It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

by | Jan. 05, 2010

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At five something tomorrow morning I will hear classical musical eminating from the Wave Radio, gradually growing louder until I realize it’s not part of my dream and fumble for the alarm remote on the top of my headboard. Exhaustedly, I will roll out of bed and trip into the bathroom, shivering and banging into the dresser along the way. With half squinted eyes, I will pull on my trusty black skirt and heavy black sweater I laid out on the side of the bathtub the night before. I will brush my teeth and my hair and tiptoe downstairs as quietly as is humanly possible. Time to set the scene. Turn up thermostat for that heat zone, turn on the outside lights, and unlock the door. Sketchbooks, pens and icy simulated -leather covered scriptures circle round the table. I will glance through the hymn CD stack for the shortest and most up tempo songs (slow or excessively high hymns never sound very good when they are the first sounds that emerge from your mouth in the morning). I hear the muffled clunk of car doors. Thirty seconds later the side door opens with a blast of 15 degree fierce New England air barging into the room, accompanied by 10 stomping feet as snow is shaken off shoes and onto the doormat.

I teach early morning seminary. (This is a 4 yr. scripture study class for high school students, taught early in the morning before school for most people this means class begins at 5:45 or 6am. You do not get paid for this position.) I’ll admit when I was called to this calling, I cried.

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