James D. Hogan

Prayer II (for Nana)

On September 2, 2012

FAITH

Gracious Lord, I open my heart to you. My body and spirit are but a fleeting, dim flame compared to the light that is yours. But just as two fires together burn brighter, my soul shines immeasurably larger when you are near to me. Forgive me for all of the times I turn away and leave your work undone.

Today, especially, I ask your presence with my grandmother, Nana. Be with her today. Lord, I cannot pray for you to heal her completely, because life on earth is temporary and eternity with you too sweet. I cannot pray for her to rush away too fast, because I love her too much to let her go just yet.

I know, though, that every moment she lingers here with us, Lord, is a difficult moment for her, so I pray for absolution. Lift from her the obligations that might burden her mind. With every bit of pain or confusion she might feel, bring her peace and comfort. When she feels worried or alone, bring her courage and fulfillment.

Above all, I pray she feels confident in the completion of her life, that she knows her days were lessons for us, that she understands we will carry our steps reflecting the love she lived every day, the love and light that starts with you.

Into the Heart of the Matter

By James D. Hogan

On August 12, 2012

In writing

LIFE WITH KIDDOS

Beginning, and ending.

I walked outside this morning and felt it immediately–the cool calm that let me know that there, lurking on the outer fringes of August, was the end of summer, its dry air and cool mornings lying in wait, sure to rush in soon to fill the void of something not quite laziness, something that best describes what the people here do when the atmosphere is thick and wet, when breathing or walking require commitment, when activity is measured by this fact, and in general we tend to do less. Summer is ending.

I had a sense it was about to happen. This weekend we hosted a handful of friends here in town for supper, coolers full of beer and food mounded in foil pans. By the end, when it was too late to play cornhole anymore and the group was small enough to sit around the table on the deck, we talked into the night, each of us present in the moment that is friendship. Somewhere the Avett Brothers drifted down from a pair of outdoor speakers, and it occurred to me that I’ve heard a million Avett Brothers songs, but I don’t think I’ve heard any of them twice, and nearly all of them have been performed live. I wondered how they remembered all the lyrics. We talked of the rain that was supposed to show up and ruin our cookout and of how lucky we’d been.

And then yesterday, Saturday, we didn’t do much but we did everything together, Kelly and Julia and me. We played together in the floor, Kelly sitting at the desk looking over something on the computer, me cross-legged in the floor, Julia wandering back and forth from the den and back into the office, a toy in her growing hands, her bare feet tracing some invisible circuit out to the couch and around.

Dear Teacher: Why I Quit

By James D. Hogan

On August 1, 2012

In writing

EDUCATION

Or, how I went from Teacher of the Year to suspended with pay in less than 24 hours.

It’s August, and for some of you that means the final countdown to work is now with us. Summer’s freedom is evaporating like heat shimmers from a blacktop highway.

This isn’t always a bad thing. I know plenty of teachers who, though they love having time off, are excited to break into their classrooms and face the blank walls, eager to unpack the posters they picked up in July, ready to set into motion the lessons that have been hiding in the corners, anxious for students to try them. August is a thrilling month for these teachers. It was thrilling for me. There was nothing more satisfying for my head and my heart than to hold, fresh off the printer, my syllabus for American Literature, or English Language and Composition, or Creative Writing.

But August is a different month for me now. I quit teaching almost five years ago. If you’ve never known why, it’s best if I start at the beginning of the story.