I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped. Why was my mouth so crooked? I paused the hair dryer, not moving my head from its obliquely inverted position. I relaxed my jaw, allowing myself to become consciously aware of the sensory input my face was giving me. I resisted the impulse to describe my drooping cheeks as “jowls”, then gave in to the self-descriptor with a giggle. I puffed out the cheek closest to the floor, watching as the mattress of air elevated my mouth back to midline; then puffed all the air out and let my face sag to the side once more.
I grinned at myself in the mirror. Thanks for playing with me, I mused to the smiling face in the reflection.
It has been a tumultuous 18 months. Resigning from my job, my church responsibilities, my self-imposed lists; trying out new hobbies and careers; living as a Seuer rat and reclaiming life on my own; taking a deep look at my insides and learning to give them up (psychologically as well as physiologically).
I’ve been blessed and burdened by my brief foray into teaching. The privilege of investing in others is overwhelmingly fulfilling. I grapple with the solemn responsibility of caring well for my students, wanting to invest well in them while recognizing that I am limited by time and space. I struggle with the reality that I cannot touch every one of the 200+ students entrusted to my influence. I wrestle with the truth that making a difference in one life – helping one person feel seen and cared for – that alone could be enough.
I administer an exam on how the heart beats, and in the same day grieve with a student as her heart breaks. I look around a room of 86, praying over and trying to “see” each one: Mason, Nathan, Maddie; Katie, Claudia, Sarah; Jordan, Neal, Aleena.
She poked her head around the doorframe with some trepidation. I assured her I had the time to visit, and she pulled up a seat. Tears began to well in her eyes, and my heart broke.
A quiz score gone wrong, and her pathway to her future career feeling bleak. “What do I do?!” she wept.
Oh, dear heart. I resist the urge to fix this. I grab the tissue box and slide it over to her. I sit in the discomfort of her sorrow. I remind her that her worth is more than a test score, that well-practiced nurses have failed Anatomy & Physiology but still went on to be outstanding in their field. I did my best to tell her that she was enough.
She’s not on my current class roster, yet she chose to confide in me. What a weighty, heart-rending, wonderful thing.
Perhaps that’s what I’ve been learning to do these past 18 months: learning to tell others that they don’t need fixing. That they are enough, and worth more than their test scores or job performance or accolades. And I’m finally getting around to telling the girl in the mirror that she is, too. ♥️
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