By Kristen Entwistle

Thirteen weeks ago I taught my first college class.  “Dr. E” they called me – a name I grew up hearing, but it didn’t refer to me.  It was my dad.

Thirteen weeks ago I stood in front of 31 students and told them that we were going to make it through this semester of organic chemistry together.  “Yeah, right,” they told me.  “We’ll never get this.  It’s too hard.”

Thirteen weeks ago, I stood in front of 15 other students and told them that we were going to cover all of biochemistry in one semester, because that’s what the course catalog said.  “You’re kidding,” they said to me.  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

As I look out now over my class, I can see how far they’ve come.  How much more they know now than they did before.  How proud I am of them.  How grateful I am that they were my first.

My first classes, my first students.  The first ones to laugh at me and with me, the first ones to point out the carbon I was missing on the board, or that I had assigned the wrong chapter’s homework.  The first ones to cut their finger in the lab and have to go to the ER.  The first ones to break glassware and try to pick it up with their bare hands.  The first ones to tell me that the instrument is broken or that something I said I put on the course website wasn’t there.  The first ones to roll their eyes at me when I told a bad joke, the first ones to ask for points back on tests and quizzes and papers, the first ones to cry in my office, the first ones to smile when they got something right.

I will always remember these students, the ones who taught me more about myself than I think I taught them.  I may forget their names, and definitely their grades.  But I will never forget them, because they were my first.

These students have taught me how to laugh at my own mistakes, and to move on with grace, humility and laughter.  They have taught me how to be a better teacher, a better mentor, a better friend.  They have taught me what it means to be vulnerable and honest, even when it seems impossible and impractical.  They have encouraged me and challenged me every day – and they’ve likely given me a few gray hairs, too.

There will be other classes, more students.  But there will never be another first.  And I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

By Kristen Entwistle

Growing up, I always had a thought in the back of my mind that I might not live long enough to do what I envisioned myself doing.  I always wondered if I’d be able to do what everyone told me I could do.

Tomorrow, I get to do just that for the first time.

Tomorrow, I get to walk into that classroom not as student, but as professor.  With as much responsibility as that comes with, I am so excited, and also so grateful.  I can’t imagine a better place to be starting my teaching career, alongside some pretty incredible men and women of God.

I don’t think I ever really let myself imagine that this could be possible, even after I signed the paperwork that said I really was a professor of chemistry.  It didn’t really become real until now – 12 hours before I teach my first class for the first time.

I am so incredibly blessed to be this healthy, to have this job, to be doing and teaching what I love.  I have been given more than I ever could have asked or imagined, just as He has promised.  How amazing that He could use me, a broken, imperfect child of God in His perfect plan, His infinite wisdom.

When I walk into that classroom tomorrow, it will be with an attitude of thankfulness, excitement, and a little bit of apprehension.  Somehow, by the grace of God, I will make it through my first day as a professor, and so will my students.  And I will continue to be ever thankful that God has brought me here, to a place where I never really thought I’d come.

Thanks be to God.

By Kristen Entwistle

Watching the Olympics this week has been a lot of fun.  I love watching Michael Phelps swim butterfly – it’s just so beautiful.  Watching Katie Ledecky absolutely crush the competition and prove that she is the best distance swimmer in the world.  Watching April Ross and Kerri Walsh-Jennings dominate in the sand.  Watching the American women’s gymnastics team make history.  Watching Usain Bolt run – he makes it look so easy.

It’s amazing what these athletes are able to accomplish.  How good they are at what they do.  It makes me want to better – watching them.  It makes me want to swim faster, run faster, train harder, be stronger.  And it also makes me feel a bit disappointed with myself – that I’m not that good.  That I don’t swim that fast, run that fast, or can even do a handstand.

But as I keep watching this year’s Olympic games, I’m remembering that it’s not about how good I am compared to everyone else – whether in sports or in life.  It’s not about how fast I am compared to Katie Ledecky, or how much money I make compared to my former grad school colleagues, or how my children behave compared to others, or how many books I sell or how many Facebook followers I have.  It’s not about that.  At all.

I may not be an Olympian, but I am still loved by the God of the Universe.

I may not make the most money possible, but God provides.

I may not sell many books or have 300,000 Facebook followers, but I do what I do for the glory of God, not for the recognition of people.

God has given me unique talents and gifts, and those gifts don’t make me an Olympian or a best-selling author, or the richest person. It makes me…well, me.  And I am a child of God, loved beyond measure, forgiven and free.