Hope.

Some days, my students leave the classroom and I lay my head on my desk in utter defeat. Other days, I get teary-eyed when I realize that a student doesn’t understand how much I truly care about him. Oh, but I live for the days that, as my students file out the door, I bask in fulfillment and an air of success.

Today was remarkable. I felt as if I was wearing the hat of an educator, rather than my normal teacher hat. My students listened to one another and my freshmen were having a discussion fueled with critical thinking. I had kids stay after class to chat with me about our lesson.

Then, it was time for my last class. They came through the door as a tsunami sweeps a coastal town. Their attitudes and immaturity seemed to rob me of basking in my earlier success. My pride in my students turned to dread. I thought to myself, “Screw it; this class is hopeless.” The bell rang and my few stragglers hung around. We chatted about their essays and their outside reading novels. Eventually, even the stragglers headed home for the weekend.

Finally, it was just me, my stack of essays, their journal notebooks, and The Beatles serenading me in the background. I paused to watch the amber sunset outside of my classroom window. More than anything, I wanted to rush through my grading and get the scores entered so I could hurry home to sweats, candles, and a good book. My back hurt, my classroom smelled like teenage boys after P.E., and my eyelids were anvils.

Then it hit: I read her journal entry. She is sad, alone, and fighting severe addiction. She told me about how I helped her. How she’s sure that I’m an angel. How she was lost and I helped her find her way. How she considers herself blessed to have ever met me.

I laid my heavy head on my desk and wept.