Author: julieannetaylor

See ya, love ya, Bye

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At the end of the day today I sat in my quiet classroom, thinking about my ever-growing list of things to do. The list was so overwhelming that rather than trying to accomplish at least one or two things before I went home, I just sat there. Exhausted from the day’s events. But today’s tired was a good tired. And today, rather than letting the stress and anxiety of this job get to me, I focused on how grateful I am for the way I get to spend my days. I absolutely love making connections with my students. Every year I tell people that I get to make 50 new best friends. They make me smile with their stories. They slay me with their silliness. At times they make me want to pull my hair from its roots – but even in those moments, I love them.

As I looked at the large calendar next to my desk and added that task to my “Wednesday – am to do list” I felt sadness creeping in. It’s already March. I only have three more months with these kids, and I am not ready to let them go. We have built such a great community this year in room 214. This group of kids is just a “nice” group. They help each other out. They are constantly asking me for jobs around the room to help me out. I’m not ready for this year to be over with these amazing kids.

Each day at dismissal as my students leave the room I tell them “See ya, love ya, bye!” Every day. Every student. I started that on the very first day of school. It didn’t take long for them to pick up on it and now they say it right back to me. It just makes my heart so happy! And the further we get into the school year, they truly understand that those aren’t just words from Mrs. Taylor. They know that when I say “love ya” that I mean it! I am honored and blessed that I get to spend my days pouring into the lives of these ten year olds. I want them to know that no matter what kind of day we had, no matter what mistakes they made, no matter how frustrated I may have gotten with them during the school day that I love them. It’s the last thing they hear from me before they head home.

I didn’t end up crossing anything off of my lengthy to-do list today. When I walked turned off the lights and shut the door of my classroom today, my list was still full – but so was my heart.

Annie’s Song

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Do you ever hear a song that stops you in your tracks and in an instant floods you with memories and an ocean of memories?

I was driving home from school one day this week when I was completely overcome by a song. Being with twenty-six ten year olds all day long is pretty noisy and chaotic, so most days I prefer to travel home in glorious silence. But this day, I decided to play my “Momma Chill” playlist to try and center myself and reflect on the day. As I crept up to the traffic light, the familiar guitar chords began.

It was Annie’s song by John Denver. One of my all time favorite songs ever. It is one of the first songs I ever really remember my brother singing and playing on his guitar. As I listened, the tears came in a torrent down my cheeks. I hadn’t heard this song in such a very long time. I had honestly forgotten it was even a part of this playlist.

The tears turned into violent sobs as I proceeded through the intersection. I even considered pulling over to calm down. I missed my brother. I kept thinking how desperately I wanted to hear him sing, just one more time. I wanted to remember the last time that I had heard him sing this song, and I was angry at myself that I couldn’t find that memory. When was the last time he sang it? I’m certain that when I heard it, I had no idea that it would be the last time. None of us knew or understood that we would be facing a lot of those “last times” when he found out he was sick. The yearning in my chest to go back and appreciate his music was smothering.

But here’s the thing, I can’t go back. None of us can, and none of us know when we share moments together that they could be the last time.

I am still wading through the grief of my brother’s death. Somedays I can smile about the memories and other days I can’t stop the tears. Some days I can sit in my memories of times with him, and other days a mere picture of him brings me to my knees. That’s grief, I guess.

I have thought a lot about this idea of “the last time…” watching my brother battle cancer and eventually succumb to it. I don’t understand for a minute why it was him that had to die so young. I have asked God a hundred times why our family has had to endure such a significant loss. I may never know why. But here is what I do know…I may never know when a moment with a loved one may be the last time. I believe that the best way I can honor my brother is to savor every chance I get to spend with family and friends. To be so present, and to treat every moment like it could be the last time.

Thank you for my love of music, and for that lesson, Todd.

Family is Everything

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Jodie, Janette, mom, and I had been planning for weeks for the big party for Papa. We had shared multiple messages about the decorations, the guest list, and of course, the food. We were all super excited that the baby, Janette, was able to fly down to be with us to celebrate. The anticipation for the big event was building.

On the Friday before the party we had planned a shopping trip to Costco to buy all of the food we needed for the party. Carty joined us for our girls’ day, and the five of us set out early to run all of the errands together. I cannot remember the last time we were all able to spend an entire day together like that. We laughed, cried, bickered, and teased ourselves through the morning as we loaded up with way more food than we really needed. The plan was to shop early and then spend the afternoon prepping food. Jodie had found our grandmother’s recipe for Waikiki Meatballs and the plan was to attempt to make them just like Edith used to. We followed her hand written recipe to the letter. As we worked through each step, we shared stories of our sweet Grandma, and teased each other that “that’s not how Edith would have done it.”

As we sat at the table rolling dozens and dozens of meatballs, we tried to remember the last time Grandma had made them for us. We decided it had been over seventeen years! Every Christmas Eve we would gather at Grandma’s house. She would have her house decorated beautifully. The table would be set with flowers and candles. And every year, in addition to a wide variety of finger foods, Grandma would always serve up a big batch of her Waikiki Meatballs. I can remember it like it was yesterday. She would serve us on her small, delicate, crystal plates. Matching crystal cups surrounded a large punch bowl. I remember thinking how “fancy” it all was.

The smell of them flooded the room, and my senses as my sister Jodie cooked. It is amazing to me how the brain works. As they cooked up, I was taken back to all of those Christmas Eve celebrations in an instant. All of us remarked how they smelled just like when Grandma made them. But the anticipation for whether they would taste the same continued to grow. Finally we couldn’t wait a minute longer. As soon as the taste filled my mouth, tears began to spill from my eyes. They tasted exactly like my Grandma had made them. It filled me with so much nostalgia. I felt joy as I remembered what an amazing woman my Grandmother was. I felt so sad that she was no longer around to share life with. I felt excitement that we had the recipe and could continue making it for our families.

As we carried on our work of preparing for the party, we shared so many memories. Memories of our Grandmother. Stories about our childhood and trips we had taken together. And it all started with that recipe. We were enjoying our time together so much that we turned it into a slumber party. We perused through hundreds of pictures. We shared storied. We snacked (occasionally sneaking a meatball or two when Jodie wasn’t looking). We decorated. We stayed up way into the way laughing and talking.

This time with my mom and sisters is priceless and I will never forget this weekend. The party was amazing and it was so good to see all of the people who came out to love on my daddy. But if I’m being completely honest, the unexpected highlight of the weekend was the time spend and memories created with my sisters and mom. I will cherish those forever. Our family has been through a really rough time over the last year. Even though we are so very different and at times those differences cause us to bicker and fuss, we are still family. And family is everything. I’m so thankful that my daddy is still around to celebrate his eightieth birthday. I’m thankful that his birthday created a weekend for my sisters and mom to be together. And I’m even more thankful for Grandma’s Waikiki Meatballs, and that old handwritten recipe.

It Should Be Five

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We gathered yesterday to celebrate my Daddy’s 80th birthday. My sisters, mom, and I had spent weeks and weeks planning this celebration for everyone’s favorite Papa. We had cooked a huge variety of party food, ordered an amazing cake, decorated with balloons and banners, and were ready to host a huge invite list of family and friends. I had been so focused on crossing items off of our lengthy to do list for that day that I hadn’t really thought about the date. Of course, I knew the date – February 18th – but there was more significance to this date above and beyond my daddy’s birthday. Yesterday marked the two month mark since our brother had passed.

Two months. It has taken me two months to even try to write about my brother’s passing – and I’m certain that I will not be able to articulate all that I need and want to say in one post. My brother battled cancer for almost two years. Throughout that fight, he never lost his positivity. When I would go to visit him, I would feel anxious – not because I didn’t want to see him or spend time with him – but because I truly felt like I did not know what to say to convey what I was feeling. I would go to comfort him, but he would end up comforting me with the strength and grace in the way he battled. I am still walking through his death. I don’t think there is ever a timeline or roadmap for what an individual’s grief looks like, and sometimes I ask myself if this it really what it looks and feels like. I find myself smiling one moment about happy memories, and crying the next because he is no longer on this earth.

So yesterday, as we gathered for pictures to celebrate our daddy’s birthday, I was not expecting it to hit me so hard. My oldest brother, and two younger sisters posed wearing our new t-shirts with our favorite daddy sayings on them. Even as we had spent the morning choosing which quote we each wanted on our shirt, it didn’t hit me. Even as we smiled for the camera, it didn’t hit me. But later, as I sat scrolling through the hundreds of pictures from earlier in the day, it hit me hard. The four of us stood with our arms wrapped around each other, smiling and laughing. It should be five. He should have been here with us with his very own Daddy-saying across the front of his shirt. Five of us should have gathered with our parents for pictures at the end of the night. Five of us should have been singing happy birthday and watching daddy blow out his candles.

The day was filled with so much laughter and love. So many family and friends came with cards and gifts. We looked through old pictures of my daddy. We ate and drank and just spent time together. It really was a fun day. But just under the surface of all of those happy emotions, sadness and tears were dwelling. Yes, it was great to see everyone and be together, but we weren’t really all together. And we never will be again. We are so blessed to have our daddy still with us and going strong at eighty years old. But right next to that thankfulness lives sadness and anger about the fact that our brother is not here with us.

I am learning through my grieving process that there will always be these conflicting emotions. And that is okay. It’s okay to smile and laugh and enjoy life and be sad and angry that my brother is not here to enjoy life with us. I stepped out on the back patio yesterday during the chaos of the party to catch my breath and settle my tears. Perched on the railing of the fence surrounding our pool was a red cardinal. In my heart, my brother was with us yesterday, and that cardinal was my sign that it’s going to be okay. That I’m going to be okay. That its okay for me to feel all of the things I am feeling in every moment.

There are so many more thoughts and memories that I have to share about my big brother, Todd. Today was the first step in that process. I look forward to being able to process all of those emotions through my writing. Stay with me!

The Gift of Encouragement

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I have written before about how important music is to me. Worship music is at the top of that list. I love shutting out the entire world and spending time worshipping God through music. It is a time I cherish – especially in the midst of the challenging time my family is walking through right now. There is nothing else but me and God during those times, and I feel so close to God as I sing to him.

This morning was no different. I walked through the doors feeling anxious and distracted. I was carrying a heavy weight that only God understands. My prayer as I entered the sanctuary was to leave all of the burden outside and to spend an hour close to God.

Service started and I was instantly lighter. The words of the songs it seemed had been chosen just for me. Music is truly a part of who I am. From my earliest days music was a family thing, and as our family faces our challenges, it has become more and more precious. I was lost in singing praise to the God who is in control. My comforter. My ever-present father. My peace-giver.

The message brought today was an amazing reminder of the resurrection and what that means to those of us who have accepted Jesus as our savior. He has conquered death. He rose from the dead, and so will we some day…because of him. Today was also baptism Sunday. A celebration and public declaration of those who have made the choice to follow Jesus. As the baptisms continued and songs of praise were lifted up, I was completely overcome with emotion. Emotion of the enormity of the sacrifice that Jesus made for ME! I let the music heal me in that moment.

At the end of service, I felt at peace. I was leaving with a renewed spirit and was no longer carrying such a heavy burden. I stood to leave, and the couple in front of me turned around and stopped me. The man said “Thank you for blessing us with your beautiful voice this morning. Sitting here in front of you was a blessing to us this morning.” I was stunned. I did not know this couple. They did not know me, nor could they have known the burden and the weight that I came in with today. But they took the time to share the gift of encouragement with me. I don’t think they have any idea what their words meant to me today.

I don’t share this encounter to bring myself any recognition or to toot my own horn. I share it to remind each of us that our words are powerful. Taking a small moment to encourage someone can completely change their day. How many times have I thought something positive or encouraging about someone, but didn’t take the time or the chance to share it? Following the prompting of the spirit and speaking life into someone else is truly a gift.

I’m so thankful for this couple who were led to share their words of encouragement with me. Had they not, I would have walked out of that service not ever knowing that I was a blessing to someone else today. I feel like I have been walking in a fog through the last several months of life. I have not only not felt like a blessing, but have barely felt like I was surviving each day.

I hope that my point is not lost in all of this. What I’m really trying to say is this…listen for those gentle promptings. And act on them. Share the gift of encouragement with someone in your world today. You may never truly understand the impact that it could have on someone.

Change of Season

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Today brought us the surprise of our first snowfall of the season. I love the feeling of childlike excitement that snow brings. I am a summer lover. I enjoy hot, lazy days by the pool. I love the blue skies and sunny days. But when winter rolls around, I find that I also love the chill in the air, cold mornings by the fire, and light snowflakes that float in the air.

I don’t think that I can pick a favorite season. There is so much newness and promise on the first warm(ish) day of spring. Watching flowers bloom and planting seeds in the ground with the hope and promise of harvest is a hard feeling to beat. And then there are the days where summer slowly gives way to cool nights, crunchy leaves and the first frost. No, I don’t have a favorite season. What I love most about each and all of them is the change. The surrender of one to the next. It’s a given every year, yet each time the seasons change, I feel excited. Almost relieved for the change.

My family and I are walking through an incredibly difficult season right now. We are weary. We are sad. Our hearts are heavy. The road ahead is not one that we want to travel, and the journey seems endless. But here’s the thing….it’s just a season, and seasons bring the promise of change. We will walk through each day of this season with the promise of renewal and growth and change. But we will also cherish each day of the season we are in – even though somedays we don’t know how. I pray that we are able to find the beauty in these days, even as our hearts are breaking. Because there truly is beauty in every season.

While may some may only see today’s unexpected snowfall as a nuisance, I am so thankful for it. Today’s winter surprise was such a gift to me. The season we are in is hard…but there is still beauty in it. I just need to really look for it and appreciate it. I need to stop wishing and begging for change, but rather accept the place that God has for me right now and take it in, knowing that change will come and there will be beauty in that next season too.

Even when I don’t see it

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During worship at church this morning I was moved to tears. Not just a pretty little tear traveling down my cheek. I mean tears upon tears. I’m talking make up streaking, snot slinging, ugly crying. I was so overcome with the presence of God in that time and place. Worship is how I most often hear from God – when I am open and listening for him. Worship for me is not just about singing a few songs. For me it is a time to lay my burdens down, open up my heart, praise my God, and listen for what he has for me.

Right now life is really heavy. I am bone tired and soul weary. I have been mad at God. I have argued and yelled at him as I asked him “WHY?!” (as if He owes me any answers). I have then changed to crying out to him and begging him to “fix” it. I have pleaded for a miracle from him. I have tried to turn it all over to him…casting all my cares…but in all reality I was not truly turning them over. I was sharing them with him and then trying to tell him what outcome I would like.

Today God used a song that I have sung a million times to still my spirit and to remind me of his love for me. The song was “Way Maker” by Leeland. During the pandemic, when this song came out I listened to it on repeat. I loved the timing of it as it helped me navigate the fears that came along with the lockdown. I wore that song out! It really spoke to me then. I honestly had not heard the song in a while until today, and I guess God just knew I needed to hear from him!

Even when I don’t see it, you’re working
Even when I don’t feel it, you’re working.
You never stop, you never stop working.
You never stop, you never stop working.

Way maker by Leeland

Regardless of how I feel about all of the troubles around me, God is at work. When I feel that he just isn’t hearing my cries for a miracle, he does, and he is at work. When I can’t feel his presence, he’s still there. He is working it all out. God is in control and he never stops. He knows. He sees. He has the answers.

I think the entire song shares a powerful message about all that God does for us day in and day out. But today, I think God really wanted me to open up, listen, and believe that he has not gone anywhere. Rather he’s been waiting for me to fully trust and listen to his voice. Even though I may not see what he is doing and how he is working, he is still at work. God will never stop working – and for that I am grateful beyond measure. I know that God’s answers may not be the ones that I am desperate for, but I also know that he is in control and no matter what, he is at work. That is who he is.

I’m so thankful that when I get mad at God, or doubt his presence in my life, he still loves me and is at work in my life. And he will never stop. He never stops.

“Teachers don’t poop…”

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I just started my 14th year in the classroom. Even in that time, teaching has changed so very much. I work, on average, 10-12 hours a day. I’m typically buried in paperwork. The requirements and demands coming down from the state are endless, and often make no sense. The academic, physical, and emotional needs of my students are draining and more often than not keep me awake at night. This career is exhausting.

But…then there are the kids. My absolute favorite part about my job is the kids! There is never a dull moment when you are working with tiny humans. They tell me jokes that crack me up. They wow me with their creativity. My students shower me with daily hugs and stories about all the things that are important to them.

They get crayons stuck in their ears. I have heard myself say, more than once in my career, “Please don’t lick the windows.” They are squirrely and sassy at times but also have moments that melt my heart. Some days they will NOT stop talking, and others they are the most captive audience around. They are certain that ice from the nurse can cure anything. They will crawl on the floor picking up every little speck of dirt for the promise of a piece of candy.

I love the energy that they bound into school with. I love that they can still leave me speechless with the things they come up with. Today was one of the conversations that I will probably never forget. While standing in the hallway taking a whole class bathroom break, I asked one of my “responsible” students to monitor the class and hand out Dojo points so that I could go to the end of the hall and use the restroom. When I returned approximately 37 seconds later (as a teacher you have to go fast) one of my students said “Mrs. Taylor, what do you do when you go to the end of the hallway?” I replied, “Ummm…I use the bathroom.” Another student chimed in and said “D’uh…teachers pee too!” A third student chimed in, rather loudly, “And poop!” By this time the whole class is mesmerized by the topic of my bodily functions. A fourth student jumps into the conversation to proclaim, “NO! Teachers don’t poop!”

I didn’t really want to explore my bathroom habits with twenty-five nine and ten year olds…so I just quietly shook my head (as I often do) and went on. I mean really, what is there even to say at that point. Just move on. Did I even for a moment to expect that we would be discussing my bathroom habits today? Nope… Tomorrow I am sure there will be something else that catches me by total surprise.

I love these kids so much – already. We are building a classroom family and they bring me more joy than I could ever express. Even when I’m sending one to the nurse for jamming a crayon in his ear. Even when I have to try to explain to one why “No, I will NOT smell your hand.” And even when I have seen my thirty-second wiggly tooth of the day (and my stomach is lurching).

So yes, teachers work really hard and often feel underpaid and disrespected. We sometimes feel we are being tasked with the impossible. We are tired and overwhelmed and burned out. BUT, we do love the kids, and we are so blessed to get to do what we do! We can be frustrated and still love our jobs all at the same time!

I wish my teacher knew…

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This time of year is always bittersweet for me. I love the lazy days of summer. No schedule. No alarm set. Slow quiet mornings sipping coffee contemplating the biggest decision of the day – which bathing suit to wear for another day by the pool. But as much as I enjoy sweet summertime, by the time August rolls around, I am ready for routine. As a child, the start of a new school year was so exciting to me. And it still is as an adult. The newness of everything feels so good. As a teacher, it is the prospect of 50 new little lives that I get to watch grow, pour into and love on.

I have worked non-stop since the first of August getting ready for this brand new school year. Countless hours have been spent setting up my classroom with a new look for the year. Name tags and lists. Materials and labels. Pencils and copies. It has all consumed me for the days and weeks leading up to the first day of school.

The first day has come and gone and I have enjoyed each moment getting to know all 50 of my students (25 in my homeroom, and 25 in my teaching partners room). I often have to tell myself that this part just takes time. I want to get to know their strengths and weaknesses, their personalities, their fears, and their interests. I want to know how they each learn best so that I can help them each grow to their full potential in the 177 days that I have them to teach.

Each year, each new group is so very different from the one before. I am loving the eagerness of this group of kids to learn. They are not afraid to try the hard things and already seem to feel safe enough in our little classroom family to make mistakes. They are helpers, jumping in to help a classmate who is struggling. They are storytellers, rushing into the room to share news of a new pet or football game. They are dreamers, talking of future careers as paleontologists and veterinarians. My desire is to foster all of this in all of them each and every day.

The responsibility of teaching and growing these little minds is not a burden, but rather one of the greatest blessings I could imagine. In my room I have an “I Wish My Teacher Knew…” jar. I encourage students to leave me a note about the things that they would like to share with me but are maybe not ready to say to my face. The first few days of school the jar would be full of little notes saying “You’re the best teacher,” or “I love school.” But it was on day four that a lone note in that jar reminded me just how important this responsibility is. This note said “I wish my teacher knew that I am dum.” I saved that note. I have not stopped thinking about those words. They have kept me awake at night. I think about them as I am preparing lessons and activities. I am thinking about them when I pray each morning before my students arrive. I will carry those words with me every day this school year. They will be the force that pushes me to do anything and everything I can for this group of students.

I have always believed that relationships come first in my classroom. I tell my students – my kids – that I love them. I listen to them. I hug them. I shower them with positive affirmations. Relationships before tasks. I firmly believe that if a student feels loved and safe, they are more willing to open up and take chances in their learning. My prayer is for each one of my students to believe in themselves and in their abilities.

And by the end of our time together I hope that they can say “I wish my teacher knew that I feel loved…”

Anywho

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It’s a dreary, rainy day here. I am all about lazy, slow Saturdays…but I’m still holding tightly to summer and was hoping to relax poolside all weekend. So for now, I’m embracing my inner couch potato and relaxing inside of the quiet, empty house. As I searched the kitchen for something to fix for lunch, soup seemed appropriate for this rainy day. I picked out a can of clam chowder. I love clam chowder. I haven’t had a bowl of it in a long, long time. As I pulled the steamy, hot bowl out of the microwave, I was suddenly overcome with emotions that I couldn’t quite understand or explain. (I mean, I DO love to eat…but normally do not get giddy over food).

And then it hit me. My grandpa used to make clam chowder all the time. Not just any clam chowder. Owen made the best giant pot of clam chowder I have ever tasted. I miss my grandpa. He was truly one of a kind. Owen Edward Lykins could do just about anything. His signature dish was indeed clam chowder, but he also made the fluffiest scrambled eggs I have ever tasted. I remember sitting in the kitchen with him once while he was making those famous eggs. He told me that the key was cooking them slow on very low heat. He said, “It it doesn’t take you at least 45 minutes to cook eggs, they just won’t be right.” He was always full of wisdom and quirky phrases that we still use in his honor everyday.

When you asked Grandpa a question – any question – to which the obvious answer was “yes” he would retort “Does the Pope wear a dress?” When finishing one of his stories and switching subjects, his go to phrase was always “Anywho…” And oh the stories. He loved to tell his stories. Even if he had told the same one over and over, he would tell it with his quick wit and gusto. My grandma would often roll her eyes and remind him that we had all heard the story, but it did not slow him down. When Grandpa was thinking on something, he would always say, “I’m going to urinate on that.” Isn’t it funny the things we remember from the people who aren’t with us anymore!?

As I ate my canned clam chowder (I’m sure Grandpa was rolling over in his grave) I was overcome with sadness. It hit me that when I ate my grandpa’s clam chowder, I didn’t know that it would be the last bowl of it I would ever eat. As a matter of fact, I can’t even remember when that was. But I certainly didn’t know it would be the last. I would give anything to be sitting in the kitchen watching Grandpa cook and listening to his stories (even if I had already heard them a hundred times before). I miss the way he loved his family. I miss watching him spoil his dog – even carrying her around in his half-buttoned shirt. I miss the way he used duct tape to “fix” anything and everything in his house and garage. On the day of his funeral, the hem of my pants came loose right before it was time to leave for the funeral home. In true Owen fashion, I “hemmed” them with some trusty duct tape. And I know he would have been so proud.

I am thankful that a simple can of soup made me slow down today and remember my grandpa for a few minutes. I am thankful of the reminder to love each other hard and appreciate the people in our lives because here’s the thing…we never know when one of those reminders might be the last.

Always sporting his red bow for special occasions