Someday I will retire from teaching, that much is known. But the question looming before me these last few years has been, "How will I know it is time?" Unlike many people, I love my job, at least once the door is closed and I am able to do what thrills my soul: watch the sparks of a love of learning catch a few pieces of tinder and ignite. My husband, ever the fountain of quiet wisdom, has assured me that God will make it clear, but since I am often one of those "ye of little faith types," I have always wanted writing in the sky or at least a sign so unmistakable that I will walk away at peace. It is never a function of numbers...since we have no savings, no investments and no long range plan. It is simply this: is it time to walk away from this "thing" and unto the next?
The next "thing" looms large. There are three novels fighting for time for completion, at least four albums of unrecorded music, and a full length musical about the life of William Tyndale aching to be written. And then there are these five precious grandchildren whose lives are passing before me and who bring unspeakable joy in the moments we get to share. So I am not one of those "sit on the beach and drink margaritas" types, though I admire those who are.
But this year, the "sign" happened. I misread something on the retirement website and thought this could be my last year of teaching. Literally, I could not sleep the entire night because my heart was filled with such joy. Though short-lived, I realized that moving on would not be the emotional catastrophe I had feared. Once the truth came out and I realized my time had not yet come, I begrudgingly reconciled myself to continued work and then made another fatal mistake of going to LA for a weekend for a friend's CD release party. Soaking in that creative landscape, which had been part of my life for so long before teaching, filled me with such a hunger for the "next step" that I wept as we closed the door to our hotel room. It was time to move on.
I had such clarity. The signs were all there. And then that "thing" happened, which happens every year. It is so painful that I think I block out the memory of its existence in hopes that it will not reappear. But it does like clockwork. I come in every year staring into these new faces who are so young and inexperienced and frenetic and all that eleven year- olds can be, and I think to myself, "I am too old for this." It's a bit like being a new mom who contemplates throwing herself off a bridge for lack of sleep. Then the kid who threw up on you smiles into your face and your heart melts and you are ready to begin again.
That something just "happened" yesterday. I wish I could tell you what it was, but like mercury that has escaped from a thermometer, it is tough to get your finger on. All I know is this: I just looked out over that sea of faces, and something in me cracked.
I picture the young man whose mistake, whatever it was, had caught the attention of the principal. I picture his tormented face which spoke volumes about his remorse and tried to let him know, really know, that it would be okay and that his soul was good...that we would be there for him as he figured this out. I picture the young man whose tattered clothes and disheveled appearance bespeak a life of great difficulty...how we talk about hope and I catch a glimmer of belief that life can be better.
But mostly I picture this young woman whom I misjudged. She came across as surly so often that I labeled her a person with an attitude problem. That is until one day when she walked up unexpectedly with "that look" on her face, smiled at me, and announced, "This is my favorite class." I pulled her aside the next day and told her that I had misjudged her and apologized for having done so, as we had had several pointed conversations on the issue. She stared at me like a deer caught in bright headlights and walked away. But the next day, she stayed after class to talk.
"I thought about what you said yesterday," she announced with more wisdom than should be legal in an eleven year old, "I should have just said thanks." I think that began the crack in the dam that broke today.
You see, I know that I am replaceable. In fact, one of my colleagues already has an excellent prospect waiting in the wings. I know to the core of my being that there are younger teachers out there who will have more energy, more enthusiasm for change, more ability to attend more school functions, and more commitment to screaming at pep assemblies. But the burning question on my heart is this: will they ever love these kids more passionately than I will? Will their hearts ache at these kids' beautiful broken lives and passionately crave to fill them with hope and inspire them to dream? Will it matter to them that these kids are on the brink of discovering their best selves, and they need someone to hold up a mirror to help them see their own beauty?
I do not know the answers to these questions but I do know this: today moments of beauty and grace hit critical mass, and I felt my heart say yet once again, "okay, I will risk loving you." And that is all the sign I need for now.
