It’s late and I can’t sleep.  Tomorrow’s my birthday, but the fact that I will be fifty seven is not the source of my insomnia.  It is the source of my incontinence, but being old doesn’t keep me awake.  If anything, I find myself sleeping more than ever.

No, what’s got me all uptight is that tommorrow is the fist day of my return to Pinecrest Middle School.  I am one of those fortunate ones who get to spend several hours every day for 180 days every year with 6th, 7th, and 8th graders.  And to make matters worse, I is their English teacher. 

The truth is, I am really a high school teacher, but I find it very convenient to drive the short drive through the woods to Pinecrest, so that’s what I do. 

The problem with middle schoolers is not that they are inherently evil, but that they are just plain irritating.  Since I have a great deal of experience with puberty (both personally and professionally), I think I can lend an expert voice as to why they are so unlikable.  And I’ve boiled it down to body chemistry.

For one thing, the boys are just getting their first surge of testosterone, that male sex hormone that makes them think they can conquer the world and that girls find bathroom sounds attractive.  With old men like me, testosterone surges are a distant memory, but I do recall that when I was in my early thirties I had become accustomed to testosterone.  In other words, I knew how to handle it.

But not middle school boys.  Every day is a power struggle.  Who’s more manly – me or them?  That’s what they are trying to prove – that they are more of a man than I am.  What it really boils down to is, who’s going to contol the classroom because testosterone makes every man think he’s a leader. 

And then there’s the girls.  It’s like the estrogen fairy comes by one night while the precious little angels are alseep in their beds and sprinkes a little female hormone on them.  Not enough that they would notice but enough to make once angelic beings turn demonic.  Oh, how I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a pre-pubescent woman say to me in that sarcastic tone, “Whatever, Mr. Dasher!” 

And the competition between pre-pubescent females.  Like how many times have I had some girl named Brittany or Alisha come up to me and whisper about her best friend, “Mr. D, Kaitlyn’s clothes don’t meet the dress code.”  I mean, with guys, loyalty is everything, but the girls will squeal on one another in a heartbeat.  And chick fights?  You’ve never seen such violence.  I’d rather break up a guy fight every day of the week than one girl fight.  They don’t know when to quit.

In the end, however, I gott tell you.  It is an amazing job.  The truth is, that I think of my job as a kind of ministry. 

To begin with, it breaks my heart to find out how many of my students come from broken homes.  But that’s the good news.  The bad news is that many of them are being raised by drunks, drug addicts, and mothers or fathers who sleep with a different partner every night.  Worse yet, some of their parent’s sex partners are figuring they get the kids thrown in for free. 

And for all of those reasons, that’s why I try real hard not to take it personally.  In fact, I’ve written my own job description.  That is, that my job is not only to train and teach but to be one giant vending machine dispensing grace, love, and mercy – all for free.  I want my kids to know that I am loved by my father so much that I am compelled to love them in the same way as much as I am able to do. 

That means that I love the kids who are loveable, for sure.  But it also means that I love the kids who, on the outside, are defiant jerks.  I love the kids who act as if they don’t care about school or learning or respect.  I do this because, first of all, I am loved in that same way.  I also do it because I now know that everyone wants to be successful, that everyone wants to be loved and respected even if I can’t see it.  Sometimes, what you see isn’t what you get.

So I am praying that this school year I will be a more compassionate, loving teacher even when I am all up in some kid’s grill telling him how defiant and disrespecful he’s been.