Count your blessings.

Count your blessings, name them one by one;

Count your blessings, see what God hath done!

I knew what I was getting into when I took my job. For that matter, I knew what I was getting into when I started grad school. It's not like I stumbled into this profession on accident; I actively sought it out. Daily, someone says to me, "I don't know how you do what you do." And the underlying sentiment there is not some sort of awe, not that they think I'm some kind of hero. The message between the lines is, "What kind of freak wants to do this job?"

And to be honest, I frequently ask myself that question. 

For all the fun I have with my coworkers and getting to know my students and --hopefully-- getting to help students learn and grow, there isn't a single day that goes by that I'm not completely overwhelmed. Not by the amount of work, though it is looming at times, or the running around, but simply by the stories with which I am entrusted. Every day, a student walks into my office and lays their broken, bleeding heart down on my desk. 

Sometimes it's silly and frivolous and I have to fight unbelievably hard not to roll my eyes.

"So-and-so and I have been best friends for a week now, and last period she said she's not my best friend anymore."

Sometimes it's more serious. 

"So-and-so is telling everyone that I'm pregnant. And I'm not. At least, I think I'm not."

And sometimes it's the kind of thing that makes me want to lock myself in a closet and break down walls all at once. It's the kind of thing that knocks the breath out of me and leaves me willing myself not to throw up right there in front of the student. The kind of thing that leaves me crying in the corner behind the filing cabinet when I finally get a moment to myself. 

It's incest and neglect and abuse and vicious, vicious cruelty. 

Lying in the floor in the fetal position isn't an option for me, but I find myself running to my mental fetal position anytime my office clears out. Going to my happy place, my memories of what a childhood SHOULD be. What each of those children DESERVE. And what I got for some reason.

Memories drenched in sunshine and to the tune of my dad's loud laugh and my mom's sweet lullaby. She would play, "Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus," on the piano in the dining room and we'd sing along, each trying to drown the other out. Memories that stretch out down long interstates to Jamestown, Atlanta, Memphis, Destin, Orlando... and sibling rivalry was placated with travel games and gummy Lifesavers. The time Adam and I got his-and-her windsuits and cowboy boots for Christmas... and decided to wear them together. The way we took turns telling the Christmas story and acting it out with the pieces of the porcelain Nativity. The forts we built under the magnolia tree in my grandmother's yard. The times Dad let us stay up and watch the Tonight Show when Mom was away on business trips. 

I relive these over and over again in my office as I sort out the details of who to call first: the parent, the principal, DHR, and so on. And I play them like a song on repeat in my mind as I try to go to sleep at night, here in my cozy bed with my perfect husband in my perfect house.

And it's astonishing, really, that I should ever complain when my complaints amount to whether or not I have the right black boots for this fall season.

So here I sit, after another exhausting day, counting how blessed I am. For whatever reason. And thanking God for being an all-powerful, all-knowing God who can use ALL things-- even the ugliest, most broken situation-- for His glory. And I just pray that in some way, I'm useful to these kids, even if the only thing I do is listen and share the burden of making those memories my own.