To all the teachers, “Thank you”
This essay was first published on The Daily BS on Jan. 18, 2025.
This week, I found myself back in school. Not for me, mind you, but for The Cub. Walking past halls filled with lockers in search of his classrooms, I could scarcely believe we were nearing the end. For 16 years, there’d been a Schrock in this place. Four letter jackets testified to our long and colorful tenure at the high school. On this night, I was here to confer with his teachers.
The conferences that evening were wonderful, and I drove home in winter’s dark, filled with gratitude. This child of mine was doing college-level work, including trigonometry, physics, and advanced composition. He’d been feeling the college-level difficulty, all right, manifested by countless hours at home, poring over his homework, turning down chances to run around with his buddies. Seeing his labor, I wanted to touch base with his instructors for their opinions and advice, which they offered gladly.
Ever since those meetings, I’ve been reflecting on the grand gift that good teachers are. I thought of Mrs. Beltz, my kindergarten teacher who made us take naps on our little rugs. I thought of Mrs. Krenzin, first grade, who carefully applied bright-red lipstick every day before lunch and who taught me how to read. I thought of Mr. Miller, my elementary-school principal who walked with a brace, thanks to childhood polio. Too, there were my own high-school teachers, one of whom taught us how to type using manual typewriters. All of them, I recalled, had made a real difference in my life.
In the intervening years, I have had many other teachers. Pastors, for starters, instructed me in the faith. Sunday School teachers taught me Bible stories and songs full of truth. Older women of character and wisdom made rich deposits in my life, and I will never be the same because of what they taught me. Close friends, of course, have been teachers, too, and so has my own Mr. Schrock.
Some of the best teachers for this tiny mother, however, have been my own four sons. In their pure and childlike faith, I saw the ease and rest that such faith affords. From carefree hearts, they modeled joy.
In their quick forgiveness and ready grace, I saw how things were meant to work. What was so easy in childhood could get messy and complicated in adulthood. Witnessing them in action always brought clarity and an invitation to return to the simplicity in which they lived and interacted.
They showed me, this lively quartet, how selfish I could be, for motherhood was surely demanding. It required more from me than I felt I could give, and it forced me to become more selfless. By their very existence and their dependence on me, they taught me this valuable lesson.
From them, I learned about the destructive nature of too much control. When my oldest son was a freshman, he came home from school one day, appearing troubled. “Are you okay?” I asked him, maternal radar pinging.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Are you sure you’re okay? It seems like something’s wrong.” Two and three times, I pressed him.
At last, he looked at me and with a quiet, steady voice, he said this, “Mom. If I say there’s nothing wrong, either there is nothing wrong, or I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
His answer struck me. With respect and insight, he handed me a tool for relationship with him. He needed a bit of space that day, and he knew how to ask for it kindly. I appreciated it sincerely.
Having a world-traveling son taught me another valuable lesson. I learned that God could be everywhere that I could not and that he could be trusted with my child. During those years, I learned that my stretch marks would never stop, for wherever my children went, there my heart would go. I learned that such stretching is painful, but that in the end, it brings gifts.
Lastly, motherhood taught me the rewards of patience. Parenting, unlike microwaving hot pockets, is not an instant thing. It is a years-long process that is, I’ve found, much like gardening. It can take years to build up the soil. Then comes the planting, watering, feeding, weeding, and pruning, as well as treatments for blight and insects. One day, however, the fruit appears, and the happiness and satisfaction is immense.
That’s how I felt the other night. Seeing The Cub through the eyes of his teachers, I saw the fruit of our many labors. In their classrooms, they saw a young man of character, of good humor, of compassion, of intelligence, and in one teacher’s words, “He is a pleasure to have in my class.”
To all of the teachers who, like the ones mentioned above, are investing their very selves into our children, thank you. Keep doing that.
To all parents who are toiling in their own erstwhile gardens, don’t stop. The seeds you are planting will bring a harvest, and your patience will be rewarded.
To all good-hearted people who are depositing wisdom and grace into other people’s lives, fanning the flames of kindness and love, I say, “Bless you. Keep teaching.”
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