It was the strangest ending.
A typical school year usually wraps up with all the rituals of closure, including cleaning out lockers, signing yearbooks, returning textbooks, and sometimes even the exchanging of little gifts. I bring in popsicles or the makings for root beer floats to celebrate the start of our summer break and the completion of a school year. Sometimes students will even bring me a token of their appreciation like a gift card to a coffee shop or a box of candy. Even better, there are often a handful of students who take a moment to write me a little note, a note that says good-bye, thank you, and ends with a promise to visit me in the fall.
This June, despite our distance learning and lack of in person contact, there were still a couple of students who sent a sweet email my way. The impact of this gesture cannot be underestimated–it spoke to my weary heart and said, “You still made a difference for me and the work you do continues to matter.” During a time of isolation and uncertainty, these emails were the reassurance that all had not been lost to COVID19.
The reassurance of a little note continued just a few days later, as well. To mark the start of summer and the slow reopening of our state, my husband and I dined outdoors on the deck of a Mexican restaurant that overlooks the St. Joseph River. We’d just gotten seated, safely six feet away from the table nearest to us, when I looked aound the deck and noticed a fellow dining guest–It was the famous writer Sarah Stewart, author of many beautiful children’s books, including “The Library” and “The Money Tree.” Of course, it’s naturally excitng to be in the presence of a famous writer, but I was beyond giddy because I had something to tell her. Something important.
I leaned over and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Sarah Stewart?” She’s older now, probably in her eighties, but is still as regal and beautiful as I remembered. She nodded, confirming her identity, and I took her warm smile and soft eyes as permission to continue talking. I tell her the story I’ve told others about her visit to my English classroom over twenty years ago. I tell her that when she visited my classroom she was scheduled to speak to my 7th hour class. I admit to her that this was a disappointment to me at the time because my 7th hour was a very small class of struggling students who I typically helped organize their binders and complete homework. I had hoped she would be able to speak to MORE students and to an audience of kids who loved to write. I continue telling her how I remember her sharing the hardship of having a mother who was an alcoholic and the deep love she felt for her nanny. I share how that small group of students was spellbound by her honesty and her struggle. And then I tell her the most remarkable part. I tell her about *Paul.
Paul was a part of the small group that day, and I remember how closely he listened to her every word. You see, Paul’s dad would sometimes smell of alcohol when he came to school functions and, tragically, the next year Paul’s dad died from his alcoholism. I look up at Sarah Stewart as I finish the story with words I never thought I’d get to share with her, “I came to realize that you weren’t really there that day to talk about writing. You were there to talk to Paul. He was going to need the memory of you and your story to be strong in the coming year.”
Sarah Stewart was touched by the story; I could tell. It was in her eyes and the way her smile grew. She genuinely thanked me and then said she was going to write about our meeting in her diary that night. Later in the evening, as my husband and I got up to leave after eating, she stopped me and passed me a sweet little note she’d written on the back of her business card. Another little note that reassured me the work I do matters and makes a difference. I was left with the understanding that sometimes we won’t know our impact for years… even decades.
Sarah Stewart’s reaction reminds me–it’s worth the wait.
*Name changed to protect the privacy of my student
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