Angels Who Taught Me

"Words kill, words give life; they’re either poison or fruit—you choose." (Proverbs 18:21 - The Message)

Sometimes the simplest string of letters can have long lasting impact.

I was reminded recently about a couple of teachers from middle school. Now, you have to realize that middle school was a long, long time ago.

And middle school was its own cataclysmic hotbed of change for me. Not only because of the normal hormones and strangeness that everyone goes through, but my Grandpa - my foster father, one of the centers of my universe - was very ill and passed away when I was in middle school. His illness and passing were some of the most traumatic events of my life.

I was not a very nice kid in middle school. I didn’t know how to deal with the emotions that surfaced at that time. Anger, resentment, jealousy, fear and failure churned in my heart. I think I started to wear black in middle school, but then it wasn’t just because it was easier in my professional world. I wanted to disappear.

I used a lot of drugs and drank a lot in an effort to self-medicate.

I spent a lot of time alone listening to The Doors and wishing I would just fade away.

I read voraciously – sometimes a book a day. All kinds of books, but mostly biographies. I was curious to know how other people lived, the real story behind their fame. I thought, perhaps, I would be famous someday and do something great.

If I could make it through middle school.

Mostly, I didn’t cry. I held those tears in and promised myself I would be tougher, better, stronger than anyone else. I was hard on the outside and made sure everyone knew I was fine. I didn’t need any help or any babying or any attention.

That’s why the teachers who come to mind impress me ever the more. I was a good student, a smart kid, but the surly wall around me was meant to keep them away. If you don’t care for anyone, you can’t lose them, right? That was my philosophy in middle school.

Mr. Campanelli, Mrs. Wendlendt and Mrs. Marks weren’t daunted by my attitude. They saw right through it.

Now, the women I might understand. They were, after all, English teachers and even then English was my easy subject. If anything could get me to discuss coursework, an English lesson could.

But Mr. C? He was a math teacher! I don’t know that anyone ever worked harder to try to help me understand math. He made me want to try to concentrate and follow his rules. More than his teaching, Mr. C. impressed me with his compassion. He is the one teacher who stopped me in the hall the day after the funeral and asked me how I was. He told me if I needed anything to let him know. I can see him there, standing with compassion and sympathy in his eyes. He understood. And he took the risk to reach beyond my anger to tell me so. He didn’t buy the “I’m fine” line.

Mrs. Wendlendt’s classroom was right next to Mr. C. She intrigued me because she was cut from such a completely different cloth from anyone I had ever known. Kind of like Maria von Trapp live and in person. She had been a nun and left to get married and teach. Her hair was short, her clothes were plain, but her face was so amazingly full of expression and life! She loved to tell stories and would read all kinds of things to us.

I don’t remember what the assignment was, but I vividly remember sitting in the back of the classroom with her. In her hand was something I had written with notes along the side in her broad, sweeping penmanship.

“You’re a natural writer, you know,“ She stated the fact as though I, of course, knew this from birth.

“I read a lot so I probably write better.”

“No, that’s not why.” She stretched across my self-deprecation and built a confident bridge, “You have a special talent. You are a writer. I love reading the way you put words together. Someday your words will be read by many people.”

That phrase is etched in my soul and lends itself to my identity.

I think she may have talked to Mrs. Marks, because when I got into her 8th grade English class, she expected me to write. She gave me freedom to expand my writing beyond the assignments and took extra time to read, correct, edit and push me to expound my thoughts. She called me a writer, too.

I had other teachers I will likely write about at another time, but today these are the three angels who come to mind. They believed in me when others looked over me. They reinforced what I learned at home – all people have value, even if they don’t see it in themselves.

I hope a teacher somewhere reads these words today and realizes the ability they have to build, to create, to enforce, to impact the future. I hope whoever reads this today realizes that we are all teachers with the ability to kill or give life to dreams through our words.

You never know who the punk under that black is going to be someday: literary honor student, author.

Winter Walking

I love winter. January is my favorite month.

The year is new and full of promise in January. Anything can happen.

Christmas crumbs spill over into each day.

My birthday is in January when I get to be queen for a day… or a week if I can pull it off.

I know, you’re saying, are you crazy? You live in Wisconsin! Snow and more snow and negative double digits on the thermometer. What’s so great about that?

Cold. Tucked inside. Alone. Safe from the elements. Without fear of intrusion.

I like it.

If I want to, I can hide behind winter’s cloak. There’s nowhere to go when it’s so cold outside. One ought to stay in, to themselves.

No fear of offense in winter because you see no one.

Unless you choose to.

If you go out and about, it’s on purpose.

You can share quick laughter ducking between doors and cars. Opportunities for kindness abound when cars must be shoveled out and brushed off. It’s easy to share a shiver. No one cares what you look like beneath the layers.

Best of all? You can walk in a wonderland of glitter – a snow globe tipped for your enjoyment.

Snow. Layers and layers of billowy glitter sparkling against the midnight sky. Lighting even the darkest dark with an ethereal neon shine.

I breathe better in winter. The air is clear, crisp, concise.

And stars sparkle differently in winter. Sinking beneath the weight of the frosty air, they stud the midnight sky with diamonds.

I hold it to myself like a selfish child on Christmas Day.

I know it won’t last. None of it will. It will have to be shared and given away eventually. Back to the earth from whence it came. Adding to the water table to provide a foundation for spring.

The snow will melt. The days will lengthen. The doors will have to be opened.

But for today? I spread my arms wide and embrace the majesty of the winter night.

The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges by Kris A. Newman is available through the
Estore at krisanewman.webs.com. 
Come on by.  Read a bit.  Leave a note.  Order a book.  Or just stop in and wave hello. 
You're very welcome.  - Kris

First John

I’m kind of stuck on the “angel” angle these days. I keep remembering people who have blessed me. Maybe I’m getting old, but I seem to have an awful lot of good memories. I’m going to attempt to get some of these memories out into the atmosphere to encourage people to, “just be nice!” as my Grandma would say.

So, go on, do something random and kind to someone you know and someone you don’t know. Someday, maybe you’ll be a part of my angel collection…..


Not very many people on the planet will know my first angel, and those who do might wonder at the label “angel.” But this isn’t their memory. It’s mine. And this is how I remember him and what I learned from him.



First John.

I don’t know why he was walking – he had a motorcycle. I don’t remember what the bike looked like, but I remember the sound, the smell, the feel of the Harley engine, the roughness of the leather seat, the smoothness of the gas tank. If I heard it, I could identify that bike.

But that day, the one that flashes in my memory, he didn’t have the bike and I don’t know why.

It was before the road was paved. I can see the dust gathered along the side and me piling it up and smoothing it out while I waited. I knew he would be there soon. He came down the hill walking toward me. Black hair combed back, but flopping along the sides in spite of the attempts to tame it. T-shirt, jeans, heavy work boots. He looks like the All-American iconic working man.

To my three-year-old stature, he was immeasurably tall; seeming to stretch to the heavens. I knew if I could get him to pick me up, the entire earth and all of its things would be beneath me. I would be like the queen in the movie borne in a carriage from the servant’s shoulders. Only the sharp blue sky and the powder puff clouds would be above me. I would be queen!

Surely, that’s how he made me feel. Safe, protected, above it all. When he bent to me and lifted me in those mammoth, strong arms…. I flew!

That day, when I waited patiently for him at the bottom of the hill, I didn’t consciously think all those things, but I knew them.

I also waited for that gentle smile to light his eyes. Pure love, pure enjoyment. As though I were the best little girl in the world. I smile today – so many, many lifetimes later – thinking of his smile.

One more thing I know about that day. In that working man’s lunchbox – the flip top with a Thermos tucked in its rounded top – somewhere buried in the deep, dark, cool interior a Kit Kat bar was hidden for me. If not there, then in a pocket of the leather vest he wore, or maybe his t-shirt, close to his heart. It would be there for me to find, a favorite game we played.

Then, in my memory, he is there, finally getting to me and reaching his hands as I call, “Up! Up!”

John might seem an odd angel to you, but he left an indelible mark on my life.

I’m not sure how that slice of time ends. When the vest was buried by men’s violence in a blur of viscous anger, the patch hidden or confiscated or destroyed. I couldn’t read the word Outlaws then, but I came to understand the fear of the word and the innate sadness it brought to me. The boots, chains, bike, vest – to me they made him invincible. To someone else a target.

I was too young to understand the meaning of the words spoken the day they called. I saw the tears, heard the anguish, but didn’t know why. Forgotten by the adults speaking above and around me, I heard the radio playing, “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Ever after, it became the catalyst of the phrase, “that’s the song that was playing when they called about John.”

Of all my angels, John is the first most precious to me. He was taken from me first, before I wanted him to go. He taught me to see beyond the surface; to look in a man’s eyes to find out who he is; to not discount anyone.

I don’t know his history or the story of his last day. The waiting day is the only real, complete memory I have of him. I have heard other stories: how he loved me, how he always had candy for me, how he would tuck me in his leather and take me on the bike. I can feel the patch on my face and smell his leather, but only once can I see his face. That is the day I waited for him and he smiled.

In my memory, he is a giant who carried me like a queen, whose smile spoke volumes of love to me. That is enough.

Angel Collection

I have an angel collection.  I didn’t used to.  It was started many years ago by Lopez, my boss, who asked someone else if I collected anything.  She figured I collected angels.  So, for Christmas and birthday and Secretary’s Day and for sundry other times when gift giving was an appropriate part of our work relationship, he bought me angels: figurines, ornaments, candles, bookends and more.  Finally, I asked him why he always bought me angels. 

“Because Judy said you collect them,” he answered plainly.

“I guess I do now!”  We laughed and that increased the angel giving. 

We worked together for ten years.  I have a lot of angels from him.  That kind of thing is contagious and so I also have a number of angels from other people, too.  It’s easy to give gifts when one has a theme.

This year when the angelbabies were decorating my little Christmas tree I was caught by the beauty of it.  They kept asking me, “Who gave you this angel?  Where did this angel come from?”

The angelbabies had never, and likely would never, meet the angelgivers.  They are collected along the rainbows of my past.   Those rays of promise, peace and plenty who gave what they could to smooth the way.  We shared laughter – so much laughter  – as we walked and some tears.  Although, the tears I tried to keep to myself.  My angels always seem to have enough sorrow of their own without borrowing mine. 

I always felt I took more from my angels than I gave.  Like the Little Drummer Boy, I always seem to be the poor one with nothing to offer but my love.  Many times I have sat with my Lord and talked about my angels and all of their needs.  “Please, God, can’t you just…..”   The blank would be filled with “make them better, bring some cash, heal the hurt, do something about the anger, bring peace to their lives?” 

I wished a thousand times for unlimited supplies to fix all that was wrong. 

In the meantime, these angels kept doing good things for me.  Compassion and grace and books and clothes and dinners and coffees and calendars and time they gave.  Filling my empty cup again and again with memories.    How could I ever repay them their generosity?  How could I ever give back?

I am not a very good friend.  I forget birthdays, important events and details.  I don’t mean to.  My days move quickly and I lose track of time.  I try to do better by adding things to the calendar, and then I forget where the calendar is.  I try to listen better and take mental notes, but then the notes in my mind get misfiled and I forget if it was her or him with that particular problem.  Sigh. 

And then, there I am again, back in my prayer closet asking God to help all these precious angels.  Hoping I have enough faith and He has enough grace to overcome my forgetfulness.

I also thank Him, often, for the angels He has given me.  If you hear me say, “Thanks, God!” it’s not a cliché.  I am often caught off-guard by the gifts He gives me and can’t help but thank Him.  Most often, though, the thanks I give Him for the angels cannot be heard by others.  It’s mingled with tears flowing from a grateful heart.

I pray today you see the angels He has given you.  Forget looking for signs and wonders inexplicable.  Notice the everyday, amazing, stunning miracles that He has littered your path with.  Drown yourself in His blessings.
 

I thank my God for you, my readers.  You give courage to my voice. 

I thank my God for you, my lifetime friends.  You give purpose to my laugh lines.

I thank my God for you, my angels.  You give ever much more than you receive.

Thanks, God, for so many gifts. 

Readers and Writer

I have to apologize to my readers, wherever you are. I haven’t been in the mood to write much lately. Maybe it’s the way people have reacted to the book that’s made me reticent. I feel almost third-person-ish talking about this Author Kris Newman who spills her guts to the world.

I know the transparency of my words give honesty and purpose to my experiences. That’s why I write about them.

Some have been angry with me. Misunderstanding my need to express, they think perhaps I’m trying to justify myself, my actions, my life. I’m not. Some of my writing is, indeed, cathartic. Most is the result of prayer, contemplation and reader reaction.

On one level, my writing is a ministry. It’s a way of helping others to deal with the difficulties of life that I have dealt with. Not because I have become some perfect specimen of grace and forgiveness; but, in my human reactions to the events of my life I have found Someone to give me grace and forgiveness. The answer to my life’s complications doesn’t come from within my own strength, but in the strength I get from God.

Say what you may, but that’s how I see it.

I see my writing as an expression of that, a way to connect others to God who has helped me so He can help them.

Some readers of the book are surprised to learn how similar we all are. At least, that’s how I perceive their response. Perhaps it is I who is surprised to learn how similar they are to me. Some pieces I expect people to like and they don’t. Some pieces I expect them to find shallow or foolish, and they love them.

Readers, I have decided, are an unpredictable lot.

The one piece which seems to garner the strongest reaction is the one I enjoyed writing the most: A Night at the Theater. Some readers have begged to know who is the mysterious woman, what is the relationship between the two, and is there a sequel! All are unanswered questions which make my heart smile to no end.

I’m a little afraid to see my words in print because I know I can’t take them back and hide them anymore. I think that’s why I haven’t written.

But don’t think for a minute that the words have left me. They push me along on the whims of their way. As long as I’m alive, I’m sure, I’ll be writing something.

And as long as I know you’re reading, I’ll keep writing. Please forgive the time between when I simply must catch my breath and determine if I really am strong enough to throw my heart out there.

I know not everyone will like everything that I write. I know not everyone will understand everything. Writing isn’t a popularity contest or a test of my ability. It’s only expression.

And so, my readers, please forgive my reticence. And thank you, so very much, for stopping by to chat with me.



If you would like more information about The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges, please visit my website at:  Krisanewman.webs.com   Grab a cuppa java and visit awhile!
 

Where to Place an Order

Some people have asked about how to order the book, please send me an e-mail at imnewkris@yahoo.com with "Book Order, Please" as the subject line and let me know that you would like to place an order.  I will respond with where your check or money order can be mailed.  When I have received payment, I will fill the order.

You can also order through Amazon.com or through my website:  Writer's Pages

There is something very strangely fulfilling about seeing my words in print.  I realize that anyone can publish anything so being published doesn't make it good. 

However, those are my words.  Those words I can't hide from or stash away or live without.  My words.  And now, they are part of the experience of many, many others.  People who are from completely different walks of life are sharing my path. 

My words bridge the gap between their perspective and mine.  It's not easy - this opening of my heart and spilling its contents to a stranger, but it's good.  It's a risk worth taking and I would recommend it. 

All very interesting to my writer's eyes.  I watch and listen and perceive that underneath all of our bluster, we are more alike than different. 

The EStore is Open for Business!

IF you were one of those people who said they wanted to order a copy of my first self-published work,

THEN here is the place you want to go to place your order:  createspace.com

A couple of people have already ordered their copies and it seems to be a pretty smooth transaction.  Let me know, please, if you have any difficulties.  I can also order copies for you, but it's a longer process since you have to send me the money and then I have to place the order, receive the shipment and then send it out to you.  Going through the link above cuts me out of the process.

I really am humbled by the support I've received, and the encouragement.  I don't understand why you want to read my ramblings.  I am not all together sure I make any sense at all and I surely don't have anything deep or profound to say that will shift your paradigms.

But, maybe, just in the transparent honesty of looking into the world through my eyes you can see something just a little differently.  Maybe it's yourself that looks new.  Maybe it's someone you work with, or live with.

I pray for you, my readers, that God will use my words to bless you.  And I thank Him, too, for your friendship.

You can also access the link through my website:  Writer's Pages 

Let me know you stopped by!

If by chance you would like to host a book signing, please let me know.  I'm sure we can arrange something.  I would love the opportunity to share with you and your friends what God has done.

Blessings galore!
Kris