Goodbye, Teacher

My heart is heavy, and my reality reshaped.  I resisted this reshaping.  I felt it coming on, and I knew I wasn’t quite ready.  How could I ever be ready, when my blessings sedate me.

Last night, I learned that a kindergarten teacher, at the neighborhood school, passed away one day ago.

Pixie was in her class for a bit, before I pulled out Pixie to be homeschooled with the rest of my kiddos. 

But, for about ten weeks, Little Miss Pixie had a teacher, and she loved her the way Pixie loves, with tattered gifts from her own closet; with wild art; with thoughtful crafts; with kindness, volunteering, and absolute obedience, and with tears:  Perfect Pixie Love.

This teacher was spunky.  She was witty, feisty, kind, casual, and she called many of her students “Baby.”  I liked her right away.

Bashful little Pixie would arrive for class in the morning, and she would be met with a knowing, “Have a seat, Baby.”  Pixie needed this kind of familiarity and assurance.  I was thankful for her teacher’s star quality.

When I learned that her teacher, a few years younger than me, was a recent breast cancer survivor, I braced.  My vulnerable bubble, with its delicate defense of routine, was eerily invaded by this grim message.  My faith failed to promise me immediate wisdom or hope.  I was disappointed by my anxious reaction and my obvious denial of certain realities in life...like eventual death. 

I looked around the kindergarten classroom:  death had tried to come through here?

I found myself looking curiously at the colorful walls of alphabet trains and candy shapes and animated numbers, “But it looks so full of life in here...so vibrant...so uplifting...so magical.”  It was as if someone was next to me on a cloud, describing the scene of a crime, and I was trying to imagine the horror, in the midst of bouncing, thrilled, laughing children. 

Over the course of those first days of school, as I faced my own weakness, I focused on the current truth of Pixie’s teacher, that she was standing there, “Have a seat, Baby.”

But, in my moments alone, I couldn’t help but to wonder what went through our teacher's mind, during her moments alone.

And I hated thinking about that.  I hated that her bubble was ripped open.  Hated it.

I can talk away the problems of most of my friends.  I point to research; I rip out articles; I counsel, and I listen. I share what I have been through, and I help with plans.  I go and go and go.  I go because I want you in your bubble.  I love you and want you in your bubble...your perfect bubble.

My idea of loving you is maintaining your bubble for and with you.

But that is so fearful, and that is so impossible, and that is so exhausting,

and it will prove futile.

What was at first alarm was evolving into hope,

hope that life didn’t have to be perfect – behind you and in front of you -

to be lived. 

The colors on the wall were no less vibrant; the children were no less energetic, and a smile had to be worn in any case, and there was another day, and then another.

Pixie’s teacher and I had a few short conferences and the many mornings of informal greetings.  I didn’t know her well.

But, my heart was very much in her hand,

and – Lord Knows - I really wanted her to survive; oh, sweet Jesus, did I want her to survive.

But, you don’t get what you want.  We are near each other to give what is

Needed.

This teacher...

she took me toward realities.  She taught me. 

This is a small town.  Driving down the street today, I saw her memorial in front of the school.  I saw the mothers, in their workout gear, next to their SUVs, standing near the signs that children had placed, everyone crying.  I drove on to see parents gathered in driveways, crying together. 

I saw people with their feet so solidly on the ground.  Bubbles popped all over the place. 

No floating along.

Workout gear aside; SUVs aside; reputations aside....

We were all sober on the ground.

I began to cry, too.  I couldn’t control my tears, and I thought to myself, “You have no right to cry.  You barely knew her!” I felt ridiculous.  I felt embarrassed that I was using this as a chance to be emotional.  I felt like a bandwagoner.  I was angry with myself –that I saw people crying, and I decided to cry. 

But, it wasn’t a decision. 

It just came over me, just like the reality of her struggle had come over me on day one.

She had come over me.

Some blessings sedate you.
Some blessings wake you up.

And, I cried because I had wanted to cry all along,

And it was time now.