A few years ago I taught at the college. One of the ambitions I clung to was that the students would like the course. I pulled all the stops, engaging them with stories, singing, projects, and puppets. I even justified making apple tarts and marbeled balls. The title was Art and Creative Expression in Education, so my tactics made sense, but I may have gone overboard. You know, when I brought in baby chicks.

 

There was a class I took in junior high (a stage of life which is arguably the rock bottom of social fulfillment) that was hard. I can still recall the math teacher who was as wrinkled as a rhino, with a skinny black tie and wire rimmed glasses. I had been bumped up to an accelerated section where there was no hand holding or sticker charts for effort. He was discussing absolute value, and I thought I had landed on another planet. All the kids except me knew what he was talking about. Up until then I had fancied myself facile with numbers but suddenly everything I was sure of vanished. The absolute value of negative three is three? Huh? I was too petrified to raise my hand, so I struggled silently until the lights eventually went on. 

 

Yet I still remember the class forty five years later. 

 

There was a man in California who criticized John relentlessly. While he smiled to our faces, he undermined John's authority in the congregation, and spread discontent. Because he never confronted John directly it was difficult to clear the air. I was close friends with the antagonist's daughter and one day I was venting my frustration to her about it. 

 

"Give thanks for him," she said flatly. Excuse me? 

 

"John will grow more from my father's poking than from ten congregants who think he is great."

 

I was acutely annoyed at her for a lack of empathy, but it turns out she was right. 

 

Liking life is a perk. But it is not always the most direct route to a better version of ourselves.