Back To School (Relentless Grace Excerpt #10)

Happy Monday!

For the next few Mondays, I’ll post a series of excerpts from RELENTLESS GRACE. You can read previous excerpts here.

I hope you enjoy them, and that you’ll encounter God’s invitation to give hope another chance.

BACK TO SCHOOL (Relentless Grace Excerpt #10)

larger_cartoon_classroom Prior to my accident, I taught mathematics in a junior high school. Now, more than eighteen months after falling on my head and losing the use of most of my body, I once again encountered a new group of young teenagers. I had anticipated the first day of school more than fifteen times before, but the beginning of this school year was different.

I sat in my wheelchair. How would kids react to a teacher who couldn’t stand? I’d learned the basics of life with paralysis, and now came the next test in reconstructing my life: Could I still manage a classroom?

I was terrified. Lesson planning, conducting classes, grading, the myriad small tasks that comprise my profession—just a few short months ago I couldn’t turn over in bed by myself. Now this group of fresh young faces looked to me for direction, as though I had any clue how to be their teacher. I wondered if they could see the fear as I struggled to keep my emotions under control and pretended I knew what to do.

I felt their uneasiness. They got much quieter than normal as they entered the room, sharing my uncertainty about what to expect. Who is this guy? What’s with the wheelchair? Does he know what he’s doing? What will this class be like?

Some of the kids knew the story, but for most of them this was just the first day of school and I was another teacher to figure out. They were more concerned with who sat next to them and how much homework their new math class would require than with how I ended up in this wheelchair.

The bell signaled the start of the first class, and I was supposed to do something. I had rehearsed this moment over and over, sitting alone in this familiar classroom, but now I was totally unsure. The whole idea was crazy; I was not nearly ready. How did I let my principal talk me into thinking I could pull off this act? Yeah, I climbed a hill more than a year ago, but this was different. They all waited, staring at me. I had to get class started, but suddenly my plans deserted me. What should I do first?

Call role, that’s a safe way to start. Thirty pairs of eyes stared as I struggled self-consciously to pick up a pen and fumbled to mark the attendance sheet. I gave the kids an activity to complete. They welcomed the assignment, grateful for a diversion from the unspoken questions circling the room. Students worked together and I began moving among them, rolling uncertainly between desks, acting like it was just another first day while the fear knotted my stomach. Should I say something about the chair, about my injury? How long could we pretend there’s really nothing different about this initial class?

One boy looked up as I passed his desk. In the honest, unassuming manner only a thirteen-year-old could manage, he announced, “I think I’m going to like being in your class.”

“Oh yeah? Why is that?”

“Because,” he said with a grin, “I hate it when teachers stand and look over my shoulder.”

Right then, I knew. As I chuckled and shook my head, I knew it was going to be all right. I moved on, commenting a little now on student work, making small talk. The atmosphere in the room lightened a bit, students talking to each other and to me, the first day of the new school year underway. Somehow, everything was going to be OK.

I should remember that young man’s name. I don’t, but I think about him every year as I greet another new group of students. Each year, for nineteen years now, I’ve wondered a bit about the reaction of each new group to a wheelchair and a teacher who writes in what we affectionately refer to as “Chinese Hieroglyphics.” Every year I remember that first day, the uncertainty, the uneasy quiet, and the silly one-liner that dissolved my fear and eased the tension. Each year as I prepare for a fresh collection of new faces, I chuckle to myself, knowing it’ll all be somehow OK.

I’ve learned to adapt. Technology helped, along with a bit of specially designed furniture and some experience with what’s effective. I’ve learned that, just like everyone else, I can take advantage of the many things I do well and that I have to find ways to overcome weaknesses. I’ve learned after a lot of pain and struggle to enjoy my own corny sense of humor, to laugh at myself, to take it all a little less seriously.

That young man’s joke helped me realize it’s better to chuckle than to complain. I’ve learned that my students, like most other folks, see a person more than they see a person in a wheelchair. I’ve learned that my kids, like most people, care a lot more about how they’re treated than whether I stand or sit.

Nineteen new groups of students—I’ve helped them learn a bit of math, they’ve helped me to get my life back.

I’ve received the better end of the deal.