Authored by Jessica Parker-Farris

I grew up attending a church of roughly 2500 people, and, when I was nine, I was selected to try out for a lead musical role along with two other little girls. When the day of the audition came, I was ready. I’d practiced nonstop. I knew every line, every lyric. I’d been dancing and singing around the house like a crazy person. I’d stumbled upon PURE JOY. 

Jump to the day of the audition. 

Sitting nervously in that large auditorium waiting for my turn, one of the other little girls went before me. As she was performing, I was filled with dread and doubt. What was I thinking? I don’t know what I’m doing! She’s playing this character as pitiful and sad. I was going to act this character as strong, happy, and determined. Finishing her tryout, off the stage she went, and all eyes veered over to me. Around 6’4”, assertive and intimidating (at least to a shy nine year old) the director leaned in only inches from my face. “Alright Jess. You ready to do this? You ready to go? You’re up!,” he said. I felt myself fall to the floor, but wait … I was still standing? Think dolly-zoom camera shot, where everything closes in on you. My insides screamed, No, no! I can’t do this! Before I knew what was happening, I found myself halfway across the room. I’d bolted out as fast as my feet could carry me, all the while thinking, Oh my gosh. You idiot?! What are you doing? What are you hiding under? You can never show your face here at church again. You just ran out right while they were talking to you?! What were you thinking? How embarrassing! Need I say all the while I’m crying profusely? I wanted to die. Still my most embarrassing moment. Ever.

Jump forward nearly 30 years to May 2021. 

It’s our Lower School End-of-the-Year Party tonight, a time when we celebrate (surviving?) yet another successful (define as you will!) school year. It’s also a time when we celebrate, honor, and remember folks who are transitioning, whether changing teams/campuses, retiring, or moving on to a different chapter in their lives altogether. One way we do that is by writing and performing skits and songs for them. 

I’ve been writing alternative lyrics to songs for a while now (Thank you, Covid-19!), but this year I’d also written a monologue for one of my longtime co-workers who was retiring, and my heart was pressing on me: You’ve gotta act this out for Susan. She’s given much of her life to this community. You’ve written the script. You assisted her twice a week for five years. You know her, her curriculum. Do this for her! Just like before, I prepared myself. I practiced all her typical phrases, the tone and cadences in which she’d speak… that look she’d give! I did my best to pair an outfit just like she’d usually wear for student performances: black slacks, a blazer, pearl and gold earrings and a necklace to match. A co-worker lent me the jacket. I even had my computer screen glasses. I. Was. Ready.

The moment was finally here. 

It was the night of the party, and co-curriculars were up next. Once again, I was having thoughts, doubtful ones like, I’m not going to be able to do this! Reminding myself I was doing it for Susan helped me brave the mic. We went out there, and I did my best. While performing, ironically, I felt 100% myself and, once again, PURE JOY. Co-workers were smiling, and most importantly, so was Susan. One small moment of connection led to another, and then another, and in so doing, I’d celebrated a friend, connected with coworkers, and rekindled a long lost dream of my own. 

When thinking about one of the most important things we are given the responsibility to do as educators, we know it is to instill a love of learning. But how can we do that if we ourselves have lost touch with desire? Passion? Curiosity? As I’ve shared previously, my internal voice is often narrated by a limiting one. She says things like, You’re only capable of this much or You really should be doing X out of a sense of duty. Thankfully this past year someone shared a wise quote with me that I hope never to forget: 

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” 

― Howard Thurman

Rather than listening to that limiting internal voice (or whatever it may be for you: self-doubt, a sense of duty, or scarcity of time), I encourage you to instead start your morning by asking, “What makes me come alive?” and brave to do that! Because I promise, whatever it is, it will fill your heart, and if your heart is full, all that joy, love, and passion will overflow into your teaching, your students, and your community as well!