teaching and eternity

I am a teacher, and I truly love what I do. To interact with young people, sharing information, attempting to be a helpful guide, seeking to provide both empathy and wisdom–these things are precious to me. In fact I think I was born for this.

Along the way, I get to know many fine young men and women, and–being the type of person I am–I tend to get close to them. Sometimes they come back to visit me, and some of them have stayed in contact over the years.

But there is a down side to all of this, a reality that strikes me each year. These young people whom I know are only here for a short time, and as close as I get to them now, I realize that they will soon leave my immediate presence. As a result, I always go through a “blue” period at least a couple of times each year. That is, I feel the loss of young people about whom I care. This is especially the case when I meet those special ones whom God has placed in my life, those students that I am connected to at a more personal and emotional level. These are young people who have shared their lives with me–their joys and frustrations, their hurts and their goals. And, so, it’s natural, I suppose, to feel the way I do, to almost dread the day when those who mean so much to me are no longer a direct part of my life.

At times like these, I feel a mix of emotions. In one sense, I so much appreciate the opportunity I have been given to participate in the education and the lives of young men and women. In another sense, I feel the sting of their loss, knowing that I will rarely, if ever, see some of them again. To be honest, it hurts, it pains me, it, well, it stinks. But it is certainly worth it all, for I believe that one day the seeds we plant will produce fruit. One day, the love we’ve shown will be realized. One day, the sacrifices we’ve made will be rewarded.

As a Christian, this is a large part of my hope. It’s not that I envision harps and clouds (though I do anticipate music and comfort) but that I believe the things that are today temporary will one day be permanent. The relationships that today are constantly interrupted will at that time become what they were meant to be. What a reunion it will be when those young adults I’ve grown so fond of, those men and women I’ve been privileged to know, finally “return home,” when we all return home and experience our unhindered created purpose.

I am not so naive as to think every student’s momentary visit is somehow the end-all of their young lives. Obviously, there is still much more to encounter. Still, I am also not so faithless as to assume that what we do now has no meaning, that it is to be forgotten and lost to time. No, I think God keeps track; I think some students remember; I think we will all one day recollect (by God’s enlivening and renewing grace) what things truly mattered in this life. Among those things, my hope is that at least some of what took place in the classrooms and the corridors will survive and endure to eternity. That's my hope, anyway. :-)