puffs of air, from the flute, to find her band class playing ensemble music. There was no summer school course for band, and the F would remain on her report card. The question was about her freshman year. The junior high band teacher emphatically stated that there was no hope for Lizzie to be part of the high school band; it was too late. Band instruction began in earlier years, and 8^th grade was the last chance to get initial instruction.

Yet, Lizzie really wanted to learn to play the flute and was willing to practice, and I don’t believe in a no-hope scenario. So, we advertised for a tutor, and the most marvelous person appeared on our doorstep: a flautist from the US Marine Corps band who was stationed in Washington, DC. He came two evenings a week, and our house was filled with beautiful flute solos. Surprisingly soon, Lizzie was playing awkwardly along with him, then better and better. When the school year began, Lizzie talked to the high school band director and asked if he would let her audition. He agreed, she did, and she was in!

Over the next four years, she played ensemble and solos with the marching band, the school orchestra, and the drama club’s pit orchestra. Her junior year, she won third place in a national flute competition. The following year, the marching band was one of several nationwide selected to play in the inauguration of President Bush (the father). She did not play the flute there, though. She played the saxophone. At the end of her junior year, two senior-year saxophone players graduated, and there were no incoming saxophone players to take their place. So, she and a friend volunteered to teach themselves to play the saxophone over the summer, and they did. When Lizzie graduated from high school, she received that year’s Most Valuable Player for the band.

The sax and flute now lie forgotten in a closet somewhere in Lizzie’s apartment as she busies herself with the daily work of a college professor of cognitive neuroscience. However, Lizzie has never forgotten failure’s lesson in hope, risk-taking, and perseverance that dynamited her past what she might otherwise have settled for.

PS. An interesting development of Lizzie's life experiences, including failure and likely because of it, is that she became a very compassionate and involved teacher. This was a surprise to me because she never wanted to teach. She wanted to be a researcher, but now she helps her students be researchers and involves elementary school girls in science clubs and brain science activities, showing them that they, too, can succeed in what is still essentially a boy's and man's world. Last year, she was voted professor of the year in her department. Not bad for someone who never thought she would make a good teacher and feared her first teaching assignment as a graduate student. Oh, yes, thank God for those early failures (and others along the way)!