The quilt I made on Beyonce's birthday

I overheard that Beyonce turned 33 today, one of the little quilt squares the radio handed me this morning as I was rushing out the door. Every day I make a quilt from these handouts: worn bits of fabric, the crusts of bread cut from sandwiches, sneezes and spilled popcorn and half-comprehended news bulletins from the radio. I thread them clumsily together throughout the day, grabbing a moment to stitch and form a seam, fumbling through the hallways of academic buildings as the threads come unspooled.

I will try to wind them around the spool later as I sit by the beds of my children; I am held a willing hostage to the Frozen soundtrack, which we cannot let go of--the irony.

I try to add the moment this morning where I stood outside of my son's classroom, a spectator to him calling his sister, already at the other end of the hall. I grab the square where she turned on her heels and came back and hugged her little brother. Where we could have had loose ends, a gaping hole in the quilt where the hallway meltdown ripped apart our efforts to all have a good morning, our girl busted out one important stitch.

I will patch the part later where our boy told me my stomach was the size of a chicken. I will try not allow that patch to call too much attention to itself, as did our boy when he told me over frozen yogurt, "Well, your tummy IS really BIG." I will remember how I accepted his apology, just as the other quilt squares will absorb this unwieldy one into the whole.

This is the quilt I will wrap myself in at the end of the day, pondering what Beyonce will do as she begins this new year of life. What kind of silks and imported fibers will she have to work with for her own quilt; how will the couture fitting go and will she wear it better than anyone else?

I am the only one who will see my quilt, who will know the places where I pricked myself trying to bridge all the scattered pieces. I will run my hand over its ripples and edges and shoddy patchwork and I will call it significant, real, mine, beautiful.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Bey.

McRevelation

It came to me when I was chopping green beans tonight, what it all meant, as all shattering revelations do. As I beheaded and befooted the beans, I realized where I went wrong. I had to get up a little earlier than usual to get the kizzle off to school so that I could meet the new freshmen in our department and venture on our community service. It's a campus tradition that before classes begin, the first year students gather and do a morning service project together at a local agency. We were told we were headed to Ronald McDonald house (love) and that we would be helping with a mailing.

We were off to a winning start as my children were still pro-hugging in hallways with their mom as I dropped them off at school. Also on the positive list are the new crop of students sent to our department, especially as this crop of students seems gregarious and sort of undaunted about the extroversion inflicted upon them during orientation.

Still, I have to say that I sort of felt, I don't know, like I was doing this really huge sacrifice today. That I was Giving Up All the Gold that is Kendra's morning that could be better spent writing syllabi, or better yet, adding crap to her Target Cartwheel app. Instead I had to shepherd some people born in the late '90s WHO PROBABLY DON'T EVEN KNOW ABOUT DOING THE CARLTON, to a place I'd never been, to do work that I was not all that dazzled about doing, probably while making small talk which it is well documented I am allergic to, all morning long. Sigh.

We got to Ronnie McD and the plans to have us help with the mailing were diverted to having our team of 14 clean the place. It was a lot of the blind leading--oh where is the Swiffer, what's a Swiffer?--the blind. It went by quickly and then we were helping with the mailing and blah blah blah everybody got that feelgood feeling, I'm sure of it.

Before we left, we got a tour of the facilities and our tourguide was explaining why the CEO of their location has a heart for the Ronnie McD House ministry. Because her baby died from leukemia at age 9, and there was no Ronnie McD house in Chattanooga, so their family had to go to Memphis for her to receive treatment. So she became the first paid employee of the House when it was founded in 'nooga. Then, as we were about to get our bags and depart, I looked up and noticed the schedule on the wall of where the parents who are staying at the House were that day. They were all at the NICU across the street.

But I still didn't get it.

I got a call when I returned to campus and I had to quick high-tail it over to my office to talk with a parent about her daughter's schedule. I was hot and cranky and underfed and irritated that I couldn't get to the Dollar Store with much time before I had to pick up the kizzle again from school. Gahhhh, I'm such a bondservant of the people today.

It was only when I was chopping the green beans, over and over and over and over, my littles eating yogurt and watching some McDonald's commercial on the tablet that the light in my McNugget-sized brain flashed on.

***

Today was about taking care of other people's children, namely my students, so that some other parents of sick children whose prayers are probably prayed with wringing hands and breathed through desperate sighs, could take care of their children hooked up to wires, bleeping monitors, oxygen. All the while some of the most dedicated teachers the world over were busy taking care of my children.

***

My faith is so small as I tread water in a pool that is not so deep, where I regard small ripples as great waves. I know others may think me naive to believe in this God who cares about my hang-ups and first world problems. I have experienced an awesome, majestic mercy, though, and am trusting that what I know to believe as true will be enough to help me get out out of my own way. I don't want to just tread this same water. My goal is to be back on shore....

Professor Bio, with credits to @carr2n

Inspired by David Carr's bio that my colleague Stephen Ruf shared with me from Poynter, I'm including a version of the following in my syllabi this semester. Excerpt of David Carr's bio, per his syllabus at Boston University Your professor is a terrible singer and a decent dancer. He is a movie crier but stone-faced in real life. He never laughs even when he is actually amused. He hates suck-ups, people who treat waitresses and cab drivers poorly, and anybody who think diversity is just an academic conceit. He is a big sucker for the hard worker and is rarely dazzled by brilliance. He has little patience for people who pretend to ask questions when all they really want to do is make a speech.

My adaptation, with credits to Carr: Your professor is a terrible housekeeper and a spirited shower singer. She is not sentimental; this is not to say she is not a crier. She is dazzled by good grammar and she struggles to overlook spelling errors everywhere. She is pro separation of church and state. She has little patience for people who give their cellphones precedence over live human beings. She is a sucker for nuns, dark chocolate, Motown music. She offers a high-five to single parents, people who work with populations with autism, and people who work in the service and hospitality industries. She skeeves pickle relish. She can recite the Lord's Prayer in olde English.