Dear Teacher Missing a Colleague,
Teachers aren't supposed to die. They aren't supposed to leave earth prematurely. It's unnatural.
Their classrooms aren't meant to be cleaned out by those they leave behind. Their personal belongings weren't designed to be shoved in sterile boxes. There shouldn't be unopened mail in their teacher mailboxes.
Their parking spots shouldn't be empty. Their names aren't meant to be deleted from group emails. Their positions shouldn't be posted on the job line.
Their students shouldn't have to miss them so much. Their colleagues shouldn't have to say goodbye. Their administrators shouldn't have to be so strong for everyone else.
None of this should be- but it is, and it hurts.
For those left behind, we try to find ways to memorialize the teachers who have left us far too soon- plant a tree, paint a rock, fund a scholarship. These things are noble, but they all feel grossly inadequate in that none of these tributes bring the teachers back home.
Schools are intimate places- second homes, complete with a school family where administrators are the parents, colleagues are the siblings, and students are the children.
Today some siblings are deeply hurting. They are missing their brothers and sisters. They break down at random moments then try to pull themselves back together for the kids.
Like with any loss, words are futile- a soggy bandage on a gaping wound. I wish a word fitly spoken could serve as a tourniquet to cauterize the agony of a pain so deep you think it will never heal. But maybe some wounds were never meant to be healed- not with words or anything else. Some scars are meant to alter the appearance of a person forever and shape them into someone different than they were before the trauma.
If this is true, then others will have no choice but to ask about the scars, and when they do, I hope we tell them about the greatest teachers, the greatest coaches we've ever known.
The ones whose lessons still ricochet off the hallways they leave behind. Down the corridors of our souls, we still hear their voices reminding us of answers to tests they passed with flying colors each day. The echoes of their legacies are not chiseled in monuments of stone. They are fluid, living, and pliable in our hearts as we honor the good work they started by picking up the torch to light the way for someone else, the way they always did for us.
From the sidelines of glory, they yell to each of us still in the game of life. They beg us to execute the plays they rehearsed with us so many times. Even with sore limbs and aching hearts, we get back on the field and do what they trained us to do- strive for greatness, love well, work hard, sacrifice daily, cherish each day, invest in our children, celebrate victories.
Until we are reunited, it's okay to keep asking why. Good students usually do, but while we're asking the why questions, I hope we'll also throw in a few how questions. "How do I play this game without you?" "How am I doing?" "Does this look right?" "Am I honoring you well?" "Are you proud of me?"
And I truly believe if we are still and quiet long enough, we can hear them whisper back an affirmative, "What do you think?"
-CDB