So what do I say tomorrow?

Tonight, I’m busy. I’ve been to the store. I’ve watered the lawn. I’ve washed my face. I watched the news; I knew better, but I did anyway. I’m working on a presentation. This is a Sunday, some people say a holy day. I’ve been trying not to think about the sickness of the world. But what do I say tomorrow?

Tomorrow, my students return with questions and this time the teacher will have no answers. No words I say will ease the discomfort of a missing face, a voice, a laugh. There is nothing even an eloquent speaker can say to bring back life. But I have to say something. So what will it be?

I don’t know. I won’t know until I get there. And maybe there won’t be much to say at first. But by afternoon, by the time of our class, there will be the raw ache of knowing that one of the many students I’m charged with teaching, will be tragically and finally absent. And those who remain will wonder, as I will, why?

If you are called to teach, to serve in that way, your students sort of become your children. I don’t presume to know the pain of a parent that has lost a child. I imagine that it is an unbearable weight find that the natural order has been pre-empted and my heart goes out to those who experience that pain. But for a little while, every day, my students are my children and if there were any way I could keep them from harm, I would do it with no hesitation. It is a helpless, hurting feeling when you can’t.

I pray I find the right words, the best words tomorrow. And if I’m not able to come up with words, I pray that my children understand my heart.