Over the years I have tried to teach different things. Somehow I always thought that was my job- to teach. I helped kids with their science and math, my best subjects, while I was still in high school. I have tried to teach theatre lately and often I was called on in church to teach. I taught first grade Sunday school before I was even baptized or had joined the church. (I attended for 13 years before I joined since I am not one to make a rash decision!)
When the children’s minister asked me to teach Sunday school that first time, I am sure I laughed in her face. After all, shouldn’t you have some knowledge of the subject you are teaching? Not having been brought up in any church I felt totally inadequate to teach any age on this subject. I was assured I could handle it and the church was desperate for SS teachers, (obviously!) so I agreed. I didn’t even know the elementary songs that most kids take for granted, so I had to let the first graders teach them to me.
Over time I also taught kindergarten Sunday school and sixth grade Sunday school. (I can’t remember if I finished up the year when I taught sixth grade- that was more of a challenge than I was up for. If I did complete that school year, I have blocked it from my mind much the way you block out any trauma!)
There was a student in my first Sunday school class that was the terror of the church. If you mentioned his name you always got a negative response. When I was told he would be in my class I got condolences from the other teachers. I was not worried- I did not know the Bible as well as I should have and I didn’t know the youthful songs of the church, but surely I could handle a six year old kid, right?
This kid was a challenge, to put it mildly. I remember one morning he was so bad that I sent him out to the hall. He was being disruptive and I couldn’t take anymore, so I told him to get out. As he stood in the doorway just outside of the classroom, glaring in still making noise, I slowly closed the door in his face. (Now before you get upset with my techniques just let me say that I think the statute of limitations has run out on bad teaching.) I let him back into class later and he acted a little better for the rest of that session, but he was a handful the whole year. My only consolation was that he was not a frequent attendee.
Years later I was helping to mentor kids during their confirmation. Somehow, I ended up with this same kid in my group. Many times I pulled him aside and gave him a “talkin’ to.” Sometimes the minster in charge of the program had to go with me to try to get through to this kid.
When the time came for the lesson where the mentors wash the feet of the confirmands, the adults met to plan how this would go. Several remarks were made about how our “problem child” would handle this event. I was actually looking forward to seeing how this would play out and said I was happy to wash the child’s feet.
As the lesson progressed I could see this kid getting nervous. I knelt down by his feet and began to wash them. The look on his face was hard to read, but he didn’t act up or say or do anything problematic as we had worried. After that year I gave up mentoring or teaching in church in any way for awhile. Eventually we got a new minister who took over confirmation and she asked me to help again, which I did. I was a mentor then for several years in row until I went back to college and just didn’t have enough time to continue. But I never again had a student quite like that troublesome boy.
Yesterday morning before I went to church, I watched Meet The Press like I always do. My son laughs at me because usually when he gets to our house to walk to church with us, he finds me in the bedroom screaming at the TV. There is no show I talk back to quite like Meet the Press. I love it.
Yesterday was sort of different. It was All Saints Day, the last Meet the Press before the election, and the final day of my workshop with 17 crazy and wonderful kids. As I watched Meet the Press I was not driven to yelling at the TV, but to a soft, sad cry. The picture that was painted of what could happen the day after the election regardless of who wins had me heartbroken.
I really didn’t have time to even go to church, I needed to be at the theatre around 12: 30. However, I needed to go to church because it was All Saints day and the banner I had worked on would be paraded down the aisle carrying the names of many people I care about. I needed to be in church, I needed to take communion, so I went knowing I would have to slip out as soon as I had received the bread and the cup.
Walking to church I knew I was in for a tough few days. A contentious election that made me want to weep, a service dedicated to friends and loved ones I was still mourning over and a great group of young people at the theatre that I was about to say good bye to.
As Jon and I walked to church I saw a tall young man walking from the other direction. As we got closer I realized that the man was that out of control student from years before. As the people funneled on to the sidewalk he ended up walking ahead of us. The young man was dressed impeccably and was alone.
As the older women ahead of him neared the side door, this young man stepped around them to beat them to the door. He quickly opened it and stepped aside making sure the ladies entered safely. He then turned to us and motioned for us to enter as well. I smiled at him and thanked him. He looked me in the eye and said, “No, thank you.”
I entered the church with tears in my eyes.
I always feel as if people won’t remember me, if I don’t speak to you first it is because I am convinced you will not remember who I am. I feel like I am quite common and forgettable. I feel sure a young man who had occasionally attended my first grade Sunday school over twenty years before did not remember me at all. I feel sure that my closing the door in his face or washing his feet had little or no influence on the man he is today. But seeing that young man grown, attending church on his own and well mannered made me think that maybe, just maybe things would all be OK.
I told my kids in the workshop later that day how much they had meant to me. I told them I had had a rough couple of weeks, but having the workshop to come to had been a great joy. I told them they had been a bright spot in my life and I thanked them. As I looked in their eyes I saw tears welling up. I could feel their empathy and it again made me feel like maybe things will be alright. When they hugged me after the play and each told me different things they had learned and would take away from this experience, I felt like maybe I am not as useless and small as big time politics have made me feel. Maybe there is a difference that I can make.
Tomorrow when I vote I will still be sad and scared. I still have fear of what the day after the election will bring. I am not afraid just for me, but for the young man who has overcome the odds and for the kids who got teary eyed on my behalf. I want the best for us all and I am not sure how to make that happen. I can vote for the people that I hope will be the kindest to all of us- ALL OF US. I can try to keep washing the feet of the misbehaved and sharing truth with the kids I come in contact with. Maybe if they learn to have a servant’s heart and wash other people’s feet, maybe if they learn to be truthful themselves, maybe if they can cry with someone else’s pain, maybe if they can learn to accept each other’s differences, the world will be healed eventually. Probably not by whoever we elect tomorrow, but maybe by the next generation.
