Who Am I?

You hear that simple sentence usually in two distinctive tonal inflections: emphasis on the "am" clues you in that someone is on an identity journey. Science, religions, and laymen alike struggle with this particular question. The second tonal inflection focuses on the "I." Go ahead. Try saying it. This tonal inflection is usually ignored by popular culture because it cuts the legs out from under the MVP generation members and the message that we simply deserve whatever lite load or attractive thing the someone else in our lives happen to have. This is the tone of Moses as God placed the Him-sized task of leading His people out of slavery. I can imagine this tonal emphasis lilting out of king David's mouth as he realized the distance from where God took him to where He was being called to go. Can you hear the difference between the two inflections? Unlike the first tonal use which focuses inwardly, this tonal inflection of Old Testament kings and leaders comes from an image of self that is no longer sufficient and no longer able to ignore all else. 

Today, that second inflection was humming in my mind as the room around me continued to explode with shouts, cries of unfair treatment, and clamorings of my name. All day and all week I had been struggling with my insufficiencies as a teacher. I love my kids, and most days will find me awakining with the dawn and a smile as I remember some cute saying or story. But today was not one of those days. I wanted...well, I wanted the impossible: a quiet room, learning comprehension, and no screaming students. As I sat there watching chopsticks fly through bentos of rice, I pulled out my Bible app and suddenly the tonal inflection caught my attention. Who am (big, resounding emphasis here) I?

Who was I kidding? I was expecting my preschoolers (none of whom have even reached a developmental stage of total spacial recognition yet I might add) to be perfect cherubs in areas where I have failed. I am most certainly not perfect, and you better believe God has had to listen to many of my clamorings and shouts. Even after repeated reminders that it really was in my best interest to sit down and listen I continued to fidget, jump, and let myself be distracted by anything and everything.

Now, did this revelation suddenly make the din go away or the stress to subside? No way. This isn't a magical pill, just a new perspective prescription. It didn't produce an overwhelming sense of love for my screaming throng, nor did it ensure a smile on my face as children tried the, "let's see how many times I can say her name until she actually pays attention to me" tactic. No, it was simply true. No special side affects. It was just an inwardly peaceful and humbling thought that helped me be a little less Mrs. Nielsen (my horror of a grade school teacher), and a little more open to smiling. Sorry kids, I'm learning too. I guess we both need to have more patience.