I did not get along with my sixth grade teacher.  Her name was Mrs. Thompson and we called her "Mrs. T."  Please understand, she did not ask us to call her Mrs. T, nor did she really appreciate the nickname, but we called her Mrs. T because we used to "pity the fool" (presumably Mr. T) who had to deal with her after school was over. 

I can no longer remember what began my sour relationship with Mrs. T, but I do remember not being alone in my distaste for her class.  Be that as it may have been, I guess I went a bit over the top, because it was in her class that I was sent home with my first tarnished report card.  Now, you may figure that I am referring to Bobby's first 'B,' but I'd already knocked that one out the year before, when I failed a math test due to my color-blind eyes confusing every red/green bar graph (long story, we fixed the grade).  No, when I say tarnished report card, I meant in the 'Comments' section that goes along with the grade.  On a yearly basis, my report cards read words such as "wonderful," or "super student!"  I knew I was going to get an 'A,' so the comments section added a bit more anticipation.  I could have never anticipated the words she'd write.  The comment section I brought home that day read one word..."Belligerent." 

Belligerent...wow.  I didn't even know what the word meant at the time, but I still felt as though a knife had ripped through my heart.  I knew that no such word could ever have been created to mean anything good.  But I wasn't left in the dark for long.  Believe you me, my parents took plenty of time to explain what that word had meant, and inform me that "Belligerent Bob" was not an alliteration I should be comfortable with.

After and entire Christmas break of my parents telling friends and family about the report card (all the while, flashing intense glares in my direction) it was time to return to Mrs. T's room, for English class.  I should probably take the time to inform you of another reason we didn't like her class, which derived from her persistently random (2 pts for an oxymoron) pop quizzes.  I don't like pop quizzes.  Academically, I don't agree with them either, especially at the 6th grade level.  But my opinion counted for naught, and for that year, I constantly wondered if I'd be quizzed upon my arrival to her room.

That wonder and fear changed entering the second semester of that year.  I remember vividly walking into her classroom daily, with a newfound determination to defeat my nemesis and her surprise quizzes.  Her sneak attacks would no longer work on me.  It wasn't about just victory, either.  It was about domination.  I would take a quiz in my hand and begin, furiously writing, erasing, rewriting, and turning in papers as fast as I possibly could.  I remember one day turning in her quiz before she'd finished passing them out.  I was determined not only to succeed, but I also felt I had something to prove. 

Living life with something to gain and something to prove was excellent motivation, even for a 6th grader.  But still, you may be wondering what that has to do with life for adults or why I'm even bringing this about.  The truth is, though we should think much more highly of our Teacher in life, our lives, like my 6th grade year will be chocked full of "pop quizzes."  We will never wake up in the morning knowing in which ways we will be tested.  We can never be fully expectant of the trials and tests which we will face.  But though we cannot be certain of exactly when and how we will be tested and tried, we can be certain that it will indeed happen.  That knowledge can/should lead us into intense preparation and training, putting any work a 6th grader might accomplish to shame. 

There will be a test alright, and this time around, there's no way to be saved by the bell.

In love,

Bob

An excerpt from "If" by Amy Carmichael...

If...
     I asked to be delivered from trial rather
               than for deliverance out of it,
          to the praise of His glory;
     if I forget that the way of the cross leads
               to the cross
          and not to a bank of flowers;
     if I regulate my life on these lines,
          or even unconsciously my thinking,
          so that I am surprised when the way
               is rough and think it strange, though
               the word is, "Think it not strange,"
               "Count it all joy,"
...Then I know nothing of Calvary love.