Matthew Robinson

While sitting in his living room for the first time one Wednesday night over a year ago, I asked him how old he was. In reply, he asked me how old I thought he was. I stated matter-of-factly: “Well I guess from the house, and job, and having it all together, you must be 35 or 36.”

He’s 27. And that was my first real interaction with Scott Simmons.

I attended E3 the last several months that Scott led there, and from being in Tallahassee and going to school at about the same time, I knew his name.

But I didn’t know the man.

I’ve learned a lot from Scott these past twelve months. He has this way of living by example which causes me to reflect. Reflect about being a future husband. A father. A leader. A man. A worshiper. A life live-er. Subtle in disguise, the thought processes, incredibly analytical in nature but never void of compassion, that Mr. Simmons entails are appealing to me. I know that if Scott says something, he’s thought about.

And when Dean and I heard the news that he’d thought so much about all of the pluses in his equation of life, and knew something had to give, my respect for the man I had come to know only increased. Because he’s such a talented musician and leader, I knew how terribly difficult it was to realize something had to give.

We were able to honor Scott last night. I’m not sure when or where along the way the gold record idea was thought up in these past two months, but it was, and I rolled with it. And it fit. And he was surprised. And concluding with “God of this City”, the mastered-track on that record, and an anthem we’ve embraced since Easter, was a no-brainer.

Scott and Jen and Karsyn aren’t going anywhere. I wish I could say the same about the air conditioning. I knew something went wrong while we were on the couch and I heard the fans stop. And I felt the air stop circulating. And I felt the sauna in the kids area. We managed, worked through the hiccups, and ended with a bang.

A solid transition plan is in place, and we’re well off and in the fantastic and excellent hands of Rachel Boeselt as The Well actively searches for and pursues our next Worship Leader. We’ve rounded a bend, started trekking up the year two mountain, and “for-real” kick off the summer next Sunday. It will sound, and look, different. But we’ll continue to strive for that same standard of Well excellence every second along the way each Sunday.

It’s not simply because he towers a foot or two above me, but I look up to Scott. He has taught me, and I’m certain an unspoken many others, so much this past year and a half. And I’m not ashamed to say it. I do. I do heart Scott Lamar Simmons.

Back at school this week (“work” and school are interchangeable in my life) had me thinking about my first-first day as a professional teacher. On the two job applications I’ve ever had to fill out, both for teaching positions, I’ve put in the “years experience” column “professional = how ever many I’ve been teaching, practice = 16). My sister’s two years younger than me, and she was my first ever student. Indeed, we used to play school. And of course, I was always the teacher.

I started out in this gig pretty young. 21. With upperclassmen in high school. I just finished year five, but I remember that first-first day with such clarity…

My first principal called me the day before the Spring semester was to begin and offered me a job. This was not in “my” plan. I was going to go to grad school to earn a masters. And then I was going to take the educational world by storm. I told my principal to give me an hour and I’d call her back. Everyone told me to go for it. And I did. (And I also went for school. Doing both, full time, for nearly 5 years helped me earn that masters and a PhD, but I’d never recommend it to anyone).

So I planned away. And I showed up that next morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I had 176 students (this was before “class size” became legislated). I had 42 of those 176 in one class. Right after lunch. The rest of that story isn’t too hard to imagine…

But in my first period class I got off to a running start. These students needed order (they had flown through seven subs the previous semester after their teacher left). They needed consistency. They needed love. They needed rules. They needed a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young 21 year old.

I’d give them expectations. I’d give them ownership. I’d stimulate and help them critically think and actively engage and provide opportunities for them to construct their own meaning. I’d spiral review and construct-a-concept, I’d help them discover-a-relationship and cooperatively learn.

I’d do all those magical things they taught me that worked in the halls of Stone and Carothers, but needed some work in the classroom.

“Groups! I’ll try groups!” I thought. Halfway through that first period I introduced their task and effortlessly began my classroom management.

In the back right corner sat two students. In the back right corner sat two students embodying the true spirit of dysfunction.

Defensively, proactively, and eagerly desiring to correct, I strode toward that right rear corner and asked what the problem just so happened to be.

One of the students replied “I don’t like groups. I hate groups. I don’t want to work with a partner.”

“You have to work with a partner,” I responded.

“You have a choice. You always have a choice. You can make the choice to take part in this activity and complete it and earn the necessary points to earn a passing grade to earn enough gpa quality points to earn your third credit in math in an effort to aid you in earning a high school diploma. Or you can make the choice, your choice to make, to not do anything and choose to handle the consequences that will most certainly come your way. Yes, you do have a choice.”

Me and my damn “choices” speech. I’ve watched Dangerous Minds one too many times.

I concluded: “I’d recommend you go ahead and work with your partner. Go ahead and make that choice. Go ahead and work with him.”

Partner says:

“I’m not a him. I’m a her.”

Foot.
In.
Mouth.

My first-first day…

I love the first day of school. It’s my absolute favorite. I’m on my best game, and I think for my students, it’s the unknown that ends up being most appealing. I don’t say much during class until about 2/3 of the way through, after a few activities and their introductions, which leads to a build in anticipation. At least on the first day, my jokes are laughed at, my students are attentive, and time flies by.

I never call roll. I don’t know how to pronounce most of their names, so I walk around with the roster, ask them to show me which name belongs to them, and ask them to tell me how to say it. It saves embarrassment. And it gives me an immediate connection with each newbie in my life. Once I’ve got their name, I give each student an info sheet/questionnaire.

One of the prompts on the questionnaire asks “If you could ask God one question, what would it be?”

The unknown. Not what most students expect. From the get-go they have to think.

The responses each semester are enlightening. I teach a cross section of the population of college students: young and old, black and white and brown and many shades in between, rich and poor, single and married, working and unemployed. But the questions these students want to ask all strike a certain chord.

Here’s some of the more interesting from the start of this semester…happy fist day of school!

-”What kind of fish swallowed Jonah??”
-”Where am I going to be in the next 10 years?”
-”Why so much misery, pain, and suffering for the sins of our forefathers?”
-”When will my days of struggling be over?”
-”How will this baby in me turn out?”
-”Why do bad things happen to good people?”
-”Will I make it to heaven?”
-”What do I need to do to get to Heaven?”
-”Will I make it in Heaven to stay?”
-”What does my future look like?”
-”Not sure yet…I have a bunch to ask.”
-”Is this man the right one for me to start my life with?”
-”Why did you take my father away?”
-”Why do good people die?”
-”What is my purpose in life?”
-”What’s the point?”
-”What are our dream when we sleep?”
-”When am I going to die?”
-”What happens when you pass away?”
-”Why do people hurt children?”
-”How long will I live?”
-”Is the path I’m taking now the right one?”

Yes, we played Dangerous. Yes, it really was Akon at the Well. And yes, it was the “clean” version.

I pulled double duty today along with a few others and had breakfast with Dean, where our best conversations always occur, before heading over to FOTH to hear him preach there this morning. It was wonderful to be able to “just” go to church as opposed to do church as is this case every Sunday at 5:30 p.m. Dean preached almost the same sermon (“Make Us Dangerous”) in the morning and evening, and to listen to it all, live, was a treat. My backstage and production duties on a Sunday night keep me from hearing the whole thing, and hardly ever from the audience. There’s so much more than most know that’s going on behind the scenes!

“You can’t lose your witness if you don’t have one!”  Wow.  Been on my mind all day.

Our friends Rachel and Jeremy Boeselt rocked out with a full band–we’re going to be seeing more of them, and we’re lucky to be able to say that.

Next Sunday’s a special one. Plans are coming together nicely and I’ve been looking forward to honoring a friend for some time now.

School starts tomorrow. I’ve had nine weeks “off” to just have one full time job. I wont sleep tonight (I never do) with first day jitters, but it will be wonderful to be back, hitting my stride, changing the world one Algebra student and “I believe in you” at a time. I’ve lived the life of a college student these past two months, had many a lunch with a friend and many a meeting to plan and do things for The Well. In some regards, it’s back to life, back to reality…

A dangerous life and reality!

So I did it.  I love me some Jeep, but the ‘05 Liberty finally got to me.  I’m too much of a man of numbers.  I’ve crunched them constantly for the past month, and between the payment and the gas, I knew I was being foolish.

I did get a chick magnet though.  Remember, I’m a trend setter…sportin’ a new 2009 silver Toyota Corolla.  Averages 28 mpg in the city.  Small, yes.   Much more intelligent, certainly.

36 months.  We’ll see how they go.  But in the mean time: watch out roads, here I come!

Someone abandoned her. Dropped her off on a red dirt road near Wahkeena Highway in Monticello, on a scorching early summer day. She was in bad shape. Beaten. Starved. Faught. ‘Deplorable’ is too kind of a word to describe her condition.

Dr. Doolittle herself starting feeding her. And Dr. Doolittle’s mom got suckered in. “No,” they replied when asked by Dr. Doolittle’s father if “that mutt” had been fed.

They lied.

And “that mutt” came nearer the house. And just sat and looked. And took “it”–what her life could be–all in.

She’d been blessed with the one thing she needed most: a human with a heart, and she stuck around.

I first met Sadie Michael Robinson on a visit out to Jefferson County shortly after her arrival. She was loyal from the get go. She followed everyone, everywhere, in an effort to begin replacing the void of the loving human contact that she had, for so long, lacked exposure to.

Kayla and I decided to keep her. We made a first run visit to Animal Aid, where we never returned, and had her initially examined. At just the right size, the perfect demeanor, and in need of a little love myself, I offered to “sponsor” her and “see how it goes”.

It went. It took months to help her realize she would not be beaten ever again by any man, from whom, initially, she always cowered. Fearful that prior wrath would show its face again she dared not step past the threshold from the outside into the house. Weeks of literal “one steps at a time” began reversing the monstrosity of the former “training” to which she had become obedient. It has only been in the last three months that she’s realized breakfast and dinner are coming, consistently, each and every day, and that the meal in front of her is not her last.

Sadie has her peculiarities. She paws at everything, trying to embrace, wanting to touch and hold when her two legged friends don’t necessarily want to. Her over-used and abused body has deep scars, and after malnourishment and a vet determined several liters, her boobies still hang low. She never destroys, but will make the most random piles of things I forgot were ever in the house or the yard. A glass table top is her outstretched surface of choice. And she’s barked, to my recollection, only twice.

The vet thinks she’s four or five, which has led me to often wonder what her former life was like. Did she have any regard for her previous abusers? Has she forgiven them? What was her name? Did she have canine comrades she misses? What became of her liters? Does she ever wish she could go back? Does she like it here? Can she remember? Will she ever forget?

Sadie Michael Robinson got a clean bill of health today, one year after her first trecerous visit. To me it’s her birthday, and I’ve afforded her the luxury of getting to start counting from the beginning all over again. She’s fattened up a little too much, needs to loose four or five pounds (she truly is a Robinson), and should, hopefully, live a long and healthy life.

She’s taught me love. Loyalty. Patience. Trust. Chill. I’ve become one of those pet owners who can honestly say that “I don’t know what I’d do without her.” I’ve fallen for a mutt.

And she’s fallen for me. Here’s to my favoirte one year old!

Becoming an adult in the town where I went to college (the so called syndrome of “staying in Tallahassee”) did actually take a lot more adjustment than I imagined. Add in the less than subtle layer of teaching high schoolers in Tally, and the transition from the boundaries of Ocala- Tennessee- Pensacola- Woodward (which was Tallahassee for so long) to the rest of the sprawling hills and canopy roads was even more difficult.

But I made “grown up” friends fast. A band of five of us quickly united, and over the course of the past five years we grew, in many ways, inseparable.

In many respects we became adults together. We lived life: Engagements. Marriages. Births. Deaths. Drama. Laughter. Tears. Fun.

I left the high school two years ago, and others have come near and close to the inner circle, but we’ve all managed to maintain the close knit community we had found.

Three of those five are now gone.

And it’s been an emotional week.

I relish in my friends’ new adventures of life, love, and work related successes. In doing life together, we knew this day would one day come.

It has. And it’s tough.

There are fun new cities to visit. And phone calls and emails to be sent and received.

But they’re not here. And I am.

And it sucks.

We’re all beginning our next chapters, and if the trend continues, this one will be even more of a wild ride than the last one.

But I miss my friends.

My supporters and encourage-ers and cheerleaders and put-in-place-ers and do life along side-ers.

They’ve become family.

And I just miss them. And I have to, but don’t want to, turn the page.

An idea that was born a few months ago came to fruition last night. Dean, Scott and I all arranged to get our dads here to Tallahassee and managed to con them in to taking part in the Father’s Day service. Gary hit his lines, got a few laughs, and helped me look good doing my on-stage job…he was nervous, will probably never do it again, put pulled it off with finesse. He made me proud!

The idea to wall paper the foyer came to me about a month and a half ago late one night while trying to fall asleep (where many of my best ideas come from…while I do have a pen and pad of paper in the nightstand by the bed, I’ve grown more accustomed to sending myself a text with these great ideas before I doze off so I’ll still remember them in the morning.) We had a good…could have been great…response from Well-ers submitting pics, and I appreciate the work Cari did in getting them made. The rain post-service helped people stick around and take it in. A black-and-white photo does wonders for reminiscing’s sake.

I’ll admit I have a crush. On Freddie Simmons. On Natalie Fady. And on Heather Stuyverson.

“I’ll Fly Away” old-school-revival-style anyone? Four beautiful women leading us acoustically after a week of hurdles and sounding amazing? I stand in awe…the ladies of Midtown _______ (still need to find the band name…) were in true high quality form, and their efforts made for a solid evening. I can’t do what they do and don’t even try–and that increases the intrigue I have for each musician whose path I cross.

What didn’t happen: my favorite Cosby show clip of all time, and a short video about dad’s we spent 18 bucks on! I didn’t get the “propresenter and the new quicktime don’t work well together so don’t upgrade” email, but tech support at 11:30 last night confirmed that there was nothing I could have fixed on the fly; a lesson in patience, flexibility, and “get over it” was learned once again last night. No one but me knew the difference, but it was one I hated sucking up!

Getting excited for the summer series…and the new set…and more band stuff in the next few weeks…and the people I don’t know or don’t get a chance to meet who walk through the door, and will continue to, each Sunday night.

Next Sunday’s coming fast–and next Father’s Day service is already on my mind!

Most don’t know that I’m a closet news junkie. I listen to NPR, I check cnn.com throughout the day, I get the Democrat, I read Newsweek, and at 6:30 p.m. every night I make sure I DVR The NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. I guess I got into it young: Heather and I used to make our own news shows with the video camera at home; I was on the morning announcements in elementary school, worked behind the scenes on them in TV Production in eighth grade, and for several end-of-the-days each week during junior and senior years at Hillsborough I’d bellow “good afternoon teachers and students, please excuse this interruption for today’s afternoon announcements…”

Breaking News. The Olympics. Tragedies. Triumphs. I get sucked in to the on-going coverage. Ours was a house that grew up with Tom Browkaw, made the transition to Brian, and met Ann Curry one time in NYC. I’m fascinated by journalism and one day when I’m rich and famous and beautiful and have the successful bakery and talk show, I’m going to report the news. Dream big…

I don’t have any true connection to Tim Russert. But at 11:47 p.m. on Friday night, when I watched back that DVR-ed Nightly News, Brian Williams, from Afghanistan, started off, and continued, with and about our loss. I watched coverage, fighting back sleep, for the next hour and a half from bed. It was sudden and unexpected, and throughout the past few months of this politcal season, I came to know a great voice and mind with clarity and even-keel explanation. He’s gone. At 58.

It was breaking news. And the montages of his life, that of one great Timothy J. Russert, in this tragedy, have shown true triumph.

My sister and I received the following email on Sunday morning.

“Good morning children. I hope you are both having a great weekend and realize what today is. Today is the start of your mother’s favorite time of year. HURRICANE SEASON!!!!!!! I wish you could have seen the excitement on her face when she learned yesterday that there was already a tropical storm down by the Yucatan. Priceless, that’s how I would describe her level of excitement. So be ready for that phone call sometime today. Do you have all of your supplies on hand? How many gallons of water do you have? Do you have peanut butter, tuna, batteries and 3 or 4 flashlights with at least one on your nightstand? You can’t be prepared enough. Did you also know that the peak of Hurricane season is July 5th thru July 19th?”

Mom really does get excited about this kind of stuff. Heather’s wedding is July 12th.

And for the record, my blue, waterproofed, Rubbermaid tote is packed. Stored away in true dopler-weather-radar-Roy Leep-Steve Jervey-fashion. Tropical Depression Robinson is headed north in a few weeks and I’m sure the provisions will be scouted out.