Tears of thanks

Tears of thanks filled my eyes as I sat staring off into the distance tonight.

I'd stayed late at school to finish getting sub plans ready for tomorrow morning (veterinary visit for Ira), and on the way back to my friend's apartment, I decided to get some dinner at a food court. After successfully ordering my food (quite an improvement over two years ago), I headed over to a small table to enjoy my baked potato and salad. It was really good, especially since I was so hungry.


Near the end of my meal, my mind started to drift. You know those moments when you're in the midst of a bunch of people, with so many conversations going on at the same time that you can't decipher any specific words...yet you're somehow removed from it all, and it's as if all becomes quiet? That's how it was for me. As people milled all around me, I started to recall moments from class these past two days, as I had interacted with 12 of my 16 students (four have yet to arrive), laughing, eating lunch with them, playing soccer at recess, just being with them. Then I thought about how I'd just finished reading through and commenting on their first journal entry from this morning. It was humbling to realize that now I am the teacher whose comments on their journals the kids can't wait to read the next morning. It wasn't too long ago, back in 1994-1995, that I was in awe of Mr. Dumler, my fifth grade teacher at Springview Elementary School in Flushing. I remember his fascination with cars. I recall how good and precise his handwriting was. I remember how he shared stories with us about how he was facing some difficult times in his life. I remember just loving being in his class.


Back in the days when I was in Mr. Dumler's class, I had no idea that I would someday be the fifth grade teacher in Moscow, Russia. I didn't know that the students I would have in the school year 2008-2009 were still three years from being born. I didn't know that the pieces of art I was making in Mr. Barnes' class would one day cross the Atlantic with me and would inspire my third class to use their imaginations and God-given abilities (Nor did I know that one of my students would persuade me today to finish coloring a piece that I'd started fourteen years ago, but had never finished). I never suspected that the journal I had diligently kept during class would be one of the most eagerly anticipated events in my fifth grade class someday ("Do you guys want to hear what Mr. Hays was thinking fourteen years ago today?" "Yeah!")


All these thoughts crescendoed when Mr. Dumler's words in a letter from a few years ago echoed in my mind again tonight: "I will always remember the '94-'95 class as a special group." And there I was, sitting in a food court in Moscow, Russia, already filled with joy that I have such a special group of students this year. It was one of those moments when I realized that this life is so much bigger than me. There is a Creator God, a loving and Good Shepherd, who has a plan in all of this. He formed my life path in such a way that it would converge with the paths of ten and eleven year-olds from all over the world. I was born to be their teacher, and they were planned to be in my class. And all of a sudden, the truth of my calling found its way to an even deeper part of my heart. What do you say in a moment like that?


I think my tears captured my emotions much more fully than words ever could. But a simple phrase did find its way to my lips: "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you."