Wednesday, November 21, 2012

This is why I'm going back to school.

I've spent the greater part of the last decade working in residential treatment with at-risk and troubled youth.

On most days, I count it as a blessing.

It didn't really ever occur to me I might end up doing something different. In fact, I used to be insulted when people suggested I move on to something else because I, and I quote, "deserved more."

So when I decided I was going back to school to get a Master's degree, maybe even a doctorate eventually, I had a difficult time conceptualizing the reason why. I could hardly explain it to myself, much less others.

Of course, there's always the go-to reason. Money.

But why else? There's gotta be more, right? To leave the job I love.
To abondon this calling and move to another...

I work with an older gentleman. He's a great staff, and he can throw-down like a champ when a restraint is in order. At sixty(?), he's in far better shape than I am now at twentynine. Based on this information alone, I'm guessing I'd break a hip doing a floor restraint by the time I'm his age. So, the longevity of this career is a reality. How can I maintain a presence in this field after I'm unable to chase children out of traffic and snatch shivs from their hands like a ninja?

Be a therapist.

There's a ministry component to it as well. Providing unconditional care for these kiddos, even after getting kicked in the jimmy, is a gift. There's no better way I can think of to demonstrate Christ's love. But I want to network within churches and offer support to hurting believers. How?

Be a therapist.

So there are those reasons. But there's more. That something I've had such a hard time putting my thumb on. It finally hit just this past Sunday morning. The perfect example smacked me right in the face. More specifically, the nose.

Crap. Lots of crap.

He overflowed the toilet. Again. He's notorious for it.
The bathroom flooded. Twice. Maybe three times.

Tongs were involved. Yeah, it was that bad.

Two hours. It took two hours to remedy the issue and finish getting everything cleaned up and sanitized. Two hours.

Have a melt down. Cry. Scream. Break something...
I'll gladly ride the ride with you and see you safely through.

But plunging toilets, making breakfast bagels, and folding laundry admist the crisis counseling?

Crap. Lots of crap.

So, as I stood ankle deep in toilet water, power struggling with a reluctant teen to fish out his own dookie from under the sink, it all came together and made perfect sense.

This is why I'm going back to school.

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