Small Hearts
I put my ear to the door and listened. The teacher was speaking, but I could not make out what she was saying. I opened the door slightly and poked my head in just enough to meet the new teacher’s eyes. She noted the distraction and turned to look at me.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
Her mouth said, “fine,” but her eyes said, help!
I stepped into the classroom and looked towards the children. Immediately, my eyes struck the back of a little boy. His light blue shirt and the rear end of his tan pants were clearly visible because he was kneeling at his chair. His head was resting on his arms on top of the chair. After two years as the lead teacher, this was not a new sight for me.
“Alex,” I said authoritatively. Alex kept his head down but turned it in order to meet my gaze. Using my index finger, I motioned him to me. Slowly, he pushed his short body into a standing position. Then he dragged himself towards the door with his shoulders drooping and his eyes on the floor. When he got to me I ushered him out into the hallway. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall as I crouched down until our heights’ matched.
“What’s going on, Alex?”
No answer.
“Why aren’t you participating?”
“I don’t want to,” he shot back at me.
“Why don’t you want to? Talk to me.”
No answer. Instead he tried to hide from me in the wall. I took his skinny arms and turned him gently so that he once again faced me. His eyes were full of disdain. I had seen Alex behave like this before; he deliberately misbehaved and shut down quite frequently. I chalked it all up to him being the third of four children and not getting enough positive attention at home.
He’d lay on the ground or across chairs and if you asked him anything he’d tell you he wanted to go home or that he didn’t like Sunday school. For two years I had been fighting with him – attempting to get him excited about whatever the lesson was about – but he never seemed to care. He’d often come with a small toy in his pocket and it would appear at these times. He’d finger it over and over. If it was a car he’d pretend to drive it on the floor, the chair, or even on his body. When we told him to put it away, he’d set it down for a moment and then pick it right back up. There were several small toys that had ended up in my pocket before the end of the day.
“Alex, you need to participate in class and be good.”
I was about to go get his parents and have them deal with him when I thought there must be something more to this.
“I can tell that you’re upset. Can you tell me why you are upset?”
I knew this was the right question, for he began pouring out the events of class to me.
“. . . then teacher had us write my name and birthdays on a heart, but I didn’t do it right. I wrote 6. I want to start over but teacher didn’t let me.”
Aha! How had I missed this? I remembered how particular he was about reading and writing correctly. He never wanted help sounding words out when he read the good book and he wouldn’t stand for someone to write his name for him. At that moment, I loved him. He was an angel of a child, striving to do his best, and not settling for less. The look in his eyes was disappointment, I could not see any disrespect.
Quickly, I set it straight. His teacher was curious when I asked for another heart and gave it to him. She was even more surprised to see him so excited to write his birth date. He smiled as he traded hearts with her. She went back to where she had been in the lesson and he shocked us all when he wanted to read the next passage. I stayed long enough to see him happily playing the little game the teacher had prepared for the class.
