Margins

I've been thinking a lot about margins lately.  As an AVID coordinator, part of my job is to tell kids to leave wide margins on their notes.  The actual methodology is called "Cornell Notes" and the goal is to return to their notes at a later date and add potential test questions in the left margin and a summary at the bottom.

They hate it.

It's hard to blame them because I understand their desire to just fill the page and be done.  As a child I hated those blue guidelines that whispered "don't write here" and I felt like the margins of my books were wasted space meant only to slow me down as I sped through yet another novel.  When teachers and professors allowed me to bring a 3x5 card full of notes to use on a test, you can bet I didn't include any margins.  Every centimeter was filled with formulas, facts, definitions, and clues to remind me of all those bits of information that I might possibly need.  To anyone else, my cramped writing looked like gibberish, but on the day of the test, that card was gold.

Before I got sick, I wrote in the margins of my days.  You can bet every line had a bulleted list, and every list had a footnote, and every footnote had a corresponding flow-chart. Looking back, through the 20-20 lens that is hindsight, I see that my combination of activities looked like gibberish to the outside world.  I had taken all the bits that I thought mattered and crammed it into a single page. 

Getting sick taught me margins.  Just like my students have to take time to pause and reflect, I was given years "on pause" and so many minutes and hours of reflection that I had time to choose bitterness or beauty.  Many days, I chose bitterness. I chose to fill my margins with commentary on the pain, loneliness and boredom.  By the grace of God, some of those margins are filled with the beauty of content, patience, and joy.  I tried to figure out what the potential test questions of the day were, and I came to a conclusion that I was put into the world, like Esther, "for such a time as this."  My pain had meaning--maybe not at that moment, but one day it would be redeemed so that I could love others.  My suffering was not a freak incident--instead of weeping "why me?" I was able to say in the brokenness of our world, "why not me?  My loneliness and boredom taught me to ask the One I said was always with me to comfort me.

Having margins lets us stop and summarize, make connections to others, and simply see the world more clearly.  So why do I fall back into the habit of crafting a life without margins? My September calendar is daunting--in addition to teaching, I have duties as the class of 2016 advisor,  professional development coursework and conferences,  a bible study I'm helping lead, a new dog to train, a crossfit groupon to use,  an FCA fundraiser at my house to host and plan, a neighborhood fundraiser to attend, back-to-school night, Homecoming, and my typical variety of medical appointments.  I have filled this month to the margins, and left no time for casual time with friends,  or moments sitting on the patio over coffee.  I'd like to have a margin like Abraham who, because he was resting in the heat of the day, was able to take the time to serve the visitors who brought such life-changing news.  I'd like to leave margins like Jesus who kept pestering the disciples to take time away and pray.  I'd like to leave margins like I once was forced to---but I'd like to do it voluntarily this time.