beauty matters

Every once in a while some magical thing happens that sparks the thought, this is exactly what I was made to do. However, it's far more likely to find me, a first-year teacher wondering, “am I doing what I was made to do?” This is hard work.

Then comes a moment of utter sweetness and purity of heart that bears some reflection. Children say things that make you stop in your tracks. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We are reading “George Washington Plants a Nation” as we study Presidents and Kings this fall. This story is more about GW’s life as a farmer trying out different manures for fertilizer and crop rotations rather than his military history. Maybe that’s why I like it. We talked about Washington’s love for the land and his care for creation. He loved planning each piece of Mount Vernon, each tree and each field carefully considered. He was all about maintaining his plantation so that it was fruitful and beautiful. He even wrote home from the war about his hopes and plans for what to plant and where.

We talked about how farming mattered to George Washington—a big important general and war hero! He cared about planting trees and cultivating the land. Such beauty mattered to George Washington, and it matters to God. Beauty matters to God.

It was at that realization that one student piped up, “Miss Skinner, you made me almost cry!” Sure enough, I saw tears in his eyes. I paused, unsure how to respond or to quell the tears that sprang up in my own! I was at a loss for words (seldom do I evoke others' tears during a read-aloud). Two other boys, perceiving that this heart-felt expression was well-received by their very sensitive teacher, claimed similar statements, that I made them cry too. (Ha!) Soon everyone chimed in. That moment of authenticity and total tenderness had come and gone.

I wonder what exactly struck a chord in Sammy’s heart? Is he so in tune with the beauty of creation? Will he farm someday? Doubtful. Will he become a landscape architect? Possibly. However, it must simply be that at the core of human nature, and even at five years old, beauty matters.

FALL! Coming soon: to a woods near you.

You’re here again, my forgotten friend,
Who chills the air with frosty hand,
You’re on your way, not far I see,
Leaves rejoice from their colorful tree,

You’ve come again with September’s end,
To make the skies turn cold again,
I must admit...I forgot,
The chill in the air and the beauty you brought,

But welcome! Please stay, rest here for a while,
Lay down in the sun whilst our hearts reconcile,
Lift high your glass for a sip of brown cider,
Come run in the fields as leaves grow brighter,

Lace up your cleats and muddy your knees,
Winds rush through the length of your sleeves,
Come gather ‘round bonfires across golden plain,
Delight in the harvest of warm Summer rain,

Til at last from our doorstep-- you tip-toe away,
No word of farewell, just daylight that wanes,
with crunching of leaves left underfoot,
A trail of what was, on paths that we took,

I heard your voice in bare branches today,
Wind held a whisper, “nothing gold can stay,”

We’ll meet again with annual surprise,
In briskness of air, and an Autumn sunrise

Great Expectations

this is a bit delayed, but a response nonetheless!

My journey began in mid October when changing leaves brought a change of season in my own life. With a copy of Great Expectations in tow, I arrived in Scotland with similar sentiments, ready to embrace the Highland landscape and lifestyle. There I found a country beautiful both inside and out.

“Great Expectations” seemed a fitting theme at the start of a new adventure, not because I inherited a fortune from a mysterious benefactor and left a blacksmith apprenticeship. That was fictional. In real life, I had high hopes of engaging with people in a different educational context and culture. I wanted to learn and understand values of a people whose history is different from my own. Most importantly, I hoped to make some friends along the way.

The experience was greater than I had imagined. This short season in Scotland shaped my beliefs as an educator, shedding light on my own values—things that had always been there but were hidden beneath the stresses and demands of teaching in the States. Experiencing an educational setting that was completely different allowed me to identify my own approach to education. In short, this experience helped me become the teacher I want to be.

I will always remember the first day I met the staff at Avoch Primary School. As the first American student they had hosted, everyone wondered how I ended up in this small village school. The head teacher introduced me and asked, “Did you know Skinner is an Avoch name?” No, I had no idea.

I soon learned that the fishing village, Avoch, has a history of four “strong fishing families”—one being Skinner. In some small way this similarity affirmed my belief that I had come to the right place, and that we would find common ground for friendships to grow.

And they did grow. The people I met and the friends I made showed me nothing but kindness. I was welcomed by members of a community whose friendly faces and warm hospitality contrast its extreme northern climate. They welcomed me not only into their homes, but into their lives and their families. I found myself quite at home.


Haste Ye Back

Dicken’s describes Pip’s farewell, albeit a much more melodramatic scene, but one that mirrors my goodbye when I left Fortrose:

“…the village was very peaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to show me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all beyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment….I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the village, and I laid my hand upon it, and said, ‘Goodbye O my dear, dear friend!’

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.”

The rains in Scotland softened mine. I left pieces of my heart in the Highlands--in a classroom of kids and a wee village by the sea. A friend shared a Scottish saying with me, “haste ye back.” I certainly hope so, and with great expectations.



P.S. Confession: I still haven't finished the book.

shepherds and angels

I was thinking advent-y thoughts in the weeks leading up to Christmas. I pondered the word advent in the back of my mind like a Christmas carol that got stuck but I didn’t mind it.

Advent is the beginning of adventure. When we talked about the Advent season and lit candles each Sunday, I felt the anticipation of a big event, like Santa coming—finally! But instead of the great arrival advent implies, bringing Heaven to Earth, I couldn’t get over the events that happened before Jesus was born. I was stuck on the journey, the anticipation, the almost. I think God values adventure, and I love how He weaves it into the birth of His son.

One journey captivated my imagination this year: the shepherds’. Their mention in Luke is the highlight of the Christmas story, hands down. I can hear Linus’s voice when he shuffles on stage, blanket and all and tells the story that changed the world.

There were in the same country shepherds abiding in their fields and keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, an angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone about them, and they were sore afraid.

Early in December I was walking home from a friend’s house. It was late, and the stars were shining like they do over the Highlands. I looked up at the stars and lingered by a field of sheep. I listened to the sound of their chomping on grass and their sheep sounds in the darkness. I imagined the surprise that must have overcome those shepherds camped out. I breathed the cold and took in the vastness of the sky. What was it like to behold the glory of God? What was running through their heads as they listened to a message of such unexpected joy, surrounded by a choir of angels’ voices?

I love the shepherds’ response. I imagine they looked at one another wide-eyed, shaking in their boots and agreed, “let’s go.” They went to Jesus just as they were; not with expensive house-warming presents like frankincense and myrrh. They didn’t go home and shower. They just showed up with their sheep to worship Jesus.

I welcome Him into the stable of my heart—not a very fitting place for a newborn baby, let alone a King. But here he is, Emmanuel, God with us.

Let earth receive her King.