on sketching schooldays

Some days, teaching a classroom of seven kids (6 of them being boys) ages 9-12 has me running around in circles, exhausted, frustrated, ready to rip my hair out and sit on the floor and sob. If there is one thing the past month of school has taught me, it would be that teachers (no matter the country, or realm of experience, or grade) deserve some of the most utmost respect for the work they do. Seriously, go encourage a teacher you know and give them a big thank you. They need to hear it, from you. Kids are kids, and they like to whine and push your buttons and procrastinate and goof around and daydream whether they live in America or Uganda, Haiti or China.

I’ve had mornings where, after the school bell rings and notebooks are closed and pencils put in their proper places, I walk upstairs and sit down at the table and feel defeat; absolute and utter defeat. The rush of thoughts is overwhelming and discouraging. The feelings of ineptitude and inadequacy roar loudly, because a skilled teacher could do this job so much better. I think of my patience that wore thinner and thinner as each minute passed and the thoughts that ran through my head when so-and-so wasn’t listening, again. I think of how love is patient and love is kind and where did my patience go this morning when the trouble-child needed it most? I think of the same concepts I have been explaining for 2 weeks now, and how no one is getting it. I think of all the spelling words and reading lessons and phonics that still need to be covered, and how will I ever explain that and how will they ever grasp it all? 

It’s easy to paint a pretty picture in your head and imagine what something may be like. It’s entirely different to see that dream into reality, and accept what is. In an ideal world, a classroom of students would listen quietly and raise their hands and be excited about learning and keep their desks neat and tidy and know where their pencils were every morning and we’d all walk out of the classroom with big smiles holding hands (and yes that was supposed to sound as corny and far-fetched as I made it sound). But the reality is kids chitter-chatter and are unmotivated, they tell jokes and shout out answers and procrastinate and whine and papers are falling out of desks and the floor hasn’t been swept and somebody is always missing their pencil every morning. Always. The puppy snaps at the end of your skirt and a radio is blaring in the next room and wait, who’s running out of the classroom now? All the while, this single thought replays in your head: what wrong is with you, that you can’t keep things orderly and under control, that you don't inspire a love for learning? What is wrong with you?

It’s wonderful to live life dreaming, always imagining what something would be like but never having to set about the reality of it. And, sure, it’s easier there, it’s cleaner there, the lines on your painting are nice and neat and orderly and there aren’t broken dreams and broken hearts in that painting. But it’s not real. No your days won’t be as you expect them to be, they never will be. There will be more splotches and blots and eraser marks on your painting than you’d like there to be. But you realize along the way, those splotches eraser marks and blotches and scribbles outside the lines make the picture what it is, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Because Maxson may shout out the answers and not listen, but you’re thankful because it means he’s learning, and wants you to know it. Abel’s consistent need for his work to be acknowledged after each and every question may grate on your nerves, but you’re thankful it means he cares about what he’s learning and wants to share it with you. Ricardo’s goofing around may drive you absolutely crazy when you’re trying to explain 2-column addition, but you’re thankful for those rough moments where his sense of humor melts your frustration and makes you smile in the midst of a hard day. Bello may not participate and whine and take twice as long to grasp concepts, but it makes it all the more sweeter when he does participate and the lesson does click for him. The reality is chaotic and messy, but it’s also beautiful beyond description.

These days and these moments are not picture perfect; our classroom is so far from it. But long ago the painting was surrendered to the Master Artist, and He’s drawing our lines and mixing our colors and painting the picture far better than we could ever imagine.