Promises to Keep
I am a teacher. But there are days, like today, when I wonder why. It's been a tough day The results of an English quiz
taken by my fifth -graders were dismal. Despite my best efforts, the world of pronouns remains a mystery to them. How I
wish there is a way to make the study of our language as exciting as a computer game, so the glazed looks would not
appear in their eyes at the mention of the word "grammar."
I wanted to spend my lunch period thinking of a way to enrich the next day's lessson, but a child became sick ad needed
me to gather her assignments while she waited for her mother. It took longer than I thought so there wasn't time for
lunch. Then an argument broke out a recess. Angry boys needed to be calmed and hurt feelings soothed before we
could return to the classroom. We were all emotionally spent and Revolutionary War battles.
Hunger had given me a nagging headache, lingering long after the last child filed out for car pool. Now, hours later as I
drive home, rubbing aching temples, I remember my husband's words, delivered like a lecture, after other days like this.
"Why don't you quit? You'd probably make more money doing something else, and you wouldn't have papers or grade
every night."
This late afternoon, I'm considering the wisdom of his words. I have a stack of papers to grade, which I promised my
fifth-graders I would return tomorrow. But tonight a friend, whom I haven't seen in a year, is visiting from Belgium, and I
told her I would keep this evening free.
Frustration builds as traffic slows, and I realize it's rush hour. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get out of my
classroom ahead of the traffic. The world of my profession, a world filled with children, requires so much time. After
school today, we had a faculty meeting. Events had to be planned, problems solved, new ideas discussed. So many
details to remember. Just when I thought my day was over, a student peeked her head into the classroom to remind me I
had promised to help her with a difficult assignment. The building was empty when I returned her to her waiting mother
and wearily walked to my car.
Sitting in traffic threaded behind a distant stoplight, it's hard not to replay the day and revisit the tension. I turn up the air
conditioner, hoping the coolness will ease my frustration and aching head. The last notes of a familiar melody are
interrupted by news from the real world. Stock prices are down. Crime is up. The sound of gunfire fills the car as a
broadcaster reveals the horror of life in a distant country. A strained voice reports the body of a local youngster, missing
for weeks, has been identified. Click. Too much real world has invaded my space. This missing child has had a profound
effect on my fifth-graders. Every morning since she was first reported missing, my children have discussed news reports
about her and prayed for her safe return.
Their concern was not only for her and her family but also for themselves. After all, she was one of them. A child
believing herself to be safe and secure in her own neighborhood. My students, only one scant year younger than the
tragic victim, wondered, "If it happened to her, could it happen to me?" Their thoughts and fears mirrored my own as I
tried to find the right words to calm anxieties hoisted upon them by a world seemingly gone mad. There were no easy
answers to quiet their apprehensions. How could I help them make sense out of senseless things and restore security to
the small world of our classroom?
My children, ever wise with the innocence of youth, had found the answer themselves. They got out their pencils,
markers and Crayolas and made cards. Cards written with words of compassion and love for a mother and father they
didn't know. Cards that spoke of faith and the promise of peace. Cards adorned with ruby red hearts, golden crosses,
spring flowers and rosy-cheeked angels. No grammar book, no lesson, could ever teach the beauty of the thoughts
drawn and expressed by these children. Their cards, intended to comfort others, comforted the children themselves by
leading them past the anxiety, back into the world of security that should be theirs.
As I sit in my car inching through the fumes of evening rush hour, I reflect on the strength on the strength of my students
as they sought to right their world in the one way that made sense to them. I find myself smiling in spite of the heat, the
traffic an the pile of upgraded tests. The rules of grammar might not have been learned today, but something bigger
and better happened in my classroom. I just didn't recognized it at the time.
And then I remember. I remember why I'm still teaching. It's the children. They're more important than a lifetime filled with
quiet evenings and more valuable than a pocket filled with money. The world of noise, pronouns, recess and homework
is my world. My classroom, a child-filled world of discovery, of kindness and of caring is the real world. And I'm so lucky
to be in it.
The traffic clears and I move past the stoplight, into the shady streets of my neighborhood. I'm glad to be home. It's time
to call my friend and tell her I can't meet her tonight. I have promises to keep. She'll understand. After all, she's a
teacher.
Published by permission of Kris Hamm Ross, Chicken Soup for the teacher's soul
Copyright © 2007 engkru.com. All Rights Reserved.
|
STORIES
TO TOUCH THE HUMAN HEART AND
KNOW THE ESSENCE OF BEING AN EDUCATOR
AND A LEADER
|
Bullets from a Father
Shio Cruz, SJ
“Stay focused, relax your arms, aim and squeeze the trigger gently when you are ready.” These were the last words I heard before
my mind drifted to a distant memory.
I was nine years old when my dad and I visited my grandfather’s farm. It is located just a few minutes outside the town proper
of Tanay in Rizal. The place was fronted by a dusty road and bordered by a river located at the rear of the square parcel of land.
Near the entrance was a small house and the rest of the place was populated by mango, star apple, jackfruit and coconut trees.
My boyish attention was drawn to a particular tree. Not just because it was unusually tall (as high as a mature coconut tree) but
because my father was aiming his .22 caliber Squires Bingham air rifle at a small stem joining two golden yellow mangoes.
It was mid-morning and the day was clear. The rays of the sun made my father seem to glow as I watched him and listened to
his instructions. At my age, I was having my first lesson in target shooting. After giving his directions (which my young brain could
not easily comprehend), he fired his first shot. I saw birds from neighbouring trees disperse in fear of the thunderous sound
produced by the long rifle. Immediately, I looked at the targeted mangoes and saw both of them shaking while still suspended way
up from the tiny branch. My father turned to me and smiled. His radiant smile paralleled the brightness of the sunny day. He
focused once again on his target and rested the butt of his rifle just below his collar bone. His smile was gone and all that was left
on his face was sheer concentration. He breathed deeply, held it, aimed and BANG! Once again, the birds scattered in the air. The
mangoes were still dangling and my dad winked at me. He walked to where I was and gave some more pointers:
“In aiming, be sure to take your time and relax.” He said.
“I think something is wrong with the alignment of the front and rear sight.” He continued.
“Why don’t you fix it?” was my naïve suggestion.
“No, I’ll improve my aim instead” was his kind answer.
At that point, my young heart felt so excited. Deep inside, I was routing for the best dad anyone could ever have. It was on that
day, on that farm where we shared time alone; creating memories that would forever be cherished. I broke into a cold sweat as I
watched him intently. Once again, he aimed the rifle, did some adjustments in his positioning, held his breath and fired. The birds
flew once more but the mangoes were still swaying from the tiny branch. My father got up and handed me his rifle.
“Your turn.” He said with a smile.
I had always admired my father for his perpetual optimism. I mean, if he can’t hit the mangoes’ tiny branch, how can he expect
me, a nine year- old, to accomplish it?
My sweat became colder as my tiny hands slowly reached for the heavy rifle. I held it carefully and marched off to where my father
was previously. I assumed my aiming position while hearing last minute instructions. As I looked thru the sight, I tried to remember
all the pointers I had heard since the beginning of the lesson.
While concentrating, my attention was caught by a single mango leaf swaying in the wind as if waving a quite cheer of
encouragement.
The rifle was heavy for my young physique but I did my best at resting it below my fragile collar bone. Slowly I aimed for the tiny
branch that held the fate of its two mangoes. I held my breath and was about to squeeze the cold trigger when I heard my father
shout: “STOP!”
I straightened myself up as I watched my father coming over. I became more nervous and my sweat was now freezing.
“You forgot the bullets… here, try this.” He said while handing me a single rounded bullet.
After loading the rifle, I aimed for the mangoes and for the first time in my life, fired my historical shot.
BANG! At an instant, the images of the past disappeared and I was swiftly transported back to the present. In front of me were no
longer mangoes but a poster-like target which was 25 meters away and had large circles and number scores with ten at the Bull’s
Eye. I was no longer holding a long rifle but instead a High Capacity Calibre 45 Pistol. I was no longer on a farm lot but instead at
a local firing range my dad and I often visited. I pressed the red button to my right in order to retrieve my target. I discovered that I
slightly missed the Bull’s Eye by a hairline. I turned towards my father and noticed a familiar smile. He walked slowly towards me
and I handed him the pistol. I stepped back and watched him load it and assume his position. Though he had aged, his sturdy
stance was still very youthful. His arms were motionless but relaxed. His aim was still and confident. As I anticipated his shot, the
whole place seemed to fall silent. I could no longer hear the other pistols from neighbouring booths. The smell of gun powder
became thicker and the fluorescent lamps seemed to glow brighter as if joining the anxiety build-up.
Finally, Bang! Bang! Bang!
He pressed the red button and handed me his target sheet. He scored a perfect thirty! I smiled and congratulated him for his
astonishing feat.
“That was great dad! Are you going to tell me your secret?” was my fervent question.
“Remember how you made the mangoes fall with your single shot?” was his reply.
Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam!
Dennis Ryan V. Cruz, SJ
Jesuit Residence
Ateneo de Zamboanga University Campus
La Purisima Street, Zamboanga City
Philippines
A TEACHER'S WORD
“PLEASE COME UP TO MY DESK, NANCY,” my geography teacher requested.
“Why is she calling me?” I wondered. I didn’t even know that she knew my name. As far as I could remember, she had never spoken to me.
I was a very shy and quiet student. I succeeded to make average grades, even though I didn’t study. I wasn’t one of her best students, or
one of her worst. I was simply an “average” student. Unfortunately, average kids don’t usually get noticed. I have found that teachers tend to
pamper smart kids and help the slow kids, when they are not trying to discipline the bad kids. Average kids, somehow, get lost in the
shuffle.
I arose from my seat and tiptoed, hesitantly toward her desk. Around me, my friends were whispering and snickering. I began to tremble.
“What did I do?” I asked myself, as I stood at her desk. She looked up to me and placed her pen on her desk. She began to shuffle through
some papers.
“Did you call me?” I whispered. I was hoping I had misunderstood. “I certainly did young lady,” she answered, as she pulled several pieces
of paper from the bottom of the rustled stack. “Is this your test, Nancy?” “Yes,” I replied.
It was an essay test, which consisted of three difficult questions. I had answered each of the questions to the best ability, even though I
didn’t have a clue as to what the correct answers were.
“Did you study Nancy?” she quizzed. “No, I didn’t,” I confessed, expecting her to tear my test in half. “I didn’t think so,” she declared, as she
placed an A on my paper. “An A?” I inquired. “Yes,” she said. “Why do you look so surprised? You have a way for words like I never seen
before. You earned it but please study next time.” As I started to walk away she called my name again when I turned around, she was
smiling. “You’re going to be a great writer someday,” she said. “I believe in you.” I was elated. I had my very first ‘A’ in that class. But better
than that, I knew that my teacher believed in me, even though I didn’t even believe in myself. From that day on I studied diligently and
brought my grades up. “If my teacher believed in me, I couldn’t let her down,” I decided.
That day was a turning point in my life. I never forgot her words. I began my writing career thirty years later and have now been published in
numerous books and periodicals. Encouragement goes a long way in the life of success. “You’re going to be a great writer someday,” she
said. “I believe in you.” What a difference those few words made in my life!
This story is written by NANCY B. GIBBS who turned out to be a very prolific writer.
It was my first week in college when a science professor told me to stay after class. I hated the idea of having to stay after class now that I’
m in college because I had been a regular after-class stayee all of my high school life. After all the students have left the professor showed
me the very first quiz I had taken at the start of my college life. I had a perfect score. And then she said, “Mr. Kong, I can see now that you will
become a scholar in this school.” For the first time in my life somebody believed in me. I decided to take up on her challenge. Four years
later, I graduated top in my school. And I am here today because a professor gave me a break and believed in me.
Perhaps this is the reason why I have spent more time and money, giving lectures and seminars to educators all over the country.
Challenging them to believe in their students and to help them build a life. Teaching is a most noble profession and once we begin to see
potential in our students something happens, they become great. The greatest Teacher who ever walked this planet sees us for our
potential, and If we put our faith in Him, learn from Him then truly we shall accomplish much. For none can ever match the greatness of the
Greatest Teacher Jesus Christ Himself.
Question is, are we learning?
Published permission of Francis J. Kong, The Business Matters
Visit his site at www.businessmatters.org
Copyright © 2008 engkru.com. All Rights Reserved.