Dear God,
I get it better now, after all these years of teaching.
You care about every student. You see the glowing potential in each of them, buried deeper in some than others. You see the beautiful, unique, spectacular future each of them could have. You see how their personalities or past experiences or friends or families make it hard for them to see and grasp that. You see the ways you could help, if they'll let you.
Still, sometimes they won't let you help. And there's not much you can do about that, except to be there every day, to keep smiling, to keep offering to help whenever they're ready.
You want to connect with each one. You want to use what matters to them, what they already know, the ways they'll learn best to help them reach their full potential. You want to inspire them with the desire and skills to learn and grow both today and after they get out in the world on their own, not just drag them through assignment after assignment in a quest for "points."
Still, sometimes they only do it for the points. And, while it's not ideal, at least they're learning something. They're growing. And they might turn to you at the end of the day (or the year, or the millennium) and say, "You know, I didn't want to, but I'm really glad you made me do that." And now that they see the reason, understand the difference it made for them, they'll do it next time for the right reasons.
You want them all to be successful. You do as much as you can to tell them and show them and help them to be successful. You write things down, and you talk to them, and you ask tutors or other students to talk to them.
Still, sometimes they don't pay attention. And sometimes they pay attention but they don't get it. And sometimes they get it but they don't want to do it. And sometimes they want to do it but they can't because things they can't control keep interfering. You keep trying to get through, and you smile and cheer them on every time they get the next piece, take the next step.
You want to keep all the kids in the classroom, near you, as much as possible because even if they don't look like they care or they're learning, they might be absorbing something they need. And so you don't make a big deal out of it every time they goof off or ignore you; you stand closer to them and catch their eye so they know you know, and you hope they'll come around soon.
Still, sometimes that kid in the back is so disruptive that it interferes with other people learning and growing. And you have to ask them to leave for now, to come back and try again later. And sometimes it's the same disruption every day, and it's hurting other people in the class over and over, and you have to find another place for them to be, let them try things their own way until they decide they can work with you and the others again.
You want them to come back, to learn. They need to learn. It's going to make a big difference for them and for other people. But, sometimes, they won't. They keep doing things that hurt them and hurt other people, and no matter how many chances you give them, finally everybody can see that their goal isn't to learn but to destroy. And then, no matter how much potential you can see they have, no matter how much good they could do if they chose to, you have to tell them that they can't be there any more.
You have to send them off into the future they've chosen for themselves, without you.
It breaks your heart.
The big difference between us, God, is that you didn't just just run across us randomly during a school year. You made each of us distinctly, individually to be alive at this place and time. You created the unique, spectacular potential within each of us and sent us out to explore the universe you made for us.
And we walked away.
I'm sorry, God, for the times I've made it hard for other people to see and hear and understand you. I'm sorry for the times I've rejected you because your way wasn't what I thought I needed at the moment. I'm sorry for the times I've ignored your clear directions, even when people have explained them to me a million ways.
Thank you for always being there, even through my foolish choices, for always offering me another chance. Thank you for explaining things over and over, at many times and in various ways, until finally they come to me in a way I can understand them. Thank you for pushing me to try things I didn't want to at first, because now I see that they were what I really needed all along. Thank you for not turning away when I've yelled in your face and called you names.
I trust that you know more than I do, and that you want the best for me, for all of us. I'm ready to learn. Teach me.
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