Listen to thisI will never forget the cold November day that I walked into classroom number 306.
I was one of three students who were to begin their Child and Youth Care program. My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, and I was whispering to myself repeatedly “What in the name of God are you doing here? You have a twenty-year-old son in this class, how silly are you going to look strolling in the classroom at your age?” I knew that the class had already become familiar with each other, because they had taken a six-week computer course together, which added to my already frazzled nerves. Just when I thought of running down the corridor as fast as possible, the door opened and a very intimidating man boomed, “Come on in.” Very slowly and cautiously, I approached the open doorway, ready for the stares and whispering I was certain would follow. As I stepped into the classroom, I was greeted by twenty-two faces staring at me, sizing me up. I heard brief whispers of “Is that really Keith’s mom?” and “That can’t be Keith’s mom, they look nothing at all alike.” Lost in my world of trying to get a vibe from these students, and being very much intimidated by the instructor, I quietly slid into the closest available desk. I said nothing, and prayed that I would not be called upon to answer questions of any sort.
2:45p.m. I had another huge dilemma facing me, at break time. I could not go on break with my son, I mean, how stupid would that look? Besides, I made a promise to him and myself that while attending school we would each be our own person. I would not infringe on his life and friendships in school, and I wanted him to give me space to try to find my identity again.
My entire teenage and early adult years I had been searching for my niche in life. I had prayed I would find it here, in this program of study. Of course having my son in my classes was not what I envisioned for my spiritual journey, but I was confident as two adults we could somehow work it out.
As the days passed, I began to feel as if I were part of the class, due in large measure to the interesting material we were learning. Suddenly, it really did not matter if I was the oldest in my class; there would be nothing to stop me from going forward. I loved what I was learning and soaked it up like a sponge. That intimidating teacher I now found to be quite a good debater, and I loved challenging him on topics.
It was also at this time I was introduced to a woman who was tiny in stature, but wielded an awful lot of influence and respect in the Child and Youth Care field. The classroom was buzzing with talk of someone of such importance teaching us ordinary students. My thought was “Great, just what we need. A hot shot coming in here to push us around and tell us how much we have yet to learn.” In my mind she would, of course, have an attitude problem as well.
Then finally, the day arrived and in she strolled. She wore casual pants, top, and had a very soft-spoken voice. The polar opposite of what I had anticipated. I was not sure how to gauge this “new instructor,” but I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. For the first several classes, I must admit I was extremely nervous and said very little to draw attention to myself. Her knowledge of the Child and Youth Care field was very intimidating to me, and I wondered repeatedly how I would ever complete an assignment for her without feeling like a total idiot. It did not take long for me to be put to the test, because at the beginning of class number two we were given journals we had to complete and pass in to her. I was frantic! My writing certainly was not good enough to write an assignment for someone who had written and published dozens of articles. I remember sitting at the table at home and crying, because I knew when I passed in my assignment, she would realize how incompetent I truly was! I wrote and rewrote the assignment at least a dozen times, and finally in total misery I passed it in. I dreaded the day the assignments would be passed back, I was sure I had failed. The day finally arrived, and I tried to appear calm, while my soul cried inside. When I finally received my paper, I bravely turned it over to view my mark. It was ninety, or at least that was what the paper said. It could not be, she must have had my assignment mixed up with someone else–s. I checked the name, the date, and my heart jumped out of my chest when I realized it was my assignment! I cannot explain the feeling of accomplishment and pride I felt at that moment! I was not so dumb after all. Maybe, I even deserved to be here. My confidence level rose higher than it had been in years and I started to feel a newfound independence.
I was having the time of my life! I felt as if I had truly found my calling, and for the first time I experienced a feeling of belonging. Then, just when I began to feel truly contented in my life, a crisis struck.
I was at school one day when I received an urgent message from my husband's place of work. He was on his way to the hospital, and I was to meet him at the emergency department. I left school and immediately made my way to the hospital. When I arrived they had my husband in quarantine, and he was hooked up to an I.V, and antibiotics. Half of the top part of his hand surrounding his knuckles, looked as if it had been eaten away. It was quite a remarkable sight! The doctors informed me that they were running all kinds of tests to try to determine the cause of the disease, but as of yet they had been unable to isolate it. John, my husband, was in tremendous pain. He explained to me that he had just knocked his hand at work, and within a matter of minutes his flesh had literally been eaten away. For four days I sat by his bedside at the Emergency Unit, praying that something could be done to save his hand. On day five the doctors informed us that it looked like flesh eating disease, and they were doing all they could to fight it. Finally, seven long days after the ordeal began it ended, tissue and skin began to regenerate over my husband's open wounds, and I could take him home. For five more days, I changed dressings, soaked his hand in solutions, and carried him to and from the hospital for I.V. antibiotic treatments. By the time the crisis was over, I was tired, and not so sure of myself and what I was doing anymore. I contemplated quitting the course and staying home, but my heart was in my studies at school. I grieved for the safety and sanctity of my instructors and peers. I returned to school the week before Christmas break and was quite happy with the gift I had been given, the chance to continue my education.
January came in with a real flourish of snowstorms, and again I was at a crossroads in my life. Fourteen years earlier, I had a car accident, and I was seven months pregnant at the time. I almost lost my life, and my unborn child did lose hers.
I cannot begin to describe the terrible feelings that coursed through my body every time I stepped in that car to drive. I had my twenty-year-old son in that car with me, and what if I had another accident? The thought was too appalling to even consider. I struggled through January month praying every time I took the car to drive to school. February arrived, and I was once again destined to meet another instructor. I really was not very keen on the idea. I had met two instructors already, whom I liked and admired very much. In order to move forward in the program, I would have to learn to live with this “new instructor,” like it or not. I will never forget my first impression of the new instructor called “Jenny.” She seemed very firm and serious, and I really was not sure if I could make it through her course. I was not about to give up though, certainly not because I had an instructor who I did not know how to read. As the days passed in my new “Activities” course, I began to feel much more relaxed, and actually started looking forward to her classes.
Just as my life seemed on an even keel, I became seriously ill. It happened so fast that I did not see it coming, and when it did, I was too sick to care. I was hospitalized for three days, and then released.
I was trying to keep up with my schoolwork, and I had an assignment due for my “Activities” course. I do not exactly remember what the assignment was about, but I do remember it had something to do with how the activities course had changed us. Needing desperately to confide in someone about my feelings, I reached out to Jenny through my assignment. After I had passed it in, I kicked myself in the butt a thousand times. I kept repeating to myself “What was I thinking? She’s my instructor, not my therapist!” When I received my assignment back, there were three little words on it. “Thanks for sharing.”
Those three words when written alone may not mean much to some people, but to me they meant everything. I quietly tucked my assignment into my book bag, and when I got home, I cried for hours.
I had taken a chance and reached out, and someone had heard me. They did not consider me silly, or tell me it was not their job to listen to my problems. They had heard my cries for help, and responded.
You will never know the gift you gave me, in those three little words. In that moment I felt like I did matter, that I was someone, and I could achieve my goal of graduating from this course. Since that time, I have reached out to my instructors, many times and I have not been disappointed. Never underestimate the power of your words and your thoughtful ways.
Since that day in February, I have faced many new and difficult challenges. I have reached out repeatedly with my emotions, through assignments, and in class discussions. Time and again, you have given me the courage to work through my problems. Whenever I feel as if I am off track, or I want to give up, three little words come to mind “thanks for sharing.” Now it is my turn to thank you. Thank You for being there when I was scared, lonely, and felt like giving up. You have inspired me, to be the best I can be, and find satisfaction in that. For nobody has the right to demand more from us than we can give.
Please don’t ever stop what you are doing, for if you can inspire a thirty-something woman, imagine what an inspiration you must be for the many troubled children and youth who are lucky enough to work with you!
