This article is well used and true. I hope I express gratitude to those who teach, especially children like I was.
I was an underachieving little hellion.
In the Baptist church, they practically drew lots to see who’d be stuck with me in Sunday school. I was the kid teachers prayed would be absent — and when I was present, they prayed harder. A lesson on the Hebrews wandering in the wilderness could, under my creative influence, end with a John Wayne shootout at high noon with the Philistines. More than one Baptist teacher quit and joined the Methodists for the sake of their sanity.
Elementary school wasn’t much different. Recess was the only part that made sense: there was a ball, you kicked the ball, and then you ran. That was education at its finest. The only reason to go back inside was Cindy Stinson sitting on the second row. All the boys loved Cindy. On Valentine’s Day she received real cards and real candy — the kind that didn’t come from the drugstore clearance bin. Naturally, we all tried to impress her. Some boys used charm. I used classroom destruction. Standing in the corner meant standing closer to Cindy, and I became an expert at slapping chalkboard erasers together like a man auditioning for janitorial percussion.
My report cards were a cry for help. My teachers were frustrated. My mother was frustrated. The school janitor was probably frustrated. I was not inspired by the academic process — unless the academic process involved recess or Cindy Stinson.
Then came fourth grade.
My teacher was Mrs. Sarah Napps, a legend whose career stretched back to the 1930s. She had taught my uncle, my mother, and half the county. She was also my mother’s piano teacher, which meant she had already survived one generation of my family. For reasons I still can’t fully explain, I took a shine to her. Maybe it was her grandmotherly demeanor. Maybe it was the mythical tales of her teaching prowess. Maybe she simply had the courage of a woman who had seen everything and feared nothing.
One afternoon, during a parentteacher conference, she invited me into the room. She looked at me — not through me, not past me — and said, “You are a smart young man. I think you can do much better in school. I expect you to do much better. You’ve made progress, and I’m proud of you. But I want you to work harder, and I know your grades will improve.”
I don’t remember anything else from that meeting. All I heard was: She believes in me.
And that changed everything. Not overnight — I didn’t suddenly become a scholarly saint — but the ship began to turn. The boy who weaponized chalkboard erasers discovered the rudiments of selfcontrol. The child who terrorized Sunday school found a teacher who saw potential instead of problems.
School has begun again for many students. I’m praying for our teachers — especially the ones who must deal with “that child.” I pray they have patience, wisdom, and the courage to place high expectations on their students. Children rise to — or sink to — the expectations set by the significant people in their lives.
My life was changed by a teacher.
And maybe that’s why the stories I love best about Jesus begin with one simple word:
“Teacher”
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