More Than a Name and a Voice

Some life lessons come at a time and place we least expect. The night I met Jeffrey was one of those experiences. The evening began with my wife handing me an uncharacteristically short shopping list before I made the drive to our favorite suburban superstore.

After taking my time strolling through the outdoor grills and newest electronics, I loaded my cart with bags of frozen spinach, cartons of eggs, and other everyday items before making my way to the checkout lanes. The front of the store wasn’t busy, and the wait in any lane wasn’t going to be long. Still, using the sound economic reasoning I encourage in my students, I got into the shortest line and began to put my purchases on the belt.

After I moved closer to the register, I first saw Jeffrey parked nearby. Jeffrey was about 12, but he looked tall enough to have been 13 or 14 years old. His sandy-colored hair fell limply across a pale forehead rimmed by large, expressionless eyes. His face was long and narrow, and he had a slight overbite, making me wonder if he’d sucked his thumb. The chair he sat in looked like a high-end baby stroller, except it was taller and sturdier. He sat there alone, very still for a time.

Seeing no caretaker nearby, I scanned the area for someone keenly interested in his well-being, but I saw no one. My concern turned to alarm when, as if someone had pressed a button, Jeffrey began to flail his arms and legs and moan. At first, I thought he might say something, but what came out sounded more like the muted protests of a fussy infant. I don’t know what handicaps Jeffrey faced, but my heart went out to him. Pained by what I was seeing, I looked away just as a woman in the next checkout lane turned her head and noticed Jeffrey.

After a momentary glance, the woman’s head snapped back as if spring-loaded, and she suddenly became very interested in Wal-Mart’s policy for buying tobacco. Her eyes stayed frozen on the placard while the cashier scanned and bagged her purchases. Her posture became rigid and uncomfortable, like someone trying to avoid a wasp’s sting.

Watching this scene unfold, I felt rising anger within me, but any inclination to judge her faded with the sudden realization that I was no better. At that moment, I had a vision of what life must be like for the Jeffreys of this world. I ducked my head in shame as I considered the rejection they must feel when people like me avert their eyes.

“God,” I prayed, “please let him know You love him.” Many times in my life, I believe I’ve experienced God’s subtle guidance, but in this case, the response was immediate, firm, and clear.

“That’s why you’re here.”

I was dumbfounded.

A Plea Without Merit

“God,” I thought, “You know I’m not good in this kind of situation.” But even as I spoke the words in my heart, I realized how hollow they were. As teachers, we’re often called to step outside our comfort zones, and indeed one of those experiences led to one of the most satisfying episodes of my teaching career.

Several years ago, I had a student I’ll call Myra in my senior economics class. Myra had what I call “the classic bad attitude.” On the first day, she chose a seat at the very back of the room. When she did attend, she stayed there, sporting a look and body language that said in equal measure, “I hate being here” and “leave me alone.”

And leave her alone I did.

One day, after an extended absence, Myra surprised me by coming to my desk and asking if she could come in to do some makeup work. I agreed to help her the next day. When she arrived, she wore her usual dour expression and sat at the back of the room, where she began her work in silence.

An Uneasy Start

Despite Myra’s presence, I was determined to stick to my routine. I began sorting through the papers on my desk, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was not alone in a classroom that suddenly felt very large. As minutes passed, I sensed a palpable tension in the air. Against a surging tide of discomfort and not knowing what to say, I forced the words out: “So, how are things going for you today?”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how hollow they must have sounded. Despite the many days Myra had been in my class, I had no relationship with her and knew nothing about her. My question sounded like something a disinterested cashier might say to everyone who comes to the counter.

I expected a perfunctory “Fine, thank you,” but Myra’s response was direct and honest. “Not very well,” she said, and her expression matched her words.

Knowing I couldn’t leave the question unasked, I inquired further. My awkward questions must have seemed caring, as this student, with whom I’d hardly spoken, began to pour out her troubles over the next 45 minutes. As the minutes passed, I sensed a split in the veil that separated us, and, for the first time, we were truly speaking face-to-face.

By the end of that conversation, her makeup work lay undone, and scores of ungraded papers still littered my desk. But at that moment, neither mattered. Myra had many problems: a broken relationship with her single-parent mother, no permanent home, no money, and, perhaps most tragically, no adult to console, encourage, or speak for her. Well, at least not until that day.

I gave Myra the $10 in my wallet and my cell phone number in case of emergency, but most importantly, I gave her my friendship and concern.

A Concerned Friend

The days after that conversation only added to Myra’s problems. She became pregnant, and her boyfriend abandoned her upon learning of her condition. Coupled with the stress of a new job and staying with a different friend’s family each night, this took its toll. Yet despite it all, Myra was a changed person in my class. She began attending more regularly, and her “leave me alone” expression was replaced by a warm, infectious smile and a new eagerness to participate.

Outside my class, however, she still struggled. Sometimes, she left letters for me in my mailbox. In these anguished notes, she shared her hopes, fears, and struggles. Despite having all the justification to give up, Myra wanted to be the first in her family to graduate from high school.

One of her letters closed with a line I will never forget: “Mr. Reding, you are the only person in this whole school who cares about me.” Those words haunt me for two reasons.

The “At-Risk”

First, I know schools are often so overwhelmed by the sheer number of needy students that their concern becomes institutional, and students can lose their status as individuals, becoming instead part of the “At-Risk” population. Second, I had to admit that until I hesitantly reached out to her, I didn’t care much for students like the old Myra.

It’s painful to admit, but I was great at loving and caring for the smiling, hard-working students who came to school every day—even the polite, reserved ones. But as for reaching out to the difficult ones, I knew I had a long way to go.

In the grocery store that evening, I knew Jeffrey would be one of the most difficult to reach, but I knew I had to try. By now, my groceries were bagged, so I swiped my Visa card and hoped someone would come forward to claim Jeffrey before I finished. When that didn’t happen, I double-checked to ensure I had all my bags and exited the checkout lane.

Still seeing no one coming for Jeffrey, I turned my cart toward him. Stopping beside him, I smiled and, in my most friendly tone, asked, “So, what’s your name?” The few seconds I waited for an answer seemed like an eternity. Jeffrey neither moved nor gave any indication he’d heard. After an awkward moment, I pushed my cart toward the exit, wondering what lesson I was supposed to learn from that seemingly futile experience.

Back at my car, I was thinking about the boy I now call Jeffrey. I don’t know why, but I know I’ll never forget him. I didn’t want to remember him only as “that boy in the wheelchair.” He needed a name and a voice, and sitting behind the wheel that night, I felt responsible for providing both.

The People in Our Path

I don’t believe it was an accident that Myra was in my class or that Jeffrey waited for me at the end of a leisurely shopping trip. Call it what you will, but I believe people arrive in our paths for a reason. Reflecting on that summer night, I am aware that Jeffrey, sitting alone in his wheelchair, needed more than I could provide. But in our classrooms, that limitation can be overcome if we allow it.

I don’t write these words as someone who has “arrived,” but I am gaining a clearer view of where I aspire to be, thanks to people like Jeffrey and Myra. Since my days as a pre-service teacher, I’ve heard some say, “I am there to be their teacher, not their friend.” I question why those roles must be mutually exclusive.

When I watched Myra cross the stage to receive her diploma, the smile on her face and the bond we shared filled me with a warmth I can’t quite describe. Looking back, I realize that was God’s subtle way of saying, “That’s why you’re here.