All the
Good Things
He
was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary’s School in Morris,
Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a
million. Very neat in appearance, he had that happy-to-be- alive attitude that
made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark
also talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking
without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was
his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving-“Thank
you for correcting me, Sister!” I didn’t know what to make of it at first,
but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One
morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I
made a novice-teacher’s mistake. I looked at Mark and said, “if you say one
more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!”
It
wasn’t ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, “Mark is talking again.”
I hadn’t asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had
stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I
remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very
deliberately opened the drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without
saying a word, I proceeded to Mark’s desk, tore off two pieces of tape and
made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.
As
I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it! I
started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark’s desk, removed
the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, “Thank you for
correcting me, Sister.”
At
the end of the year I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew by,
and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome than
ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in
the “new math,” he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third.
One
Friday, things just didn’t feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all
week, and I sensed that the students were growing frustrated with themselves-and
edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand.
So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two
sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of
the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it
down.
It
took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, and as the
students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Mark
said, “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.”
That
Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper,
and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday I gave
each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling.
“Really?” I heard whispered. “I never knew that meant anything to
anyone!” “I didn’t know others liked me so much!”
No
one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed
them after class or with their parents, but it didn’t matter. The exercise had
accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one
another again.
That
group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from vacation,
my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked the
usual questions about the trip-the weather, my experiences in general.
There
was a slight lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and
simply said, “Dad?” My father cleared his throat as he usually did before
something important. “The Eklunds called last night,” he began.
“Really?”
I said. “I haven’t heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is.”
Dad
responded quietly. “Mark was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The funeral is
tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend.”
To
this day I can still point to the exact spot on 1-494 where Dad told me about
Mark.
I
had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so
handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I would give
all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.
The
church was packed with Mark’s friends. Chuck’s sister sang “The Battle
Hymn of the Republic.” Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It
was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and
the bugler played taps.
One
by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin....
I
was the last one.... As I stood there, one of the soldiers who had acted as
pallbearer came up to me.
“Were
you Mark’s math teacher?” he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the
coffin.
“Mark
talked about you a lot,” he said.
After
the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates headed to Chuck’s farmhouse
for lunch. Mark’s mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me.
“We
want to show you something,” his father said, taking a wallet out of his
pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might
recognize it.”
Opening
the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had
obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking
that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of
Mark’s classmates had said about him.
“Thank
you so much for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark
treasured it.”
Mark’s
classmates started to gather around us.
Charlie
smiled rather sheepishly and said, “I still have my list. It’s in the top
drawer of my desk at home.”
Chuck’s
wife said, “Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album.”
“I
have mine too,” Marilyn said. “It’s in my diary.”
Then
Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and
showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. “I carry this with me at all
times,” Vicki said without batting an eyelash. “I think we all saved our
lists.”
That’s
when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who
would never see him again.
Source: Stories for the Heart, Compiled by Alice Gray, Questar Publishers