Lessons.

NOTE: There's a PG-rated word in #3.


Every New Year’s Day from the time I was 19 until I was 25, I took a few hours to think back over what the past year had taught me. I’d come up with a list that was as long as my age—19 lessons the year I was 19 and so on. I did it seven years, skipping it for the first time this past January. Because I am a sucker for fresh starts, I decided the beginning of the school year was a good time to resume my neglected tradition. But I’m not doing 26. Six is enough.

1.     When you reach out to people, they reach back. This summer I’ve made it a point not to turn down invitations. If it was possible for me to go, I went. I’ve gone out with larger groups than I’m used to, ridden in a race, reconnected with old friends, had long conversations with people I’d just met, and spent time with people I don’t know well. This may not sound like a big deal, but my introverted self has felt the growing pains. Luckily, I’ve noticed that when I leave my comfort zone and reach out to others, they meet me halfway.

2.     Worrying is a complete waste of time. This lesson came as a result of my exams and a friend’s wisdom. Knowing that it was the day before my writtens, my friend asked how I was doing. I had let worry consume me: my hair was falling out, everything I ate went straight through me, I couldn’t sleep, I was irritable, and I’d developed a slight tremor. My friend commiserated but then said, “Amie, the results of your exams aren’t in the hands of your examiners. They’re in the hands of the God you belong to.” I kept repeating that incredible sound byte verbatim in my head until it hit me that worrying was not only unnecessary but also at odds with my faith in God. My friend added in amusement, “80% of the stuff you worry about doesn’t happen anyway.” How true.

3.     Rubbing alcohol stuns fleas so you can pick them off your dog. My least favorite creature on the planet right now is the flea. Before I had a dog, I gave little thought to the pests. Now their tiny, insidious, jumping bodies send me into a flood of ire. I want to smash them with a hammer. It seems that after you treat your sweet puppy with FrontLine, all fleas should fall off, surrendering their weapons and cowering in fear. Not so. Word to the wise: if your dog is tormented by fleas, try alcohol. It makes those little jerks your bitch’s bitches.

4.     I am brave. I always considered myself a huge coward, and sometimes I am. But I did have the cojones to stick out a graduate program in French at a tough school. And I did go to France last summer, rent an apartment, and live in a city I’d never visited. And I do spend my days with 85 (and some days 101) needy, impressionable teenagers. I’m no John McClane, but I’m not the wuss I always told myself I was either. Yippee-kye-ay, y’all.

5.     Everybody screws up, and it’s no cause for alarm. We humans sometimes cause ourselves—and others—a lot of disappointment. A few weeks ago, a friend and I swapped stories about major screw-ups in the classroom. I told her about a situation I handled so poorly in my first year of teaching that I’m surprised the teaching gods didn’t break into my classroom immediately and shred my license. Although she agreed that I’d made a mistake, she said, “I guess the only thing left is forgive yourself.” Every day across the globe, our flaws lead us to do and say stupid things. And of course, we are free to judge, condemn, and gossip about people’s mistakes. But why do that when we’re all in the same boat? We’re all screw-ups. That’s why we need a Savior.

6.     People really know how to love. The epigraph to a book I read this year declared that we often tell ourselves a myth: that if people really knew us, they wouldn’t love us anymore. The fact is, however, that “if people really knew you, they could really love you.” All my life I feared my secrets, my mistakes, my flaws. For years they kept me from getting close to others: I believed that if someone got to know me too well, they’d see all the scum beneath my semi-polished exterior. The fact is that as I’ve trusted people more, not a single person has said, “Oh, I didn’t realize you did that. Eesh.” All I’ve been met with is grace and acceptance. It makes sense, right? The more we let each other in, the more opportunities we have to show each other love. And I can say with complete assurance that none of my friends or family could ever do anything to change my love for them. Love is about who a person is, not what he or she does or has done. If Jesus forgives and loves past the flaws, I have to make it my business to do the same.

Thank you to the numerous hearts in my life that make lessons learnable and life livable.

Sixth Sense.

This post is dedicated to Maggie and PM, her owner. Had I not met Maggie, I might never have taken the dog-adoption plunge. And I am very, very glad I did.

Two weeks ago, I did something I’d been wanting to do for a long time: I adopted a pet. My baby is a shih-poo, a shih-tzu-poodle mix. (Although, my best friend’s husband suggested that he be called a poo-zu, which I find much more entertaining.) Peabody is all the things that a dog is supposed to be: playful, cuddly, sweet, and totally devoted to me. Never have I had a cuter shadow. I mean, this dog trots from one room to the next, no more than a foot behind me. When I come home, whether I’ve been gone thirty minutes or all day, he can’t contain his excitement. Of the four words I’m trying to teach him, the only one he seems to consistently recognize is “bedtime” which translates to “seven uninterrupted hours of curling up behind Mama’s knees”—his favorite time of day. I’d barely known this animal two hours before I fell in love.

And I’m not the only one: he’s melted the hearts of everyone who’s met him so far. Last weekend my mom and I went on a road trip to see her side of the family. Since it’s a long trip, we stopped several times on the way to let Peabody do his business. At one stop, he walked right over to a homeless man who was sitting on the ledge around the gas station. Peabody stopped in front of him and paused, as if waiting for something. The man reached his hand out and began petting my dog lightly on his head. His eyes filled with tears as he smiled and choked on a chuckle. He said nothing, not to me or to Peabody, but I could tell his day had been made. After a moment, Peabody looked up at me as if to say, “Alright, Mama, we can go now.” As we walked away, I turned to look at the man. He was still grinning and wiping the tears from his eyes.

Call me crazy, but I believe animals can sense more than we give them credit for. I’ve heard several times about dogs that began sleeping at the foot of their mistress’s bed when she got pregnant. Countless stories circulate of dogs showing special devotion to a sick family member. One morning shortly after I adopted Peabody, I was upset, and that dog crawled into my lap and put his head right next to mine—something he hadn’t done before and hasn’t since. I think, in the case of the man at the gas station, Peabody could sense his loneliness and somehow knew he could brighten the man’s day.

John Grogan published Marley and Me several years ago now. I read it and loved it before I was a dog owner, but I found one part kind of silly. Grogan writes that he learned something about love from Marley: “Give a dog your heart, and he’ll give you his. It’s that simple. How many people can you say that about?” To be honest…I don’t find it silly anymore. Having now experienced the canine sixth sense for myself, I too feel like I’m learning from my dog. Would I have gone over and talked to the man at the gas station had I not been dragged there by Peabody? No. And yet the man clearly needed a reason to smile. How was my dog more sensitive to this than I, a fellow human, was? Perhaps Peabody could teach me something about being more perceptive and more willing to be someone’s miracle.

My dog is a genius.