As I monitored the aisles in my fifth grade classroom, I stopped and looked twice at one boy’s paper. His fingers were positioned as if he held a pencil, but I couldn’t see one. He appeared to be writing his essay with nothing at all.
“What is that? How are you writing? Where is your pencil?”
“Right here,” he answered, producing some giblet of something in his palm. It was no pencil.
“No, no, no, no, no! That is not a pencil!” I laughed, shimmying through the desks and leaning over my own teacher desk to open a drawer. “This,” I said, holding up a bright yellow Ticonderoga, “is a pencil. You can have it. But only if you let me have your … that … that thing you have been using. That is not a functional pencil. It is the idea-of-a-pencil. If I don’t save it, no one will believe when I say that a student was trying to use it.” I walked over to my bookshelf and plunked the pencil-nub into a small vase that usually held daisies. “For safe keeping,” I said.
Then I turned to the class and grinned, “Listen everyone! Writing will be a lot easier if you have good resources on hand! Or in your hand, as the case may be! There is nothing like a quality pencil. Do you see this small … thing here in this vase? This is not a sufficient pencil. I have never seen anything like this, in fact! If you are a well-meaning writer with a pencil that’s dwindling low, please surrender that idea-of-a-pencil and put it in this vase. Then come to me for a brand new one. I’ll make a trade with you! It is an offer you can’t refuse!”
I stopped laughing when five other kids stood up and put their pencil-nubs in the vase.
The next day, more kids did the same.
By the end of the month, I had to tell my eager students to stop telling all their friends in other classes where to upgrade. The vase was full of old pencils, and I was running out of new ones to trade.
It has been a while, but this little vase of pencil-nubs is precious; I will never throw it away. The lesson it teaches me is too rich. There are many times when I press on with diminishing resources myself. It is well known that persistence, even after repeated failure, is the key to success. That certainly has been true for me in the past. Yet there can be danger in persistence when it is not well paced.
- Paced persistence includes time for real rest.
- Paced persistence includes time for recreation.
- Paced persistence includes time for creation. I am talking about creation without documentation. Do any of us remember how to paint for the joy of painting, to cook for the joy of cooking, to garden for the joy of gardening, to build for the joy of building … without the pressure of sharing a public photograph afterward?
All of this is fresh in my thoughts because I ran out of inner resources recently. This summer I had gained ground on a personal goal. Then there was waiting. And more waiting. My response? Well, my heartfelt motto is keep going. This motto works when it is time for action. If there is something productive to be done, I keep going with hope and ridiculous confidence. That is what I am wired to do. Here I’ll borrow from Buddy the Elf: I just like to hope. Hoping’s my favorite. But sometimes the only thing that needs to be done is WAITING, and if my hands have nothing to keep going for, then my mind keeps going instead. The idea engine puts on the steam.
“If this happens, then this … but if that happens, then I’ll … and the very next thing on my list is … but if something unexpected comes up, then then maybe I’ll try …”
Before long, I’m worn out. Just from waiting! Am I the only one who is most exhausted, not by doing something, but by doing nothing? The more I tried to plan my options, the more I lost spiritual strength. The more I lost spiritual strength, the more I lost sleep. I am supposed to be writing for a living, not worrying for a living, but guess which one became my default? Writing is best when a writer is rested. I had to make my “mini-mind train” stop somewhere.
This is where the pencil-nubs come in. When I was run down and way behind this summer, my eye caught that treasured collection, and I just laughed to myself. “I know better than to get stuck thinking at this frenzied pace! I know better than to try to write with an under-resourced heart! What was it I told my students that day in my classroom? ‘If you are a well-meaning writer with a pencil that’s dwindling low, please surrender that idea-of-a-pencil … Then come to me for a brand new one …‘”
Those words sound familiar. They are the gentle echo of another, greater Teacher. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” He says.
I don’t have much left. Handing over my sorry self-sufficiency for brand new resources sounds good right now. Jesus is willing to make that trade if only I will surrender my idea-of-a-future and come to Him for rest. It is the ultimate upgrade.
It is the offer I can’t refuse.
And like my eager students, I’m telling all my friends.