Introduction to Angels in the Classroom

I decided to post a few chapters from my now finished -- until I make more changes -- book.  This is the introduction.

My Angels

Seven year old Arthur used to sneak up behind me and utter in this crazy sotto voce, “You’re beautiful!”  Then he ran away and hid behind his desk.  He would also, sometimes, whisper in that same voice with the same exit plan, “I hate you!”  I always laughed when he said that because I knew it wasn’t true.

I taught a few hundred second graders in thirteen years. I formed a connection with each and every one of them.  Each one was a spark, a teacher who taught the teacher.  Each one was a wish.  More than anything, they were my angels.

I was called to teaching.  It took me years to realize it and follow the call.  I think my soul knew the right time and the right place.  This is the story of my journey of teaching second grade. More than a dozen years in the same school, same room and same grade.  I taught them reading, math, science and everything I could.  In return, they saved me. 

Margaret was a student in my very difficult class the year my husband died.  Her little sister had died when Margaret was in kindergarten.  She was having a hard time coping with it.  When my husband, Mark, was entering hospice, another girl asked if Mr. Meredith was going to get better.  Little, skinny, feisty Margaret stepped between us.  In a very mature voice, she told her classmate, “We are hoping for the best.” 

            Ten years later, it still brings tears to my eyes.  My loss brought her healing that year because she wanted to protect me.

When my life was more than I could bear, Mark’s battle with cancer, his death, my son’s very difficult grief and my daughter’s struggle with loss, distrust and just plain old ADHD, the angels in my room distracted me.  They gave me love.  They made me laugh.  They lifted my soul with a purpose for being.

Mark was diagnosed with colon cancer my first year teaching.  I had been a bookkeeper and accountant part time for years.  I was following the call, a wild passion to teach, into a classroom.  I was teaching at John B. Murphy School, a Chicago Public School on the northwest side of the city.  It was the school my children attended.  I was in the grade I wanted.  My teaching dreams had come true. 

My personal life was a mixed bag of contentment and chaos.  I felt I needed to be the bedrock for my family.  My lovely husband encouraged me to teach.  He listened and laughed at the stories I told of my days.  He endured chemotherapy, radiation and several surgeries with amazing fortitude and humor.  He told jokes about losing his hair saying, “Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?” He baked cookies for sick friends with no regard to the tremendous amount of pain he was in.  He was bound and determined to enjoy the rest of his life.

We were able to maintain a semblance of a functioning home life.  Our kids were in their early teens, a difficult age.  My son was heart broken and angry at his dad’s illness.  My daughter was constantly positive, to the point of denial.  Mark and I joked we lived with Mr. Doom and Gloom and Pollyanna.

I kept hoping we could beat the cancer, that it would all become a terrible dream, a hurdle we jumped over.  I felt if I had any doubt in Mark’s ability to win the battle, he would certainly die.  I was steadfastly optimistic. 

            The surgeon who performed Mark’s liver resection told me he had bought Mark a couple of years but he hadn’t cured him.  I never told anyone.  Only my mom and my minister heard the doctor state it.  I locked it in my heart and hoped it would turn out to be a mistake.  It didn’t pass my lips until Mark was in hospice a year and a half later.  I finally told him.

Mark died on February 13, 2003.  My class was sad for me but –- think like a second grader –- the Valentine’s Day party was the next day.  This group was so tough that only one old retired teacher would stay for more than two days at a time.  They chewed up those subs and spit them out. 

The substitute on the day of Mark’s death had everyone write sympathy cards.  They copied them from the board and decorated them with pink and purple hearts.

Dear Ms. Meredith,

We are sorry that Mr. Meredith past.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

How could I not laugh?  They loved me even when I was a grouchy, sad, old thing.  How beautiful is that?

            Yes, they were my angels, and this is the story of how they saved me.