Coaches.
When I was sixteen, by some stroke of God’s grace, I was somehow enrolled in the English Honors program at my high school.
At sixteen, I was awkward, gawky, and painfully aware of how uncool I was. I dressed in extra large t-shirts and pants—because they were hand-me-downs—and K-Swiss, because it seemed that all of the cool kids at my church were wearing pairs of K-Swiss. I struggled to keep up with conversations. The only thing I was good at was checking out large amounts of books from the library, and that was because my mother insisted to the librarians that I would finish all ten books within the next week. (The limit was three.)
I mention all of this because when I entered the tenth grade, I was a mess.
And that’s when I was introduced to my English teacher, Mrs. Kelly. She was truly a terrifying, if not loving, force of nature: loud laughter, unabashed social commentaries, and the willingness to speak the truth, even if we got offended.
One of our first assignments had to do with reading a passage and writing a paper by following the standard formula—one introduction, three paragraphs, and a conclusion. At this point, I really had no idea what constituted good writing or not. So I just tried my best to write like the books I had read, instinctively adding punctuation and sentence structure the night before the assignment was due, and the next day I turned it in. She read it, gave me an inscrutable look, and said, “Did you know this is really good?”
“Did you know this is really good?”
I had no idea.
So I said, “No, I had no idea.”
She gave it back and told me, “Write more. I want to read what you write.”
There is a pivotal moment in every person’s life, when someone says, “I believe in you,” and it makes you want to create, draw, dream, even if sometimes it feels as if you're fumbling in the dark. It's inspiration. And inspiration is the fuel for creativity.
I would turn in some papers, she would read it, and say, “This is crap,” and give it back to me with red marks while I silently fumed. Other times she would read it, clap her hands, and say, “Yes, more of this.” And in the process our class began learning more about her life as she shared her own vulnerabilities—about the adopted son who died from a heroin overdose in years past who she still wept about, and about the husband who was the love of her life.
“I saw fireworks when we kissed, and that’s how I knew,” she said. “That’s how I knew he was going to be my husband.”
There were times she sent one of us out to wait patiently by the fence next to the school parking lot, where her husband would drive by, get out, toss over her lunch, and then drive off, like an undercover suburban spy doing a dead drop in the middle of the day. And then we’d return with her lunch, she’d crack open the Diet Coke ensconced within, and then she’d instruct us: “Write!”
She cared. At one point my high school counselor, my parents, and Mrs. Kelly sat me down to talk about my grades because I was at risk of flunking out of high school. I sobbed and resolved to do better. (I didn’t. I had no idea how to do better until I got to college, but that's another story for another time.)
I somehow graduated high school with a 2.4 GPA and an acceptance letter to one of the state colleges, where, to my surprise, I found out the results of my advanced placement tests.
I did not pass any other exam but the English ones.
Just the English ones.
Because I had a great coach.
One of the great things about taking the time to remember your past is that often you can point to turning points that change the course of your entire life. I am lucky enough to have had an amazing coach early on in my formative years who instilled a love of reading and writing in me— a passion, I might add, that has continued on to this day. She was intimidating at times, with weighty words and gravitas at others, but everything she did and said was founded on the principle of love.
I imagine this is what encountering God might feel like at times too.
Our First Coach may be intimidating,
With gravitas and weight to His words,
But there are moments in life,
He’ll read what we wrote,
And He’ll say: “Write more. I want to read what you write.”
Then together we’ll start writing a new story.
Flowing in grace and mercy.