October 6, 2014

Searching the Obvious

I stand next to the fountain at my university. Suddenly I see her. There is my daughter.

* * *

There are certain statements and questions to which all college professors can relate. These come from students, simple statements and questions such as: “Are we doing anything important in class today?” Or “I didn’t do today’s homework; does that matter?” Also: “Do we have to read the essays you gave us, or is that optional?” And rarely: “I can’t attend class because I have a court appearance regarding my anger management; here’s the note” (the appropriate response for the latter is to quickly take the note and politely say “Thank you”).

I think about this as I turn the corner, early morning, another day of teaching. Sitting on the bench next to my office is my friend Monica, staring at the floor, tracing the patterns of the carpet with her shoe. It’s 6:30. She looks up and smiles, and I invite her to visit with me.

Monica is part of the custodial team at the university. Every day I see her, pushing a yellow trash can, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming halls, wiping windows. She always waves at me, and sometimes I am lucky enough to have her stop by for a visit. She talks about her family, and for a brief part of the day I forget about grades, essay prompts, and class preparation. This morning Monica has a request. Next week is Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. She says: “I don’t want my daughter to see me being a custodian; I want her to be more than I am.”

Monica’s request is simple: Would I be a mother for a day? Would I let her daughter walk with me, enter the classroom, see what teaching is all about? She explains that her daughter wants to be a teacher.

* * *

Monica introduces me to her daughter, Bianca, who is wearing a pink pleated skirt, a pink blouse, pink socks, and a pink ribbon in her hair. I tell her what my days are like, and watch her enthusiasm as she picks up her pink backpack. We head for the first class. As we walk, I look back at Monica, who smiles and nods her head. Dear God, help this day to go well.

We arrive at the classroom 10 minutes early. We sit on a bench outside the classroom, and I pull out a small book of psalms. I open to Psalm 31. Bianca asks if I will teach from that book. No, this is to teach me. I tell her that before I walk into any classroom I read a psalm and pray. It has become a habit. She asks: “You do this so angels will come sit in the classroom?” How young, how wise! I give her a task. We have three classes to teach today, and she is now responsible for the psalms and prayers. She smiles and takes the book.

* * *

9:00 a.m., Rhetoric II. Bianca takes on her task: “ ‘In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust’ [Ps. 31:1, KJV].” Then she prays: “Let everyone be nice today.”

10:15 a.m., Composition I. “ ‘For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake lead me, and guide me’ [verse 3, KJV].” “Dear God, please let an angel sit next to me.”

1:00 p.m., World Literature: “ ‘In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust’ [verse 1, KJV].” “It’s been a long day. Don’t forget us.”

* * *

At 4:00 p.m. Monica and Bianca are ready to head home. Bianca tells her mother about the book and the prayers, and I wonder if she realizes how present the Holy Spirit was in our classroom. She returns the book of psalms to me. But I think that every teacher should have a book like that. I tell her this and give her the book. She smiles and looks at her mother.

* * *

Early morning, another day of teaching. I see a brown paper bag hanging from my office doorknob. Inside a red apple and a 10-year-old girl’s handwriting on a pink piece of paper: “I will read and pray for you today while I am in school so that angels will come hear you teach.” I smile, knowing they’re already there.

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