Was it Worth It?

OK--this is going to be a super duper quick post.  I'm sharing it mostly because my journal is packed, and this is a moment I don't want to forget.  But, first, a little background:

I'm a perfectionist.  As such, I often find myself wondering if--maybe--I've truly made the best decisions.  I wonder if I should have done some things differently or better--if, in so doing, I would be better off or happier.  Or if the world, in general, would be better off and happier.

I wondered about that all the time as a teacher.  I wondered if, perhaps, I shouldn't have pursued a more ambitious career, because teaching always came easy.  I wondered if, maybe, I shouldn't have pursued dating more--because there were many days when I'd rather have been raising my own children in place of others' children.  I wondered if the sacrifices I made were truly worth embracing, because they replaced other lives I could have been living.

Maybe I'm just a weirdo who over-thinks things.  But here's the real reason why I'm writing this mini-post:

Throughout my teaching career, I've come in contact with hundreds of precious little ones.  Each was different and so important and so special--all in their own right.  Each a twinkling little star in my eyes.  I want to tell you about one of them, but--as in the case of my last post--I can't tell too much about her story.  You'll just have to take my word for it.

We're going to call her Ella.  Ella, when I first met her, was quiet.  Shy.  In fact, events in her past kept her from speaking at all.  Out of fear, she never spoke.  As she worked her way through the grades, all of us teachers deliberately rallied around Ella.  Our first objective was to help her feel safe, and all other objectives fell in line with that.  As a fourth grader, Ella participated in my math group timidly.  But she participated in whispers.  My dear friend, Ella's homeroom teacher, worked tirelessly to find ways to help Ella--as did Ella's fifth grade teacher.  (Also a dear friend.)

Fast forward to yesterday.  At our school talent show, I was shocked to see Ella's name on the list.  She had signed up to sing a solo.  When she got to the stage, her cousin ready to accompany on the guitar, her smile was contagious.  The song began, and Ella started to sing.

I've always prided myself on being the type of person who can hide her tears until she's alone.  During Ella's song, though, the tears were free flowing.  Halfway through the song, I had to excuse myself to catch my breath.  This little girl, whom all of us had been cheering on for so long, was singing.  In front of a crowd of her peers.  And she was glowing.

To anyone unaware of her story, Ella's performance would have been another act in a talent show.  For those of us who knew, though, it was a testament of courage:  It was evidence of Ella's incredible and inspirational growth.

So, I suppose there are two lessons to be learned from this:

First, that fear is a lie.  Ella found her voice, and so can we all.  None of us ever need hide from our individual challenges.  Rather, in confronting our fears--whatever they may be--we find joy in the end.  Even if the outcome isn't what we want, our fear won't cast a shadow over us.  And we will know that we gave it everything we had.  No regrets.

The second lesson is a lesson for me, I think.  It's this:  If teaching was a mistake, if making a series of choices that eventually lead me into Ella's path was a mistake, then it was a wonderful mistake.  It wasn't all puppies and rainbows, but--for me--this path was worth it solely for Ella's performance yesterday.  As it usually goes with these lessons, I recognize now that I learned more than I taught and received more than I sacrificed.

Was it worth it?....  Yes, I suppose it was.

Love is All You Need

Teaching has done this really weird thing to me.  It makes me wake up in the morning.  No, I'm not talking in the metaphorical 'I have a purpose driven cause to get up this morning.'  I'm talking the literal, physical inability to sleep in past seven o'clock.  (Somehow, I feel like I should be able to blame Obama for this.)  Anyway, while waking up early isn't necessarily the favorite new skill I've acquired, it certainly does give me time to think.  My early morning weekend time has become my early morning pondering and reflecting on life time.

I wouldn't expect myself to blog about all of those thoughts.  I wouldn't expect anyone to read those blogs about all of my thoughts.  That would be stupid.  And, let's face it, a great deal of those posts would be about my master plan to visit South Korea--and inadvertently infiltrate their music and TV-scenes with my undeniable talent and charm.  A-List Celebrity Status, here I come!

But, seriously, who would read that?

Today, though, I do feel like a few of my thoughts might be useful or meaningful to someone, somewhere.  Maybe.  So, I'll share.  And it's about love.

Love is an interesting thing.  We've all heard the theme repeated in movies and stories over and over--that true love conquers all.  That true love can overcome any conflict, no matter what the conflict itself might be.  I'd like to throw in my two-cents and say:  I agree.  It's true.  And here's why:

I'm evidence.  My students are evidence.  Something I don't think a lot of people recognize is that teaching is so much more than lesson plan and lesson delivery.  It's not a career of percentages or production (though many school districts have forgotten that).  It's a career of caring for the physical, intellectual, social, emotional, and--at times--spiritual well-being of young humans who may or may not receive that same vigilant care at home.  Out of respect to my kids, I won't share the specifics of what many of them have shared with me over the course of my teaching career.  What I will say is that horrible things happen to innocent children every day.  Every.  Single.  Day.  And some of the worst offenses done against them don't leave enduring physical scars.  That's the worst part.  How do you put a Band-Aid on a broken spirit?

There have been impromptu moments when my classroom has become a sacred sanctuary, while students have cried into my arms, and I had to wonder if there were truly a way to help them.  There were times when I wished I could do more, but knew that it wasn't my place within current systems to do so.  There have been times when, after everyone had gone, I would sit at my desk and cry because teaching math and reading felt superficial when so much more was at stake.  I'm still trying to decide if these moments broke me, or if these are the moments that made me.

At any rate, I recognized--early on--that I would not be able to help my kids by my own skill or understanding, so I learned to ask for help.  And I reminded myself what real prayers feel like.  I cannot deny that something more than intuition guided me in guiding my students.  On those weeks when our burdens seemed especially hard to shoulder--those moments when I was lost in a stupor as to what to do, the answer to my prayers was always the same:  Love them.

As much as I wanted to, it wasn't my place to fix my students' lives.  My job was to love my students, and it is a task I took very seriously.  My whole self was focused on those kids, as love requires.  I didn't recognize it at first--but now in retrospect-- I see that in embracing this directive, miracles have happened.

The struggling students--those who don't find academics an easy thing--found confidence and purpose.  They struggled less.  Some now maintain 3.5-4.0 GPA's in middle school.  Love did that.

The students who felt powerless in overcoming their current situations found courage to endure those situations, make the positive changes they could, and faithfully set goals to make sure that they would not make the same mistakes of those who should have been the responsible ones.  Love did that.

The students who felt out of place stopped fighting their unique personalities and talents.  Instead, they found their niche or created a new one.  And made no apologies for being who they were.  And others accepted them.  Love did that.

The students who were cruel found kindness.  Love did that.

The students who believed in nothing learned to believe in themselves.  Love did that too.

The teacher learned that her heart, like the heart of the Grinch, could expand as necessity required.  In turn, she learned that it was the love of family, friends, God, and the returned love of her students that sustained her through the struggles.  It was on focusing on that love between them that reminded her that the fight was, indeed, worth fighting.  She learned that love really is all we need.

And we were all better for it.