Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

Her hair was white. She moved a little slowly.

That meets the criteria for being old, right?

Yes, she was definitely old — in the eyes of our sixth-grade class.

She was a good teacher, but I may be a little prejudiced because I was her pet. She let me grade all the papers.

She let me sit at her desk and take names when she left the room. Trust me — I ran a taut ship during name taking.

I would write names on the chalkboard for all to see. However, if one of the names belonged to a cute boy, I may have occasionally erased it before the teacher got back in the room.

I always helped the teacher. It was my destiny.

No matter how many papers I graded for her, no matter how many times I took names for her, no matter how many times she let me sit at her desk in front of the classroom reading a textbook to the class — those things are not my main memory of sixth grade.

My main memory took place in the stairwell.

As we headed down the stairwell to go to lunch one day, my teacher turned around to look at us to make sure we were not talking and in a straight line.

As she turned back around, she missed a step. She fell.

There was a giggle or two from a couple of students, but it stopped immediately. The seriousness of the situation quickly became overwhelming, as we saw that she was not able to get up. We were all scared. All 30 of us remained motionless.

I felt helpless because our leader was helpless.

She cried out, “Somebody go get help!” The worst behaved kid in the class yelled, “I’ll go!”

As he ran for help, she cried out again, “Somebody try to lift me up!”

A couple of boys ran down that stairwell in two seconds flat.

They were there to help, although I recognized them as being classroom troublemakers, too.

A few days later, she returned to school with a cast on her arm.

During the emergency, I had remained motionless. I was not strong enough to lift her up, and I was not brave enough to run for help.

Me — the teacher’s pet, the paper grader, the name taker, the first in line. For the first time, I recognized the value in a couple of classmates that I had marked off as troublemakers. When it came to the emergency — I backed away, and they stepped forward.

I learned a lesson that day. I learned that I needed others.

Sometimes the ones we think are the worst are the ones who show up to lift us up.

1 Thessalonians 5:11 says, “Encourage one another and lift one another up.” Got that?

Encourage one another. Lift one another up. Simple and powerful.

God made us all, and we are all different.

Ann Farabee is a teacher, writer and speaker. Contact her at annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com.

By Ann Farabee

Clearly, it was not said to encourage. The young student looked at me and asked this question, “Why are you so fat?” I was pregnant at the time, so I had an excuse. Not that I needed one.

A sixth-grade boy was speaking to a sixth-grade girl: “Why are you wearing that ugly bow in your hair?” Negative attention had been brought to something the young girl had considered to be beautiful, but no amount of compliments would be enough to reel her in from the embarrassment and hurt she felt from that one comment. A bow carefully placed in her hair that morning may have felt beautiful, but one negative remark took that feeling away.

Negative comments. The damage can be irreversible. The child or adult can back away, try to blend in, laugh it off or use any conceivable method of dealing with it, but the truth is criticism hurts. Sometimes it hurts forever.

I have seen children not want to go to school or not want to go home because of it.

I have seen teenagers not want to go to church because of it.

I have seen adults become so offended that they shut down because of it.

Do our negative thoughts always have to be said aloud? Can we not just keep them in our minds and not let them slip out of our mouths?

The word criticism is defined as expressing disapproval or speaking negatively about someone or something. More simply stated, criticism is saying something bad about someone or something.

Without the help of the Holy Spirit, we can be masters of negativity and criticism.

A child was sitting alongside her father during a teacher conference. The parent saw one grade on the report card he did not like, and yelled at his daughter, “What’s wrong with you?”

She and I looked at each other, and as I saw tears forming in her eyes, I think she saw the grief forming in mine.

What a waste of a parenting opportunity to show love and support to their child.

It was all I could do to hold in these words to the parent, “What’s wrong with you?”

James 4:11 says, “Do not speak evil against one another.”

Psalm 19:14 says, “Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, Lord.”

There are times when difficult conversations must take place, but with God’s Word to guide us, even those conversations can be held without criticism and with words spoken in love.

Most of the time, hurtful words could have — and should have — been left unsaid.

One year, as my fourth-grade students were preparing for the state writing test, we took a list of words we did not need to use repetitively to the playground, where we buried them. The next school year, a new school building had been built on top of our list, so I suppose those words are buried forever.

Maybe we should bury all those critical words we tend to use?

Maybe we should bury them in such a deep place that they are no longer accessible?

Maybe we can find better words to use instead?

Lord, may our words and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable in your sight. Amen

Ann Farabee is a teacher, writer and speaker. Contact her at annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com.

By Ann Farabee

His name was John.

His mother died when he was seven. Spiritual training stopped.

His father was very strict. They had no real relationship.

He had to stop going to school, so he could work with his father — at sea. When he was 19, his father felt he needed more discipline, and forced him into the Royal Navy, which thrived on severe discipline. He tried to escape, was found, was chained in irons — and received 96 lashes. He was a slave and a slave trader. It was a low point in his life where he described himself as a wretched-looking man.

Then came the night that changed everything.

A tumultuous storm arose at sea. The ship had begun to sink. He fearfully watched as someone was swept overboard. As he held on tightly, he began to remember Bible verses about grace — that he had learned from his mother.

He prayed for the first time in years.

The storm weakened.

The ship steadied.

He referred to it as the hour he first believed.

That hour he first believed, some words began to form in his mind — the words to a song he would write — Amazing Grace.

Can you envision those words being poured into his spirit that night? How he must have kept repeating them over and over in his mind? He surely felt strong emotion over the power in the words. For they were his story — a story of grace.

The first part of John’s life story was filled with dangers, toils and snares. The last part of his story was about grace that would lead him home. Even though he dealt with blindness in his later years, he turned his life upside down for Christ, as he became a loving husband, adoptive father, minister, abolitionist, published author and a song writer.

He never could have imagined that 250 years later those words would also be sung as our story of grace, reminding us of who God is — and who we are — through Christ.

Amazing grace how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost — but now am found

Was blind but now I see.

Twas grace that taught my heart to fear

And grace my fears relieved

How precious did that grace appear

The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares

I have already come.

Tis grace that brought me safe thus far

And grace will lead me home.

Mr. John Newton, thank you for writing these words.

God sure did use a ‘wretch’ like you.

Amazing grace.

The sound of it is so sweet.

Can you hear it?

Ann Farabee is a teacher, writer and speaker. Contact her at  annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com.

By Ann Farabee

Sometimes a new season arrives and we do not even realize it until nature reminds us.

Those reminders from nature are the best, because at times the calendar is clueless.

God whispers, “Whoosh,” and the leaves begin changing colors, leaving behind intricate designs painted by the Master.

God whispers, “Whoosh,” and the leaves begin to fall to the ground to make room for the arrival of new buds that usher in spring.

God whispers, “Whoosh,” and the trees know to be still and wait — because a winter wonderland is on the way.

God whispers, “Whoosh,” and a new spring season begins as all becomes new.

After typing these words, I had to take a peek outside just to be sure I had not missed anything. Sure enough, the leaves on the trees had traces of yellowish brown and were moving ever so slightly.

Honestly, at my first look, I only saw one leaf slightly stirring, but then I remembered to be still and wait. Soon I sighted another one — and another one — moving ever so slightly right on cue. Surely, God was sending me heavenly whispers.

In John 20:16, Mary was standing at the tomb of Jesus with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her Lord had been taken away and she did not know where they had taken Him. What a burden for a mother to carry!

Most certainly, the wind of the Holy Spirit whispered, “Whoosh,” as she heard His gentle voice, “Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

She was still. She waited.

There was the voice again, but this time she heard Jesus whisper her name, “Mary.”

Not only was it a special moment for Mary, it was also a special moment for the world.

For our world and generations to come were on His mind. He looked ahead in time and thought of us — each of us.

Me and you. In one breath, I believe Jesus whispered all of our names.

Yes, Jesus belonged to Mary, but He also belonged to us. He is our Jesus, and we are His children. He loved us enough to die for us.

It is not just a great story. It is HIS-tory.

Jesus went from death to life for each and every one of us.

Mary’s season of grief became a season of belief.

She had assumed He was the gardener that day as Jesus spoke to her. In a way, maybe she was right.

For He was our Savior who would tend the gardens of all our lives in all of our futures.

A season of grief became a season of belief.

His work had been done, and a new season had begun. Ann Farabee is a teacher, writer and speaker.

Contact her at annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com.

Heaven felt really close that morning. Above me were the whitest white clouds and the bluest blue skies I had ever seen. They hovered above me like I belonged with them. Touching them did not seem out of the realm of possibility.

Looking back twenty years later, I believe heaven may actually have been a little closer that day. Because…a few hours earlier, I had watched my mother slip away and cross over to her heavenly home, where her faith had become sight.

1 Peter 1:3-4 says that because of God’s abundant mercy, we are born again to a living hope, through the resurrection of Jesus from the dead. It is an everlasting heritage, is not subject to death, will not fade away, and is reserved in heaven for us.

Yes, there was a place in heaven reserved for her!

She had RESERVATIONS!

*She did not have to check any baggage, because she did not take any with her.

*She did not have to prove her identity, because Jesus knew her.

*She did not have to pay to get in, because Jesus had paid the price!

Just minutes after singing these words around her bedside, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see,” Jesus took her home. I somehow believe she was greeted in heaven with that song – sung by the heavenly choir!

Revelation 21:4-5 tells us that God wiped away her tears, that she would see no more death, she would feel no more sorrow, nor crying, and she would have no more pain, for those things had passed away. God had made all things new.

John 14:2-3 tells us there was a mansion awaiting her, because Jesus had gone to prepare a place for her, and that He would come again and receive her unto himself, that where He was, there she would be also.

Yes, Jesus had prepared a place – for her – and He came back to get her! The promise of eternal life that she had clung to – had been fulfilled.

1 Corinthians 2:9 says that our eyes have not seen, nor have our ears heard, neither has it entered into our hearts, the things that God has prepared for those who love him.

1 Corinthians 13:12 says that now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now we know in part, but then we will be complete.

I believe it. I believe it all. I believe it for me. I believe it for you. And I believe it for those who have gone on before us.

God is real. Heaven is real. His promises are true.

Lord, I pray for those who are grieving the loss of a loved one. Heal their broken hearts. Comfort them. Wrap Your arms around them. Give them peace that passes all understanding. May we all somehow catch a glimpse of just how beautiful heaven must be… Amen.

By Ann Farabee

It is the young woman who feels she is invisible?

Valuable.

It is the recovering addict who relapsed – again?

Valuable.

It is one who is grieving the loss of a child?

Valuable.

It is the student who never seems to fit in?

Valuable.

It is the church member who struggles with doubt?

Valuable.

It is the one in pain who cries out daily, “Lord, help me.”?

Valuable.

It is the one in the throes of depression, who wants the sun to shine again?

Valuable.

It is the one who feels they are always in a battle, but rarely see a victory?

Valuable.

It is the elderly — living alone — waiting for a visitor?

It is the unemployed — afraid of losing their home?

It is the child — living in a home filled with anger?

It is the beggar — humbly holding up a sign on the street corner?

It is the liar? ‏The thief? ‏The murderer? ‏The adulterer? ‏The sinner?

All valuable.

These words said to me by an inmate were sobering, “I did a lot of wrong things. I pray. But can I even be forgiven?”

He felt he had no value. No self-worth.

God clears up any doubts about that in the very first chapter of the Bible. ‏Genesis 1:31 says that after He had created man in his own image, he saw every thing he had made and it was very good! Not just good — very good! And, Isaiah 43:4 says we are precious in his sight! That sounds pretty valuable to me!

How could that be, Lord? We have done a lot of wrong things. We pray. But can we even be forgiven? Are we valuable to God, the creator of the universe?

Here’s a $20 bill. It’s for you. Do you want it? ‏I tracked it online to see where it had been — and it has been some horrible places. Places that you would never want to go. Still want it? ‏Oh wow! Look at the date on this $20 bill. It is so old! How could anything that old be valuable? Still want it? I’m sorry. I dropped it. It is so dirty now. Still want it? Hey, I’ll just crumple it up. It is no good now. Still want it? It’s dirty. It’s crumpled. It has been some horrible places. It is surely damaged. It has been through some hard times. Surely, it is of no value. I may as well stomp on it. Do you still want it? Yes.

Is it still valuable? Yes. And we — are valuable — to God.

By Ann Farabee

For a split second, I was almost in trouble at school.

Shocking, I know.

Thankfully, it was a false alarm.

When my sixth grade teacher instructed the class to line up, I would always scurry to be first. Then I would work diligently to make sure everyone else lined up in a straight line!

I am sure my teacher appreciated my efforts.

After finishing our daily work, we were supposed to read a book. I was excellent at reading books, but some students talked when they were supposed to be reading. I made sure to keep an eye on them as I read, just in case the teacher did not notice that they were not following the instructions.

Sometimes, I got to take names when the teacher left the room. It was quite an honor and I was insistent on doing it right. Well, sort of. I could possibly be coerced at times — especially by cute boys. I would write their name on the chalkboard and then erase it several times because their behavior improved slightly. Or was it because they were begging me? Overall, I would say I was not too bad as a name-taker. Usually by the time the teacher came back, I had erased all the names I had written on the board.

One day, my streak of being a perfect student was put in jeopardy. While everyone was supposed to be reading, I pulled out some secret papers I kept hidden in my desk. It was my life’s secret work, for I was writing a best seller on notebook paper, front and back, about being on tour with the Beatles — John, Paul, George and Ringo.

One day, as I was minding my own business at my desk, there she stood — my teacher — reaching for my stapled papers. Tears filled my eyes because I knew she would rip them in half and throw them in the trash can like I had seen her do many times when she retrieved items from other students.

She flipped through the precious pages that held my Beatles Best Seller. She took it to her desk. She sat down. She was reading it! I also noticed that big trash can beside her desk where she threw away items she had confiscated from her students. I was not hopeful about the outcome of this situation.

It was an incredibly long wait. Front and back. Page after page. She kept reading. I was fearfully awaiting the thump I would hear when my papers hit the teacher’s trash can. But it didn’t happen. What I feared would be placed in the trash can actually became a life-defining moment. She called me to her desk, placed those precious pages back in my hands, and looked me in the eyes as she said, “You are a good writer.”

I can guarantee that no one — not even the meanest kid in the class — could have wiped that smile off my face. From my teacher, I had heard the words “good” and “writer” in the same sentence about what I had written. I never finished writing my book. It ended up in my closet. I suppose I eventually threw it away.

But you cannot throw away the words of affirmation from my teacher that were inevitably etched in my 11-year-old mind, “You are a good writer.” Those five words created a moment that mattered.

I wish I had known enough to smile a little that day when I heard those words from my teacher as she envisioned a bit of my future that I lacked the confidence to even begin to imagine.

Someone thought I was a good writer, and they took the time to tell me so. Those words from a teacher mattered. Those words began to change the trajectory of my life.

What if she had tossed my writing in the trash can and reprimanded me because I was supposed to be reading? But she did not. She chose to not only read it, but also to respond to it.

A few weeks later, I published (made copies on the copy machine) our first edition of 6th Grade News at Woodrow Wilson School.

Our words matter. Our actions matter. Sometimes they may change a life.

Are our words ordained by God?

Can our lives be shaped by God through circumstances or words? The answer is yes!

In creation, God brought everything into existence, shaped it for His purpose and called it good.

Ann Farabee is a teacher, writer and speaker. Contact her at annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com.

By Ann Farabee

Walking by those words once again, I noticed how dusty that plaque had gotten. I found a tissue, and gave it a quick swipe to move the dust around a bit. The words on it read: Set your mind on things above.

Words fitly spoken from a plaque on a shelf that I pass by in my home about 50 times a day – and rarely notice.

Maybe – just maybe – this time was a reminder – to set my mind on things above.

The words were familiar – I guessed maybe from Colossians 3:23. Grabbing my Bible, I sneaked outside to the rocking chair on my front porch for a few minutes alone.

As soon as I sat down and saw all the beauty of nature around me, Psalm 46:10 began to well up in my heart. So, I did what it says: I was still. Then I knew – that He was God. The longer I was still – the more I knew.

Sitting still in that moment, I was at a place of rest in the Lord – the kind of rest that comes without even taking a nap.

A few minutes later, I turned to Colossians 3:23, with the expectation of finding the words, ‘Set your mind on things above.’ I smiled when the words in that verse, however, informed me that whatever I did, I needed to do heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.

Heartily. I did not even bother to look that word up, for no definition could be better than the one God had put in my spirit, which was, ‘with my whole heart.’

So, the words on the plaque were not from Colossians 3:23, but that verse sure felt timely.

With my Bible on my lap, I spent the next few minutes dwelling on the quietness of the Spirit of God pouring into my heart, giving me a peaceful respite during a time that had recently been far from peaceful.

Remembering my to-do list, I picked up my open Bible, and prepared to head back inside. As I did, a little breeze blew, and turned it back one page. There it was – calling out to me from Colossians 3:2, ‘Set your mind on things above.’

Some may call that a coincidence. I call it a God-incidence.

God’s Presence in our world.

God’s Presence in His Word.

God’s Presence in our hearts.

God gave His best for us. We should give our best for Him.

Lord, may we become more aware of Your Presence. Help us set our minds on things above. Amen

Ready? Get set.

Ann is a speaker and teacher. Contact her at annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com

Being quiet can be our greatest weapon.

Seems like it should be easy. But… it is always a work in progress.

Teachers have more effective strategies now, but during my earlier years in the classroom, an often used strategy was to give students ‘the look’ followed by the words, “Be quiet.”

I am fairly certain God sometimes gives me ‘the look’ and I’m 100% certain He tells me to be quiet.

Quiet can be defined as a place, time, or situation without much noise, activity, disturbance, or interruption. Finding quiet is easier said than done.

Here’s a way to start:

**Be quiet AND listen. Quiet the mind and the soul will speak. Find private moments in our day – early morning, late night, taking walks, in the yard, on the porch, places in nature… whatever works for you.

I have two favorite quiet spots for listening time. One is early wake up, while the family sleeps. Early mornings are great! The other is alone car time. I can be at home all day trying to figure something out, but when I get in the car to run an errand, it seems that God always pops a much needed idea right into my head.

**Be quiet WHEN we listen. The quieter we are, the more we will hear. Speak only when we have something to say, not because we have to say something. We tend to regret what we say more often than we regret what we don’t say. I like this quote: A wise man once said… nothing.

The and and the when make a difference. The and is about letting God speak. The when is about letting others speak.

Talk less? Listen more? Why not?

Seek it.

Savor it.

Lamentations 3:26 says that it is good that we both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord.

*Quiet wait is worth it.

1 Peter 3:4 says that a quiet spirit is of great price in the sight of God.

*Quiet spirit is valuable.

Ecclesiastes 4:6 says that it is better to have a handful of quietness than both hands full of travail and vexation of spirit.

*Quiet handful is better.

In case your New Year’s Resolution has fallen by the wayside like mine, let’s try this Mid-Year’s Resolution: I will have a quiet wait, I will have a quiet spirit, and I will be a quiet handful.

Shh….

By Ann Farabee

If you knew immediately what the title referred to, you may have lived through it.

Hurricane Hugo arrived in North Carolina in the wee hours of the morning on Sept. 22, 1989. I know this because I was awake. Sleeping while the wind was roaring was impossible. It left me feeling as though my home was under attack and could be moved from its foundation at any second.

We were a typical family of four — mom, dad, seven-year-old daughter, and a four-year-old son. My husband and I heard the sounds outside before the kids did, so we headed toward the living room where we could see out the window. That is when the power went out. We stayed awake to make sure our roof stayed on the house, the glass stayed in the windows, and the house stayed on its foundation. We were soon joined by our seven-year-old, but our four-year-old slept through the night.

It was a long, loud night. The sounds from the hurricane were sounds I had never heard — and have not forgotten.The wind was not just blowing — it felt and sounded like a freight train barreling through our house. I was scared. I admit that more than once that night, I had thoughts of Dorothy and Toto as I envisioned — and almost felt — our house being lifted from its foundation.

We had a cock-a-poo that was not named Toto — but he was shaking in fear and pooping everywhere in the house the entire night. He refused to go outside. I don’t blame him.

The power was out for 11 days, and the food in the refrigerator spoiled. The phone service was out for two weeks.

But hey — we had each other, right? At one point, we decided to get into the car and attempt to go somewhere to find something — like maybe some food. We took a right out of our neighborhood toward Kannapolis and almost immediately, we saw a very large tree blocking our road. We turned around and headed the opposite direction toward Concord. Almost immediately, there was a very large tree blocking the road. We went home.

Food was running a bit low, obviously, but it was amazing how valuable food out of a can is when one is hungry.

Week Two showed a few improvements. Some radio stations were back on air, and since we had a transistor radio and some batteries, we somewhat began to reconnect with the world.

School re-started before everyone’s power was back on, but it was for the best. Students felt a sense of normalcy and food was available for all. I greeted each of my students at the door with a hug. They hugged me back. We had been through something separately — but also together.

They were not my actual family, nor was I theirs. You sure would not have known it.

We were a family back together again. It was good to be home.

Remember Hurricane Hugo? I sure do.

Ann Farabee is a teacher, writer and speaker. Contact her at annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com.