The Lesser and Lower
Big brains, Big Hugs, Big Love
June 6th.
That’s my last day of my first full year of teaching.
It was the longest - yet shortest - academic year of my life. And while I am here, with a full heart and a sound mind, I find myself reeling at night over these kiddos who have changed my life.
So here’s my desperate, pleading, quiet prayer:
“May my ceiling be their floor.”
//
“I’m going to miss you next year, Pickle.”
I hugged my mini bestie extra tight last week, on his way out. Preschool gives way to Kindergarten, and I can hardly believe we’re here. The beautiful (and crazy, and chaotic, and BEST) part of Pre-K is that I often get these littles for more than a year - sometimes, even 3. It’s the best, growing older with them and watching them grow.
But what happens when you’re not ready to let them go?
“Don’t worry, Ms. Katie. You are always allowed to visit me. I’m right down the hall, silly goose,” he giggled and darted away, following his friends down the pathway.
I smiled softly and watched him take his 3-year-old friend’s hand, leading her to the place where we always sing our goodbyes.
//
Here’s what I hope he takes with him:
He can be tough, but not brittle.
He can cry, but have the courage to start again.
He can use his heartache to tell a better story.
He can move through the world with an open heart,
with a vulnerability that might not appear heroic,
but that can change the world, all the same.
//
“NO WAY your brain is getting that big!”
I nearly shouted at R, my Kindergarten friend. His life has been complicated and he struggles to learn (admittedly, I even struggle to teach him). He has big feelings and even bigger impulses; he has been left but also so loved. Navigating complexity after complexity has done a number on him, and learning in the midst of all that?
Nearly impossible.
R came into his second year of Kindergarten knowing two letters, and writing his name upside down and backward. He has been my toughest cookie and also the one I seek out in the hallway just to ruffle up his blonde hair and tell him he’s doing great. At the ripe age of six, he’s already rolling his eyes and stomping away.
But there we sat. In my empty classroom with the window wide open and the letters right in front of us, and he named 20 letters with an ease that could only be acquired through months of drilling and laughing and drilling some more.
He laughed so hard that he fell out of his chair.
Then asked if he could eat a pop-tart.
//
School is hard for littles who hardly get what they need at home.
Learning is impossible when basic human needs aren’t being met.
It’s the struggle of special education - determining if a child has a disability, or if a child simply needs some more love and attention that we aren’t giving them, already.
To be honest, half the kids who end up on IEPs probably don’t have a lifelong disability. At least not here at the lake.
Most just need some hugs and someone to lock eyes with them and remind them that they can be brave, all the same.
//
May my ceiling be their floor.
May my limits be their foundation.
May my bravery be an inspiration.
May my love be a constant companion.
May my advocation be their beginning.
May my tears be their laughter.
May my sleepless nights be their gentle days.
May my typing be their voice as they go forward
and may my voice never be louder than theirs.
May my ceiling, be their floor.
//
Markus looked at me one evening, and I’ll never forget the moment he locked eyes with me, tender and brown and at peace, and whispered,
“When I was a kid, I wish I had someone like you.”
His life and heart were broken and bruised from the very beginning. His voice and actions were a plea for help. His desperation, was for love, at its core.
I think of him every time I walk through the school doors. I think of the millions of littles like him, who just need someone to meet them where they’re at, let them scream and cry and be mad, and show them that there’s a way forward.
I think of him all the time.
I pray for him just as much.
And somehow, in someway, I know him more and love him better through the tiny little humans that I get to do life with, every day.
//
One month (and a little bit of change) away from the end of a school year and a change of pace for the summer.
I won’t say I’m not excited.
But I will say that every day spent in the classroom is one that I try and soak up, above all else.
Because one day, it won’t be my home anymore.
One day, when Jesus calls, I will leave for something more.
So in the waiting and the joy and the tears and the pain, I will praise Him for exactly where my feet are planted.
//
- Katie.