his papaw was my preacher

June 19, 2008

Teaching is far from easy.  In fact, some days I go home, throw myself on the floor, kick, scream, and swear that I’ll be a nurse someday.  Or a beautician.  Or an opera singer.  Or a mime.  Or anything on the face of the planet rather than a teacher.  Some days it’s really that bad. 

But then there are days like my first day.  Or funny things that kids say.  Or the sight of kids bobbing their precious heads to the sounds of The Drifters on a Friday afternoon.  Or sweet voices singing along to the Jonas Brothers.  (Heaven help me.  I think I like the Jonas Brothers.)  Or students who tell you they’re writing a book for you.  Or that your pants are ugly. 

The first year I taught there was a little boy in my class that I just loved.  I adored him because he was all boy.  He got sweaty at recess, wore his baseball uniform to school, and he didn’t like girls.  He also came to swim every afternoon at the pool where I worked.  One day while he was waiting on his mom to come out of the dressing room he looked at me and said, “Miss Witt, I’ve been praying for your husband.”  I was floored and humbled by the way that that little boy had my future in his prayers. 

About a week later, another student’s parents came to the restaurant that I love so much.  As I was writing down their drink order I told them the story of the little boy and his prayer.  I nearly choked when the dad said, “Well, Miss Witt, Brett would be praying for that, but the thing is he thinks he is that man.”

How stinking cute is that?   (and yes, I had three jobs and I sort of loved them all.)

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