Even I, with the horrible memory I seem to have, can remember what it was like to be a first-year teacher. I was euphoric with the reality that I had found something I loved and was good at. I was awed by the responsibility of preparing something every day that could help shape my students' futures. I was having a blast.
And then came year two: I had three students drop out in the spring of the year.
Year three involved a student facing a life-threatening brain tumor.
Year four involved the ugly break-up of a family at school whom I loved and respected.
Year five involved the most challenging student I'd ever encountered whom I completely failed to reach.
In other words, after year one the fun and games were over. Suddenly it wasn't just a job. It was a mission field. I was investing a ton into these students. And consequently it was a lot more painful.
Yet simultaneously each year held great joy.
Year two found me sitting on the floor in the hall with the students who had stuck it out after their classmates left, telling them how proud I was for having finished out the year so successfully.
Year three held the miraculous recovery of my student with the brain tumor, after I'd already been thinking about what songs of comfort I might be able to sing to her in the hospital.
Year four I witnessed the coming together of classmates around one who was in pain, and the great camaraderie of that class.
Year five showed me the precious thoughtfulness of students who observed me struggling. One student called me one evening to make sure I was okay. Another couple of students brought me M&M's the day after I'd left the classroom mid-class to go out and cry.
Everything worth doing, every worthwhile venture, I have come to realize, is going to involve a painful side. To truly reach my students I have to be willing to bear some burdens I wouldn't be bearing if I just showed up to teach them gerunds and prepositions and left. Every once in awhile I dream of a bank job where I'd go, count money, and then completely drop the job as soon as I walked out the door. But I know I wouldn't be satisfied, even if it did mean less pain.
I realized recently this is what the Fairwood staff must have been going through all throughout my blissfully ignorant growing up years: heartbreak over those who go the world's way, joy over those who stick with God through thick and thin. And I think of parents raising children, and how incredibly painful that can be, yet how they continue to pour out their love and time.
And I remember again the verse that Mom read to me during the lowest point of my teaching career: "I will most gladly spend and be spent for your souls." - II Cor 12:15. And that's the great sum-up. It's worth it. Parents, Bible School teachers, Counselors, Friends, in whatever mission field you find yourself, it's worth it.
