Making Sense

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

– Søren Kierkegaard

I love to talk.  I’ll talk to strangers in line at the grocery store, I spin long yarns in the classroom and, of course, I talk to my cats.  Who doesn’t, right?  Despite my gift of gab, I don’t always relish the talk of parent teacher conferences.  Parent teacher conferences in our middle school are held in the gymnasium after a full day of teaching.  The conversations are rushed as I’m aware of all the parents lined up, waiting on empty stomachs with long to-do lists in hand.  This year, however, was different.  The unexpected happened.  I had an illuminating, you could say mind-altering, conversation with a parent.  A parent of a student I don’t even have in class this year.

It was near the end of the night, and a woman sat down across from me at my little table set up at the perimeter of the gym.  She looked familiar, but a name was not coming to mind.  Graciously, she started with, “You don’t have my daughter right now.  She was in your class the year you had your stroke.”  I sat up a little straighter; she had my full attention.  The cerebral hemorrhage which accompanied my stroke had robbed me of  memories from a chunk of time that was the second half of that school year as I was recovering in a rehabilitation hospital and only came back at the end of the year for a “special visit.”  She went on to tell me how she and her daughter had moved after that 6th grade year to Indiana for a new job.  While living there, she suffered a stroke much like mine.  The family was very worried and, of course, everyone wanted to comfort the daughter, my former student.  This sweet survivor goes on to explain that she wanted me to know that in the midst of all the medical chaos, her daughter told everyone, “Don’t worry, my 6th grade teacher had a stroke just like this, and she came back–my mom is going to be fine.” I swallowed the lump in my throat as she finished her story, got up from behind the table, and hugged her close.

Despite the laugh lines and gray hairs, there are definite advantages to being an established teacher.  Suddenly all of it starts to come together like a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle, and the picture is clear and recognizable.  The reasons for seemingly senseless events comes into focus.  Søren Kierkegaard philosophized, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”   With many more years of teaching behind me rather than in front of me, it’s beginning to all make sense.  My years spent struggling with  infertility reminded me what a gift each and every child is.  Such a serendipitous wonder can never be taken for granted.  The child who is wearing dirty clothes,  the one who refuses to finish her work and the kid who picks on others is someone’s miracle.

And then there was the terrible divorce I vowed never to have, but did.  That family earthquake reminded me to be patient about the homework that is at Mom’s or the book that’s in Dad’s car on the week my student is with the other parent.  Often it has been my pain that has given me just the right tools to be the best teacher I could.  Years ago, a young girl came into 1st hour with this strangely wide smile and said, “Guess what Mrs. Laaksonen?  My dad left us last night–he packed up all of his stuff and left in the middle of the night.”  She faced me with that grin plastered on her face.  I reached out,  wrapped her in a hug, and whispered, “You know this has nothing to do with you.  This is grown-up stuff.”  I felt her body begin to tremble, and all her true sadness emerged.  I only knew what to say and how to say it because it’s what I wish someone would’ve said to me.  Living that painful moment of divorce as a child helped me in my work–my calling.

And that is what I’m starting to see so clearly.  All of this life, even and especially the pain, has a place and a purpose.