He was the last student I had at dismissal that Friday afternoon, and as he and the few others from other classes were waiting to get picked up, one adult walked by observing how amazing it was that we still had kids past the normal dismissal window.
"What are all of you still doing here? You need to get home and spend some time with your mommas!" he jested, as Mother's Day was in just a couple days. But as the man walked inside the building, the eyes of my student met mine, wide and alarmed.
"He doesn't know," was all I said.
The little boy jerked his chin up and pursed his lips for a moment, as if to say he got and understood my message. Then his eyes turned down at his hands fiddling with the strings of his backpack.
Yes, he doesn't know that just earlier today when the class was making cards for Mother's Day, you said you hadn't seen your mom in so long that you weren't quite sure what she looked like anymore, and therefore couldn't draw a picture of her. He doesn't know that your mom had simply decided to not be a mom, and left you, your brother, and your sister without any proper goodbye. He doesn't know about all the times you sat at my desk, tears rolling down your face, as you tried to reason through your situation. All those moments I pushed everything else aside and sat across from you, face to face, and let you talk it out. I've heard the story over and over. I've seen your emotions ride up and down like a roller coaster. I've let you take your anger out on me, as your trust for adults close to you starts to diminish. I've reminded you how I care about you and how I'm not there to hurt you, and I've strived to prove it and keep your trust. Oh, and how many times I've cried for you and prayed for you that you don't know about. It kills me to see the destruction in your little world and the very harmful effects it has on your development. Instinct has me wanting to shelter you and make it all better, but alas, I cannot. I am powerless to right those wrongs, because I am not your mom, and could never replace her. I can get angry, I can feel sad, but still, these empathetic emotions cannot take the place of yours.
So, my dear student, all I have are moments like these. Moments where little words are said, but I can see nonverbal understandings between us. Contrasted to the adult that knows little about you, I realize how much I do know and what obligation I have to be sensitive to that. My eyes are also opened to the reality of what this job is as I will come across many many more like you. That is why I know teaching is my calling, and I pray that your time in my classroom is a breath of fresh air where you feel safe and loved. I pray it is a moment when you feel like the special child that you are, and I place you in God's hands as I must trust His will and the fact that He brought us together. How loved you are, dear one, and I pray that in your darkest night, He will be there to calm your fears and ease your pain.
"You hear, O Lord, the desire of the afflicted; you encourage them, and you listen to their cry, defending the fatherless and oppressed, in order that man, who is of the earth, may terrify no more."
- Psalm 10:17-18
