Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Teachers (5 page)

“I know why we need to learn about God,” he offered.

“Tell us,” I said, not even giving him my full attention as I began gathering my things.

“So that when we get to heaven to live with him we're not strangers.”

I stopped my gathering.

“Yeah, because that would be so embarrassing,” another agreed.

“Yeah, because he knows all about us,” someone explained.

The rest nodded in unison. Time stopped for me, but with that they were gone. They went back to their fidgeting, squirming and somersaulting. The shirt-over-the-head fashion caught on and I had lost many of them. I was left alone. I guess the answer had been obvious to them; they had no reason to contemplate more. It was just I who had not entertained this fact, who had to absorb it.

Finally, I smiled and allowed the notion to surround me. I had been pleasantly surprised at receiving the unexpected. I was even a bit embarrassed that they had rewritten my lesson. I wondered where their inspiration had come from. But then casting my eyes heavenward, I think I felt a tap on my own shoulder.

Later that day as I sat alone in my classroom nibbling on my lunch, I spotted the burgundy leather Bible that sat in the corner of my desk. I cringed a bit noticing that a thin layer of dust had accumulated on the cover testifying to my neglect. I was staring at it motionless, caught in my own thoughts, when a clamor from the outside startled me. The children had just been released to recess. I shrugged it off, as this was the ritual every afternoon. I often heard them faintly through the closed window. After another moment, I realized today that it sounded different. It sounded happier. Although the window had been shut tight to the frigid January day, I heard them quite clearly. They certainly were excited. Curiosity getting the best of me, I got up from my seat to see what the extra commotion was all about. Peering out the window, I laughed aloud as I saw every member of my class laying flat on their backs in the snow that had fallen overnight. They were wildly flapping their arms and legs creating snow angel versions of themselves. The nuns who monitored recess scampered, weaving excitedly among them, reprimanding each and ordering them to get up. I laughed louder as I watched them chase each and every one of them back into the building. Once all were inside, the door was slammed so loudly I could hear the sound of the clanging metal from where I stood. As the sound of their laughter lingered then faded away, I stared out of the window at the imprints of snow angels that now dotted the crystal white play yard. I counted them. There were twenty-three. Each child had made one. I blinked stirring myself from my thoughts. I walked from the window and returned to my desk. As I plopped myself into my chair, the smile still lingered on my face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the Bible again. Grinning heavenward, I whispered, “Okay, okay.” And, after wiping my hands, I picked it up gently. Carefully, I caressed it clean. It had been much too long since I had held it, let alone opened it.

It's all in here,
I thought to myself,
everything I need to know
about God.

“Yeah, 'cause he knows all about us.” The innocent words still rang in my ears.

I daydreamed myself at the gates of heaven, being welcomed into a glorious paradise by God. And I envisioned myself stepping closer to him as he said, “Welcome, I know all about you.”

I felt the warmth of his embrace and he hugged me.

I heard myself say, “I know all about you, too.”

I picked up the Bible and began to read. I had gotten their attention and they had indeed gotten mine.

Christine Pisera Naman
Excerpted from
Once Upon a Classroom

(Thomas More, Spring 2004 Release)

LILIES OF THE VALLEY

W
hen I was seven, my grandma died. I cried at her funeral because my older cousins were crying, not because I was grieving. I was too young to fully understand my loss at that time. But four years later, when I was eleven, one of my best friends died, and I could not stop grieving.

Linda was a beautiful girl with long, brown hair that curled softly on her shoulders. She had a warm, friendly smile for everyone and a heart full of kindness. We had slumber parties together, practiced cheerleading, went biking and met at the movies. We loved to sing and to dance. Pretending we were famous ballerinas, we would twirl and glide and leap through the air until we fell to the ground, laughing and exhausted.

When Linda's appendix burst, no donor could be found in our small town to match her rare blood type. She died in an airplane on the way to a Chicago hospital.

I was overcome with an emptiness that was nearly unbearable. I couldn't stop crying. Mom came to my room several times throughout that first night, but nothing she said could console me.

The next few days were no better. I cried incessantly, still feeling that hollow loneliness.

On the day of the funeral, Mom took me to church to say a last good-bye to my friend. Linda looked as angelic in death as she was in life. Fragrant lilies of the valley, with tiny, delicate bells, surrounded her casket. They reminded me of the song that Linda and I sang whenever Mom took us to pick wildflowers in the woods:

W
hite silent bells upon a slender stalk
Lilies of the valley deck my garden walk
Oh, don't you wish that you could hear them ring
That will happen only when the angels sing

The bells will never ring,
I thought bitterly,
because the angels
won't sing. Who could sing now? Not even angels.

We left before the service began. Mom was afraid I might cry uncontrollably. Perhaps she was right.

The next day at school, when the others went outside for recess, I sat at my desk staring numbly at the windows. I could hear the loud taunts and joking from the playground.
How could the
others even think of playing when Linda wasn't there with them?
How could they be laughing and having fun? How could life ever be
the same?
I would never, never smile again. That wouldn't be fair to my friend.

I was alone in my own little world of anger, guilt and heartache when our teacher, Mrs. Zink, walked over to gaze out the window near me. She stood there for several minutes and then did the strangest thing. She plopped herself up onto the desktop across from mine, just like one of the kids!

“Linda was pretty great, wasn't she?” she asked. “What did you like most about her?”

Mrs. Zink asked me question after question and gently guided the conversation to focus on my feelings. The more I talked, the better I felt. My teacher, in a patient, caring way, helped me understand that I shouldn't feel guilty because I was alive and my friend was dead; that Linda would not want me to be sad or to stop playing and having fun. She assured me that my precious friend was in paradise.

In a moment of certainty I exclaimed, “And the angels are singing to welcome her!” I pictured Linda in heaven—her head flung back with her long hair blowing in the breeze and her arms outstretched as she circled and swayed, dancing in a massive field filled with lilies of the valley. Then, for the first time in days, I smiled. And in my heart I knew the bells were ringing.

That day in our fifth-grade classroom, with my teacher casually perched on top of a small student desk, my grieving passed and healing began.

Kay Conner Pliszka

THE PRINCIPAL IS THEIR PAL

P
rincipals have done all kinds of crazy things to inspire kids to read. Mike Jones is one of those principals.