I don’t remember much about the daily grind of teaching. I once was asked by someone what I missed about teaching and I said, without thinking too deeply about it, that I missed my colleagues. My friend was a high school principal so I will forgive his response. He said, “oh, I would have thought you would say you miss your students.” I did have several students who were remarkable. If you have never taught, or preached, perhaps you don’t know what I mean when I say that there are some people who make teaching and preaching easy. They are alert, with an inquisitive look on their faces, as if to say “I’m really enjoying this, please give me more.” Quite frankly though, there are not many people like that. So when I was asked this question, I didn’t hesitate. It was my colleagues I missed.
Every morning before classes began, and even between classes through out the day, I would stand outside my door and monitor students as they went from locker to classroom. I would be joined by two of my favorite colleagues, two teachers named Mike and Tom. Often the conversation floated between what each of us had done the night before, or what might lie ahead. Other conversations were simply discussions about school policies or new initiatives launched by the administration or sometimes Mike and Tom would talk about esoteric grammar rules or diagramming sentences or other rarefied minutiae. Nothing that was too profound, nothing that was too memorable.
During these times, Mike had returned to school to work on a Master’s degree. This is a typical thing to do for teachers, because the more education, the more one moves down the pay scale. Many male teachers during those years often sought an advanced in degree in school administration. That is what I did, though never finishing it before I transitioned from being a teacher to a full time graduate student. Mike wasn’t interested in that so sought his Master’s degree in literature, with an emphasis on William Faulkner.
I had never read Faulkner but was aware of his influence on American literature. As I questioned Mike why he would choose Faulkner to study, his eyes lit up and began to almost proselytize me about the importance of such study. His passion and fire were impressive. It was as if I was in his class with an alert and inquisitive look on my face. He could tell that I was intrigued and said with my eyes “I’m really enjoying this, please give me more.”
That conversation led me to read Faulkner. With Mike’s help, I read well over a dozen novels. My conversation in the hallway now changed as we discussed what I was reading. It was a fascinating time, as I became an amateur expert on the works of Faulkner.
There were so many other conversations between the three of us over those few years I had teaching at the back of the building with my colleagues. Mike and I eventually wrote a curriculum that combined US literature with US history. I never taught it because of my departure from teaching in order to pursue a different career track. But it is because of memories like this that I was able to say with confidence, that I what I missed most about teaching were my colleagues.
As I sit here on Christmas morning, alone in the darkness of early morning, I am filled with the memories of my most recent departure from a career that demanded much. I can smell the aroma of incense long since burned in churches where that was a Christmas Eve tradition. I can almost hear the Men and Boy’s choir as they sang ancient and medieval carols. I can see burning candles, even those that dripped wax carelessly on cloth covered pews. I can even feel the relief that used to calm me on Christmas morning, after the stress of preaching sermons to hundreds and hundreds of people the night before. It is so fresh and tangibly close, I am surprised when others cannot see it. This Christmas Eve was so different. Yet as I looked around at Church last night, no one seemed to notice that I was like a stranded motorist alongside a busy freeway. I felt both nostalgia and a deep sense of longing. I missed something this year. Something I would never have again.
I missed my colleagues. I missed both the excitement and anxiety of the preparations that go on at Church behind the curtain. Most people do not know how hard the staff works to prepare for Christmas. It’s not only hard work but the emotional and spiritual toll this preparation takes on all those who print and publish, who clean and shine, who plan and prepare, and who show up with the hope that Christmas will be just a little more special this year than last, is real and demanding.
When it goes well, very little is said by people in the Church. It is only when something goes wrong that feedback is usually heard. But not so among the staff. The last service on Christmas Eve is met with a knowing look among colleagues. Those who worked so hard to make other people’s Christmas special exchange a gentle hug, a pat on the back and a smile. Even the shared exasperation when criticism is heard, seems to bring everyone closer together. I miss that.
So much of life is lived in a hurry. There is always the next thing. There are plans and dreams and hopes and fears. There are critics who seem to feed on mistakes or plans gone awry. But there are also colleagues and friends. There are those who were willing to go into the fire with you, and ask to share the criticism equally. Sometimes those colleagues look at one another with an alert and inquisitive look on their face as if to say “I am really enjoying myself, please give me more.” It is those people that I miss most. They continue to press on despite the worries and fears. My hope is that they realize how much of a difference they continue to make in so many people’s lives. Even if no one tells them.
When I left Church last night, I walked over to the Pastor and whispered in his ear: “thank you for all you did for me and my family these last few months. Thank you for your leadership and for this community.” I hope someone said that to my colleagues last night. I miss you guys. Thank you for your willingness to give so much, even when no one notices.