I spent the last three months in a house with wind chimes. I woke up in the middle of the night to the music of them in the breeze, and there was an eeriness to it. I had to grow accustomed to its sound.
But I did grow accustomed, and soon I will miss the music of wind in glass.
I have never awaited summer with less anticipation.
[She hugs me, tucking her head in like a child, and her face is red. “It’s just hitting me now,” she sobs into my shoulder, “everyone is leaving.” I take her hand and say, “I know this is hard, I know. But you’re going to have a wonderful summer, and next year, the first day of school will be just as exciting and fun as every other first day of school. It’s just hard right now.” And I try to get her to act – to put on the performing persona she does so well in homeroom – but the pictures are proof that hiding pain only works for so long.]
Good evening, my name is Catherine Hawkins, and I am an Upper School Latin teacher.
I hand out awards one after the other. I try to speak slowly because I rush when I want to be done. I pass out two Perfect Scores on the National Latin Exam; I clap for a row of students so long it has to loop around the stage.
I jump into a class photograph — right in the middle — but I do not tear up once the entire evening.
Someone has to hold it together.
And we all know Jim wouldn’t be able to [cough, cough, no-emotion-man].
I have never awaited summer with less anticipation.
[“Magistra, I will spit out my gum every morning at my new school in honor of you.”]
I packed up my room. It is hideous and you would never imagine such learning and fun and difficult conversations happened here.
I am not even leaving forever — I’ll be back in September — but there is something about this year that was precious to me. Too dear, maybe, in a way that could not be sustained.
Good thing I have a good memory. Good thing they have left me better than the way they found me.
~ ~ ~
The past few months, I have questioned my work in a way I have never done before.
Is it valuable?
Is it challenging enough?
Is it the easy way out?
Is it glorifying to God?
This past week, tear-stained cheeks, awkward middle school goodbyes, and a gift I will proudly hang on my wall prove that this is valuable work I do.
[“Catherine, he’s been working all day to make you something special.”]
I grew accustomed to saying the same few names over and over in class: Refocus. You need your textbook, not your workbook. Sit down. That’s hilarious, but NEVER DO IT AGAIN.
I grew accustomed to these faces, these voices, these antics that — on my more tired days — were not quite as endearing as they’d hoped.
I grew accustomed to being their Magistra, but now, as many of them move on, I will forever be their Swagistra.
[Photo: Rie H]