death – fields of poppies

God Bless Mr. Gale Wendell Marshall

Last Sunday I read the obituary of a man that changed my life – dead at 68 years old after over 40 years of teaching. His words and kindness supported me through my toughest times as I always remembered the way he made me feel as though I mattered, as though I had value. He taught me compassion and how to listen. More importantly, he taught me how to be, well, me.

1985 We get used to the way things are sometimes and just don’t realize that there may be a better way – especially when we are young. Children and teenagers often do not know of hope and future due to lack of life experiences – or, unfortunately, due to dreadful life experiences.

My parents loved me and had no idea what was happening to me and I was always too scared to tell them – so typical. I did not want to hurt them. I began high school much like I completed junior high and elementary school – by blindly walking through the motions – being driven by the choices made around me, about me, to me – rather than by my own choices. This is what I thought life was. I was soft spoken and painfully shy and always trying to make someone else happy. I believed I had no control, no voice. I felt worthless, lost, and invisible. I was suicidal. Enter Mr. Gale Marshall.

1987 As he taught me to value myself, I began to realize that I do have a future. I began to find my voice and test it out. As I tried to decide what I wanted to do with my life, I continued to struggle; I barely graduated high school due to attendance issues. I did not have adults in my personal life that knew how to get to college and my parents could not afford to send me, anyway. Unfortunately, the guidance counselors only spoke to those that knew what to ask. Through the years Mr. Marshall greeted me with care and concern and always took a moment to check in – always willing to listen. His genuine compassion reminded me daily that I mattered and that I could do whatever I set out to do. I graduated and decided that I wanted to be the one to find the invisible child. I wanted to be a teacher.

It took me nine years to earn my degree – that’s a post for another day. When I won District Teacher of the Year in 2015, the speech I gave to the auditorium full of teachers described the impact Gale Marshal had on my life. It was not one intervention or a specific act, but rather who he was every day that saved this little girl. He had no idea the impact he made. No idea.

Thank you, Mr. Marshall. May you rest in peace knowing that every day I try to continue your work and continue to seek out the invisible children in my classroom and lift them up with love. God bless you.

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the wrong kind of goodbye

As a teacher I am used to saying goodbye. Students move in and out of the district, always coming and going. Farewells naturally occur at the end of every school year as I pass along my little cherubs to the next lucky soul that gets to touch their lives. Often times I ignore my feelings of loss and try to focus on the next batch of students that lie in wait. However, when I lose a student to death…well, that is just the wrong kind of goodbye.

I recently attended the funeral services of a sweet young lady named Danielle. A senior at my high school, she had yet to see her 18th birthday, had yet to recieve her diploma, had yet to live her dreams. I taught Danielle when she was a freshman and although there is a certain detachment that occurs between student and teacher when the student is no longer a regular in the classroom – there is always a connection as our life paths have crossed.

Filling the needs of students drives me as a teacher. Sometimes I fill their minds with knowledge and growth. Sometime I fill their heart with love and acceptance. Sometimes I fill their bellies. Sometimes, honestly, I don’t know what I am doing or if I am making a difference in their lives at all – but they always, always make a difference in mine. I carry hope for all students that enter and leave my classroom that they live long lives, find joy and love, reach their goals, and live free from despair. So, when I say goodbye to them because they move on to another grade – I never really say goodbye – until it’s the wrong kind of goodbye.

Danielle drove off the road and into some trees. Two passengers also died. One survived. Danielle’s speed led to the accident and an unforgiving road on a sharp turn sealed her fate. Our community loses too many young people to these roads. We say too many of the wrong kind of goodbyes. As I sat at her funeral service and looked at all of the beautiful flowers, I was surrounded by current and former students. Oddly, I focused on a wasp that had found his way into the chapel. This wasp, rather than hovering on the mounds of colorful blooms that were gathered around the coffin, sputtered at the ceiling as if trying to escape the pain and suffering in the room. I remember thinking that his flight path was staggered and haphazard; misguided and misdirected – simply all over the place, as if a strong, shifiting wind kept him from going his intended direction. It seemed so symbolic of life sometimes. Determined, however misguided, he pounded himself into the white ceiling again and again to no avail – no escape. Eventually, he gave up and landed on the chandelier and remained motionless, as if he had found peace. When the preacher began to speak I lost sight of the wasp as I focused on the words of the man. Tears do not scare me, nor do I shy away from public displays of emotion, especially in a situation like this. But, I was trying to be strong for the students around me. So when I found myself overcome with emotion I searched for the wasp again in an attempt to distract myself. However, much to my disappointment, I could not find the wasp. The wasp was gone. The wasp had found his way out; he was free. Right then, as my eyes swelled with tears, I realized that Danielle is also free. She is free from all of this pain and suffering. Her struggles have ended and she has found peace with her Savior. Still, I remain, looking at her grieving parents, and cannot help but feel that this is the wrong kind of goodbye.

When I returned home I did as expected – I hugged my chldren, cried into their shoulders, and told them that I love them. I spoke to them about speeding and reckless decisions. They are teenagers, afterall. “Please don’t ever do that to me,” I told my son. “I would be lost without you,” I told my daughter. They heard my message; they felt my love and despair for Danielle and the wrong kind of goodbye.

**The featured photo is of a banner that the students signed as a way to help them greive and say goodbye to their friend, their classmate. Sadly, this has becomre tradition.

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loss

Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend

Today I am attending the funeral of my childhood friend, Dave. Much like a brother, Dave would taunt me relentlessly. He would laugh with me and joke around. He would often threaten to beat up misbehaving boyfriends or anyone that made me upset. When Dave smiled his whole face smiled and his chuckle infected everyone around him until they, themselves joined in the laughter. Dave was the first boy to ask me to marry him. He would tell me that all he needs is a good woman and he would straighten up and do right. I suspect he slung his arm around many a young lady and professed the same. That was Dave – but it was nice.

I have known loss in my life. Great loss, in fact. My mother, Grandparents, my mother – students and former students, my mother, other relatives and acquaintances – did I mention my mother? But this one begins a new chapter for me – this is my first real friend to go to the grave. It hurts and confuses me greatly in unexpected ways. Of course it hurts. But the unexpected confusion compounds the impact of the loss.

Dave died at 49. 49…my mom died when she was 49. This age – this fact affects me and I do not understand why. Maybe my being here has nothing to do with Dave at all, but with the loss of my mother. I remember him playfully hitting on her, too.

Even though he remained one of my bother’s best friends, I have not seen Dave in over a decade. But his life so touched mine during our youth that it seems as if he just left my house. I regret not visiting Dave in the last days of his life. It seems ridiculous to make the trip for the funeral now, but not for the life last week. Selfish, too, I suppose. I could not bare to see him in any other fashion than what is pictured above. Healthy, smiling, happy. Surprisingly, his death brought me back to my hometown. I moved from this town shortly after my mother’s death in 1993 and have not really been back since then. The rest of my family lives elsewhere so there really has not been a reason to return. Until now. I imagine Dave’s family will be a bit confused to see me and not my brothers. I need them to know what he meant to me. I need them to know it, and I need to say it. I feel the loss.

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