For those of you who don't know, I am back at the Elementary school as a Special Ed Teaching Assistant (Para) under the EBD (Emotional Behavioral Disability) Teacher. I work one-on-one with two students (another Para and I switch off halfway through the day.) One of the students I worked with at the end of last school year, and the other is new to me. The last few weeks were a learning curve for all of us...but God has reaffirmed to me that this is where I am meant to be...and I love it. I thought helping teens was my strong-suit...but there is a stronger element of hope that comes with working with younger kids.
Some thoughts scrawled hastily on a few sheets of notebook paper during a much-needed break last week.
Sometimes I feel like I am part of a team that can save the world. One small victory in our day must mean we are invincible. We worked so hard to get here.
And then I am suddenly aware of all the others. The ones who didn't have victories. The ones who don't really have anyone to believe they can succeed.
In that moment, I can no longer save the world. Our one small victory is like a single drop in the ocean of hurting children.
My building only has about 700 of those drops. Did you know it takes almost 5,000 drops to fill one cup. How many cups are in that ocean?
Now my heart is heavy.
This is my job...but the line between job and my passion for these kids is blurring. I care. A lot. It is my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.
Every morning I wake up with hope and a prayer that today will be the day.
The day we turn a corner. The corner doesn't have to be big. It rarely is. I have to remind myself I can't always look at the big picture. Sometimes I have to zoom in really close so each positive choice, no matter how small, is celebrated.
An instruction followed without argument.
A game lost without a tantrum.
All assignments for the day finished.
A whole book finished, even though it took twice as long as "normal."
A 2-minute conversation with a peer on the playground without threatening physical harm.
This. Is. Progress.
And I would miss it if my focus was on the big picture goal of making him a "normal functioning 4th grade student." Sure, that is what we would like the outcome to be, but we can't lose sight of these HUGE (though seemingly small) daily accomplishments.
He may never be "normal" (whatever that is). But that is what makes him unique. I just hope the world will recognize that. Too bad the world doesn't tend to handle "different" very well.
The thing is...my attention can't just be on the ones with maladaptive behavior. That is the temptation. To only focus on my one or two kids. But I can't do that. I can't walk by the faces of so many others. I have to come to school with an unending supply of high-fives, hugs, smiles and a memory that can recall names at a moments notice.
I pray each touch I give is infused with the love of Jesus. That his love envelops them through my arms. That their brokenness is somehow soothed, if just for that brief moment.
Because the other 699 kids need love and someone to believe in them, remember their name, notice how they are doing...even if they don't have an IEP.
So that is how my job description has gone from one-on-one to one-on-a bunch. Taking an interest. Caring enough to acknoweldge the unnoticed. And often it is the best-behaved children that get neglected.
I love the smiles I can draw out of the tough ones. They try so hard to be cool...but at the last second, they give in to their kid-self and let that full grin out. Their sheer delight at being remembered. Mattering to someone for who they are, not just for filling a chair in the classroom.
Oh how I love this opportunity I have been given. To tell a downcast kid that they aren't dumb. That they can do better. To notice someone's new braids, and another's new Jordans.
I cannot describe the feeling of reading with a kid who is trying so hard to sound out the words in front of him as quietly as possible...his eyes focused on the page, his mouth working to form a word. As he says the final result out loud, he looks up...his eyes intently searching mine, willing me to give my approval. That moment is crucial. He is reading my look, and he won't miss a thing. I give him a grin and acknowledge how well he sounded it out. He quickly looks down at the page to continue reading, but not before I catch the satisfied look of self-confidence settle over his features.
This exchange takes place in a matter of seconds, but it is one that I love and I look forward to every day.
Oh but that doesn't happen every day. And sometimes I get discouraged. My well seems to be running dry. My hope starts to wane. I just want to give up because there is no way to help them all.
Until that Still Small Voice whispers, "One plants, another waters...I have placed you here for this season, to do the work I have for you. You may never see the result of your long days...but trust me, it is making a difference. Trust me. Never underestimate what I can do in and through you."
Thank you, Lord.
I thank God every day for enough grace for today. Tomorrow isn't here yet...but I know when it comes, He'll give me enough for that too.
It is the only thing I can credit for the patience, love and support I feel for these kids.
And that is all I can really ask for.
Sorry my thoughts are kind of scattered. I just had some things I needed to write down and process. I shared them on here in hopes that maybe those of you who don't understand what I do might get it a little bit. And I also know there are those who know exactly what I'm going through. Any advice, experiences or stories you want to share? I'd love to hear it.
