Skip to main content

Breaking Crayons and a Teacher's Grace


Dear Mrs. Stewart,

You came to me after school today to talk to me about Wes. You said you walked over to him and asked him some questions about the book he had just read. His response was upset and he began to break his crayon, seeming frustrated.

You did not yell at him.

You did not get angry with him.

You did not sit him in time-out in a corner of the room.

Instead, you talked with him. You asked him why he was feeling frustrated. He responded with various comments.

You responded with, “Do you feel like you have too much on you right now? Maybe you are feeling a little overwhelmed?” He replied, “Yes, just a lot of things.”

Then you stopped. You stopped what you were doing, stopped to listen to a six-year-old’s frustration. You considered his upset worthy of your attention.

By doing this, you gave him tangible empathy. You gave my child your compassion. The rest of the class was working and being a teacher, I know you had other things to do, as teachers pretty much multi-task all day long, but you let all that go so you could sit with my kid and just listen.

That isn’t even the greatest part of this whole ordeal. You didn’t leave him there. Your kindness continued when you said,  “You know what Wes? Let’s not worry about this book right now. Go ahead and put it away. I just want to pray over you.”

And then you prayed.

You prayed over my son.

In class.

At school.

With all your other students in the room.

I love you Mrs. Stewart.

Today my kid wasn’t up to doing his reading or his comprehension questions. You had a moment presented to you in which you could have chosen irritation and impatience, but no, you chose to give my child your personal time and love and then you gave him the love of his Savior.

This special moment has been saved in time as a moment of thoughtfulness and graciousness and while he might forget this moment, I can assure you, I won’t.

You, my friend, are worth far more than rubies or pearls. You are a cherished friend and a cherished teacher. May God make His glorious face shine on you.

Love,

Me, as a mom

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Divorce and the Land of Israel

(If you are here, the very first thing I want you to read is this: Writing about a divorce can be sticky. I would never want to hurt B in any way. So, please know this post is about the divorce, not about B.)     Rejection.   In the past, I’d had friends hurt my feelings. I was dumped in college. There were jobs I wasn’t offered. There were times I wasn’t invited. But that was pretty much it. The rejection I had felt in my life was, what I would consider, typical.   When I found out B had filed for divorce, I was devastated. Normal, right? I think so. I was intensely sad and cried every day. This too, did not surprise me. In fact, during those first few months, I didn’t fight it. When the sobbing began, I would stop what I was doing so I could heave it out until that episode was over. I also expected the standard emotions that sadness brings with it; disappointment, depression, grief. I wept through each of these and these sorrowful emotions became increasingly better wit

God, and our rental home.

I was still living in the home that once held our family of five.  Rooms were now completely empty, the living room bare and our bedroom was...well...void.  B and his kids had left. I would collapse at the smallest emotional trigger, a "train-wreck" as some people commonly refer to it. I shed tears daily, sometimes hourly. The failure of my marriage felt catastrophic.  Spiritual questions loomed in my mind. Could I hear the Lord? Where was he in all of this? Wasn't he here...somewhere? It didn't feel like it. And if he was, I certainly couldn't hear him. I'd been taking steps one-at-a-time for a couple months, but on one particular day, I was told I had to find a new place to live too. I was crushed. Taking the first steps were hard, but having to leave our home, this home we'd bought together, lived in together, made memories in together...the permanence of this step was overwhelming.  I could barely think straight.  In fact, all I really knew was that I

They've been disarmed.

“Eric held him down until the police could get the gun out of his hand.” My friend, Beth, told me this story about her husband, a firefighter who helped wrestle a person to the ground during an emergency call yesterday.    This troubled man reached and successfully grabbed an officer’s gun from her belt, but was immediately subdued when four people, including Eric, pounced upon him. They restrained him until they had retrieved the gun and could carefully stand up again.    The culprit was disarmed.   Everyone was safe.   I love a story of valor.   Just a day before, I’d been reading through Colossians and came to chapter 2, verse 15, “He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, triumphing over them…”   My eyes veered back to “disarmed.” The Holy Spirit seemed to be highlighting that word in my heart, giving it an intense weight. I studied it. Originating in the late 14th century, it meant to “deprive of power to injure or terrify, render harmless.” Unable to caus