Choosing places to live, one for each of us, was going to be simple compared to finding a teaching position. So we tackled that happy chore first, quickly narrowing it down to two finalists. One apartment was in a large complex of several hundred units and was only two years old. Best of all, there was a big swimming pool in the middle. The apartment lacked personality and was small, but there were lots of other students renting there… and that beautiful pool!
The other was a third-floor walkup in a very old brick building. It had glass-paned doors between the rooms, a cute step into the bathroom, built-in glass-front cabinets, leaded windows, and best of all, a wood-burning fireplace. For both of us, it was no contest. We chose the walkup and were given the good news that it was available immediately.
As for a job, my meeting at the Champaign Board of Education started happy but ended sad. The interviewer told me I wouldn’t have any trouble getting a teaching position based on my two years of experience in the Chicago Public Schools, but then he asked why I had left Chicago.
I told him I was about to marry a grad student at the U of I and would be moving just in time for the start of the academic year. That’s when his face fell. “Oh.” he said. “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we have a policy against hiring spouses of students. They come and then they quickly go, and it makes for a very unstable teaching staff. You won’t be able to teach in this district or anywhere nearby.”
I was pretty sure I heard a door slam and wondered why God would bring us this far and then say “no way.” So I asked a question.
“Well – would you have any advice for me?”
“The only thing I can suggest is looking in other towns away from the Champaign/Urbana area… that is if you don’t mind a long commute. Do you have a car?”
I thought about our Corvette and the variety of crises it seemed to attract, knowing I probably couldn’t count on it for a long daily drive. But Nate had his VW, so I answered with a yes.
The interviewer pushed a paper across his polished desktop and said, “Call these schools. Last I heard, there were still a few openings.” I thanked him and reminded myself how much I loved road trips.
When I reconnected with Nate, he was eager to report he’d found a room near the university with a cheap month-to-month rent that would work until we married. He comforted me about my disappointment at the Board of Ed but agreed we should investigate the outlying schools.
The closest one was in Danville, 40 miles away. An 80-mile round trip each day would be a commitment of time, gas money, and wear and tear on a car. So he asked how badly I wanted to teach, and after I said “a lot,” he urged me to call.
When I did, I was greeted with a good-news-bad-news situation.
“You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me.” (Psalm 139:5)
