Still burning bright

Dear Abby,

In my first week of teaching high school English at a new school, you were the one who turned in your homework early. Days early. I was so surprised that I almost gave you an A just for that. But I didn’t have to. You did your work well. Like it mattered to you. I remember thinking, “This is going to be a good experience.”

A few years later you sat in my homeroom as a senior and I challenged you to find GodStops—those moments when you stopped and saw God’s presence. You actually took me seriously. You always had something to say. I remember the day you came in glowing, joyful about a mentor who was speaking into your life. I was jealous. I wanted to be that mentor.

You were part of the inspiration behind Bring Your Own Chair day. All the kids rolling around the hallway in crazy office chairs or lounging at the table in recliners. Once you got all the kids in class to dress up like characters from Batman.

You were always laughing.

One day I walked into the gym wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and you ran right up to me and told me I looked amazing and I should wear those jeans more often. What student says that to a teacher?

When you were in my class, I looked forward to coming to school. I felt welcomed. Seen. Heard. Students don’t often realize how alienated and alone their teachers sometimes feel, how hurt and frustrated we can be by the lack of response to our efforts. You always saw me. You were always fully there.

On the last day of school one year, you asked if you could use your birthday money to buy me ice cream. You were what, 15?

I will never forget the day I stood in front of homeroom and stared at all the faces, feeling empty and utterly inadequate. And then I just blurted it straight out, told you all of my miscarriage and the death of a dream.

That just isn’t done, a teacher being so vulnerable in front of her students. But you made it OK. I felt good about telling you, because you all had become my family.

And then one day when you were a little more grown up and already far wiser than I, you asked me to be your prayer mentor. And we prayed through a lot, didn’t we? Family, relationships, dreams for the future, needs, hurts, joys. And somehow the prayers always extended far beyond you to the people you loved and dreamed of serving, and even though I was supposed to be the mentor, you somehow always managed to teach me. And I watched you throw yourself into life with such abandon and such urgent love—you needed to be loving someone all the time. And you loved beautifully, creatively, entirely, with no holding back.

You loved God most of all. Really loved Him, like you knew Him. You did know Him, far more intimately than most of us ever have, because you spent so much time with Him. You pursued Him relentlessly. And the more you pursued Him, the brighter your love shone.

And then God let you come home. And after the first shock of grief, I thought, Of course.

You longed so hard for God that He just couldn’t take it anymore, could He? He had to have you with Him. And He knew that your brief life far outshone those with triple your years, and He took you to a place where your life would blaze with His beauty forever.

So we would remember.

You are an arrow pointing straight to His heart. You learned the secret of loving and knowing Him.

So many of us look for reasons to complain. We serve ourselves first. It’s habit. You looked for reasons to rejoice. You lived for others. You wore your selflessness effortlessly, habitually.

You still teach me every day.

Today is your birthday. I checked your Facebook wall and it’s still going strong. You are still burning 

bright. And I know you are having one heck of a party today. I feel I am invited, so I’ll celebrate from here and look forward to seeing you soon.

Happy birthday, Abs. I love you.