Dear Students,
My dream for you
has very little to do with grades
or test scores.
Alone, they are nothing.
They are marks on a page
that filter into systems
where marks on a page
define too much.
For the eternity I have seen
is vast and wild,
and percentages could no more capture
what I have seen in you
than a formula of space miles
could capture the glory of a million fire suns
spinning blue and gold
in that cold, far silence
where the angels dance.
My fear for you
has little to do with those raw things
people your age tend to think aloud.
On the contrary, I am thankful that you are defiant
of convention for convention's sake,
of a flat, white, faux-Jesus,
of insufficient answers,
of a life without passion
and adventure.
I am thankful because these things tell me
you have not let the drowsy drone of earth
quell your newborn scream.
You are unsatisfied, child,
as you should be
with these clay-bound earth-breaths.
Be so always.
My only grievances are these:
you do not realize how beautiful you are,
or how powerful,
or how loved.
You have given up too soon
on yourself.
You have allowed sixteen years of
flat, red marks on flat, white pages
to name you;
and you ask me to nod while you toss out words
and scratch at equations,
absently,
half-heartedly.
This I will not do.
For I have heard your true name
whispered by the great Lion,
the One Who spoke worlds into being.
the manner of royalty you are,
men and women created for greatness.
I will expect nothing less.
~ Becca, Little Boots Liturgies
