Dear Resurrection Teacher,
Second to someone in the medical profession, I think teachers understand Easter better than most.
For years, we’ve laid students in the tomb of our hearts and said, “Not this one, Lord. He’s a goner. I’m gon’ need you to take the wheel on this little lad before I lose my teaching license and the freedom to wear something other than an orange jumpsuit.”
And the miraculous thing is, he does. He really does.
The transformation doesn’t happen overnight as we pray it will.
Come Monday that joker is still perched up on the second row with blue hair nodding off during your riveting lecture on the Harlem Renaissance. His GPA still resembles gas prices from the Reagan administration, and when you say,”Good morning, How are you?” he still mumbles out, “meh.” By the time you take attendance, he’s already pestering the girl in front of him by kicking her desk and harassing her to part with her math homework. His average in your class is an 18, which you deem an academic impossibility considering the generous support you have provided. And if that’s not bad enough, he carries a gallon water jug to class, full of water, at least you hope it’s water. He chugs that thing every ten seconds and since COVID declared all water fountains defunct, you can’t say a thing about it, nor can you say a thing about his Joker mask with the evil grin that you are certain would resemble his if you could ever see his mouth.
Bottom line, this kid is not lovable, not at all, not even a little bit.
If you don’t believe it just ask the rest of his teachers. At morning duty, he’s the kid who walks by and stirs a dialogue within you that questions, “God, do you really love everybody? Like every single person?”
Finally, you conclude that’s what makes God, God and you, you because you don’t love everyone as you should. Heck, you don’t even like some people, and truthfully, this kid is resting at the top of that dislike list, which is why you don’t have the foggiest idea what came over you when you reached in your purse and handed him a five-dollar bill. Maybe you were tired of his annoying pleas for classmates to give him a dollar, or maybe deeper still was the awareness that he needed more than a dollar.
Despite his blue hair, pitiful average, and water jug labeled, “H2O on the Go,” you place the crisp bill in his hand. It startles him and you too. His Joker mask smiles back at you, and you define this moment as the day everything changed.
That, my friend, is the resurrection story told through the eyes of an educator.
It’s an undeserving gift bestowed on the most unlikely candidate before he even has the wherewithal to do right.
It’s the same gift we were given and the one we firmly believe will permanently resurrect even the most unlovable.
And even it doesn’t, it’s still worth the giving, isn’t it?
-CDB
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