But this time of year also reminds me of how much I love to teach. I recall each May and December that I am not only doing what I love, I am doing what I am. I treasure that opportunity because, in a world where dollars and cents often trump worth and bliss, we find ourselves punching the timecard at a place we don't belong doing work we don't value. But I get to start with 20 faces every semester and teach their minds. Teach their minds, I say! What a privilege!
After 10 years in the profession, I've become accustomed to "seeing" these students, even after the first class: I can tell you who's going to drop...and even make a pretty decent wager on why. I can tell you who's hungry, who's thirsting for knowledge and personal betterment: who's wanting to become the person they wish they'd always been, hoped to always be.
Learning is what changes us. Grows us. Takes us someplace we've never seen, been, or dreamed. Learning changes us. And I get to teach them that, above all else.
For we are all students. We are all teachers. When I sit and listen to our pastor's sermon on a Sunday, I am a student of his Biblical knowledge and fervor for the Word. When I help my children resolve conflict without hitting or name-calling, I am a teacher of love beyond self. When you take my childrens' hands and tell them everything's going to be okay, you are a teacher of compassion and mercy and grace above all else.When I observe my husband's conviction to be a better man, I am a student of his zest for godliness and dying to self. And when you embrace me and tell me you're with me come what may, you are a teacher of loyalty and friendship that never dies.
We are all teaching. Every day.
This semester, I met a woman recently divorced. After decades of marriage, her husband had decided to move on to something...and someone...better. Younger. Fresher. She has three children, one the same age as Grace. She's never been to school, never thought it mattered before. But now she must feed and clothe and nurture these children without a husband. Without their father.Could this have been you? Could this have been me?
She wasn't a great writer at first: high school is a faint blur in the rearview mirror of her life and there's been no practicing in between: there's not often cause for rhetoric when you're changing diapers and wiping noses between carpool, lunches and mopping the kitchen floor. But, she was determined, this one. She was hungry. She wrote fairly average work, but always applied my feedback, always struggled to grasp every new piece of information - until about midway through the semester. I sat down to read her essay, and I knew it was different. Instantly. She had a new confidence, a bolder stroke with her words. A fervor to communicate beyond the average, you might say.
And I graded her essay.
And I tallied her points.
And I wrote a purple "A" at its bottom.
And I felt rich.
Next class, I asked her to see me for a moment at break. She came up front, her step a bit hesitant, probably worrying the news was not good. I laid her paper face down on the table and said: "I want you to hear this before you look at your grade. I want you to understand what I want to say. I want you to know that you are the reason I teach. I want you to know that you should be proud of this grade...not because I taught you or because the book helped you. Not because your peer reviewed it or because your computer checked it. You should be proud because you wrote it. You did that. You did it well, and I'm proud of you."And she turned over that paper and saw her grade. And she cried. She actually cried. And she taught me something in that moment...
We are all learning. Every day.
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