For the last eight years, I have stood on the front porch of WHCS at the close of the school day and waved goodbye. Maybe you thought my wave was a perfunctory motion done out of habit, but let me tell you a little more about waving.
Waving is a way to say, "I see you." It's a way to say that everything is OK. It's a way to say thanks for the support, for all you do, for letting me be on your team and you being on mine. It's a way to let you know it was a good day. It's a way to let you know that I count it a privilege to have your child in my class. Because each child is a unique piece of art that paints my world with brilliant color I can't imagine living without. Even on the bad days.
And then suddenly there was the last wave. It came almost as a shock. You know how the "lasts" sneak up on a person. Life hums along, until abruptly you realize you've taught the last math lesson of new material and all that's left is review. And then you've had the last hot lunch and the last school devotions and the last spelling test. All at once there's the last full day of school, and suddenly it's the last day and the last hour and the last goodbye.
Unexpectedly, I found myself holding all the bittersweet memories, unsure what to do with them. I looked across the abandoned playground and notice a lone ball, but there were no children left to bounce it. There were markers on the markerboards, but no one to stack them all together in a giant pointer. There were desks, empty and forlorn, waiting for the next occupant. And there was nothing left to do but wave goodbye.
I know that next school year there will be more funny stories and good conversations. There will be new tennis shoes and exciting library books. There will be triumphs and tragedies. I will not be here to see them.
But my heart will.
My heart will still be waving. Still saying "I see you." Still praying that things are OK. Still thankful for the support: the meals, the shoulders I've cried on, the cards and gifts, the times you stepped up to me and said, "We pray for the teachers." My heart will still count it a privilege to know you, each and every one of the wonderful people who painted my world, colored my perceptions, changed my views. I can't imagine not knowing you.
And when life has moved on and you are living the good days, know that I am happy for you. And know that I will have good days too. And on the bad days (because bad days do come) remember that I will cry with you.
And above all, remember that waving is something that can be done both to say goodbye and to say hello.
Waving is a way to say, "I see you." It's a way to say that everything is OK. It's a way to say thanks for the support, for all you do, for letting me be on your team and you being on mine. It's a way to let you know it was a good day. It's a way to let you know that I count it a privilege to have your child in my class. Because each child is a unique piece of art that paints my world with brilliant color I can't imagine living without. Even on the bad days.
And then suddenly there was the last wave. It came almost as a shock. You know how the "lasts" sneak up on a person. Life hums along, until abruptly you realize you've taught the last math lesson of new material and all that's left is review. And then you've had the last hot lunch and the last school devotions and the last spelling test. All at once there's the last full day of school, and suddenly it's the last day and the last hour and the last goodbye.
Unexpectedly, I found myself holding all the bittersweet memories, unsure what to do with them. I looked across the abandoned playground and notice a lone ball, but there were no children left to bounce it. There were markers on the markerboards, but no one to stack them all together in a giant pointer. There were desks, empty and forlorn, waiting for the next occupant. And there was nothing left to do but wave goodbye.
I know that next school year there will be more funny stories and good conversations. There will be new tennis shoes and exciting library books. There will be triumphs and tragedies. I will not be here to see them.
But my heart will.
My heart will still be waving. Still saying "I see you." Still praying that things are OK. Still thankful for the support: the meals, the shoulders I've cried on, the cards and gifts, the times you stepped up to me and said, "We pray for the teachers." My heart will still count it a privilege to know you, each and every one of the wonderful people who painted my world, colored my perceptions, changed my views. I can't imagine not knowing you.
And when life has moved on and you are living the good days, know that I am happy for you. And know that I will have good days too. And on the bad days (because bad days do come) remember that I will cry with you.
And above all, remember that waving is something that can be done both to say goodbye and to say hello.
So this is it. My last goodbye. The final "See you later." The last wave.
Until next time, when I can wave hello.
