It was in the
summer, and so I was off from school. Every day I would go out and watch him do
his job. I was fascinated by the whole process, and I would ask him questions
about why he did this or why he did that, and he never seemed to get impatient
with me. I remember loving how the paint smelled and the careful way he went
about the business of brushing it on each and every board. As far as I was
concerned, he was an artist.
When it was time
for him to eat his lunch, he would sit on the front porch steps. I asked my
mother if she would make me my lunch, which she did, and I took it outside and
sat beside him. I don’t remember what we talked about but I remember we talked.
He never asked me to leave him alone so he could get a break from a little boy’s
ongoing chatter. And I felt as though I was sitting next to a very important
person.
Sam was one of
the teachers of my life. Oh, he didn’t teach me how to paint. As a matter of
fact, I don’t really like painting. I’ve done it, but only out of necessity. But
Sam taught me something else that was very important: He taught me that the
people who do things in this world and who do them with care and love, are
important people.
Then one day I was
12. Old enough to be confirmed, so under some parental duress, I joined Rev.
Paul Meyer’s Confirmation Class. I don’t think I was a very good student, but I
guess I did enough to make it through to the end. One of the requirements that I
managed to meet, though, was to begin attending church regularly. But at 12,
church seemed to be primarily for adults.
The sermons were
meaningless to me—just something you had to put up with, and they seem to have
nothing to do with my life, as far as I was concerned. Nothing against the
preachers, per se, you understand. I was a kid who would much rather be in the
woods exploring, pretending to be Davy Crockett or some other hero of the
wilderness.
But here’s the
thing: there was an elderly man named At Wells, who was, I guess, a head usher
and greeter. I put it that way because to be honest, I don’t remember if he had
an official title. However, he was there every Sunday in the vestibule getting
things organized and ready. When I started showing up for church, At said to
me, “How would you like a job?” I told him that I would like that, so he
assigned me the task of folding the bulletins, which I took to immediately. I was
very careful to make sure every bulletin was neatly creased so that the people
who got them would be somehow impressed by my skill and precision. Of course,
the truth is, I don’t know that it made a difference to anyone, but I was 12
years old—so what did I know?
At first I was a
bit sloppy, not because I was careless, but because I’ve never been adept at
doing things of that sort with my hands. So At told me that what I was doing
was important and that I needed to have a system. So he set me up with a
lectern in the vestibule that had a frame around it that I could use to align
the edges. Suddenly I was an expert and I faithfully showed up early on Sunday
mornings because I had an important job to do.
At Wells was one
of my teachers. Even the smaller tasks in life are important. And the people
who do them may not get any recognition. But even if they don’t, what they do
behind the scenes, if done with love and care, makes a difference in how life
feels to us. Further, the efforts we personally make with things however seemingly
small they may be, contribute to the good and the joy of life experiences.
I’ve had a lot of
teachers in my life, inside and outside of the classroom. In my freshman year
in high school, my homeroom teacher confronted me when I walked into my
homeroom one morning. He had a stern look on his face as he backed me up
against the wall (never laying a finger on me, by the way), and he told me that
he had been talking to my English teacher, and he found out that I had not
handed in the writing assignment that was due a few days ago. In no uncertain terms, he told me that I was
an intelligent young man, and that I needed to get on the ball and hand in that
homework before I got a failing grade.
I don’t remember
his name—it was so long ago. As I recall, he looked a lot like BoNewhart, and
I often think of him when I see Bob Newhart on TV. But, you know, that’s the first time anyone
called me “an intelligent young man.” It’s just a phrase really, but it did
something to me: first, that he should care what I do and what I don’t do and
second, that I could actually be thought of as intelligent. I say that because,
unashamedly, I was in a special reading group when I was in the third grade
because I was considered a slow reader. Since that time, I had always thought
of myself in that context.
Whenever Fred
Rogers had an occasion to give a speech, he would ask the audience to take a
few seconds and think and give thanks in their hearts to the people who have
made them what they are. It always effected the people deeply who were listening
to him, even to the extent that there were tears in their eyes, even among the supposedly
toughest in the crowd. (On You Tube you can hear the commencement address he gave at
Darmouth in 2002 or upon receiving a lifetime achievement award at the Emmy’s
in 1997, both of which illustrate that).
By the way, all
of us are teachers to somebody, maybe a lot of somebodies. I wonder what we’re
teaching and to whom? I’m going to think about that for myself.
