Excited that this piece was shared on Five Minute Lit. You can find it here.
You can read about my dad and his love of polyester and enlisting me in his shopping trips here. He is also an excellent gift-giver as you can see here. stories about my dad can be found here and also
“I can always spot you a mile away – your coat is a beacon.”
We were chatting in the schoolyard as usual, waiting for our children to exit for the day and hurry home for snacks.
“I should get one of those for outdoor learning time with my kindergarteners. I hate wearing those safety vests, especially over my winter coat. That looks so warm, too. Might need to invest in some new teacher gear.”
We both chuckled and then moved on to other small talk. The bell rang minutes later and our children rushed over to our waiting spot, bursting to ask if their friends could come over and if we’d carry their backpacks for them while they did the monkey bars one last time before the walk home. Eventually he went his way, and I went mine.
A few months later there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, there he was, the husband of my friend, smiling and holding out a brand-new neon orange fleece coat.
“I got this for you at work. I remembered how much you said you could use one for your job.”
I’ve received many thoughtful gifts in my life:
There are many others I could mention, but the best gift I’ve ever been given was the bright orange safety jacket.
I’ve bestowed the name Big Orange to this coat as it is indeed big and quite orange. It is a fantastic coat and by far the best piece of teacher clothing I have ever owned. It is roomy and has large pockets where I store bandaids, tissues, mittens, pens, and sometimes my sanity. Students exclaim over it, teachers envy it. The coat is essentially the Room of Requirement in clothing form.
Its functionality is second to none, but that is not why it is the best gift I’ve ever received. You see, the coat was really a message to me. I was valued enough that a casual comment I made was filed away and remembered. That coat told me that I was heard and seen by this friend, that I matter.
Best gift ever.
Share one of the best gifts you’ve ever received.
Have you ever chosen a word for the year? It can be an anchor, a goal, or a touch point of sorts. Last year I chose “joy” which turned out to be ironic, but also a challenge to find joy amidst the year-that-shall-not-be-named.
I didn’t enter 2021 with a specific word, but rather more of a mindset of positivity. Then as 2021 came tearing in like a hangry toddler looking for goldfish crackers, I concluded a general vibe wasn’t going to cut it.
Balance? Hope? Those were good options and definitely applicable, but they didn’t feel right. “Relax,” I told myself, “there’s no rule that you have to choose a word by a certain date, if at all. Be patient, you’ll land on the right one.”
Covid numbers started rising and it was clear school would not return soon to in-person learning. As a teacher and a parent that’s hard news. Not knowing how long this new lockdown would last or what it would entail caused a new wave of uncertainty. Be patient, there’s no point worrying about things you can’t control.
School reconvened online and I adjusted to teaching remotely. Our family found their “school” spots and we gradually got into a routine. However, technology lagged, links didn’t open as I’d planned, I got booted out of my own google meet (more than once), and I found myself frequently saying to my students, “thank you for your patience.”
On a rare trip to the grocery store someone accidently bumped into my cart as he navigated the arrows and people. “I’m so sorry!” he quickly apologized. “No need,” I replied, “It’s bound to happen.” The shopper ahead of me in line shrugged and nodded her agreement. And because I am the type of person who speaks to random people in stores I observed, “No point in getting upset, we just need to budget more time for these errands nowadays.” She whole-heartedly concurred and said, “We all need to have more patience.”
Patience. Waiting without getting riled up even if you’ve been waiting a long and tedious amount of time.
Haven’t the past ten months been tedious? They have certainly been cause to get riled up. And it often seems like we have been in an perpetual state of waiting.
Patience? Now? Come on. During this collective trauma? Patience when I literally and figuratively have 15 tabs open at once? Now, when we’re navigating a global pandemic and a Stay-At-Home order?
Sigh.
When I was in grade one our teacher let us bring in records to listen to during indoor lunches (yes, I’m old). One of my friends had an album with a singing snail and I can still recall the lyrics (no googling necessary):
Have patience
Have patience
Don’t be in such a hurry
When you get impatient, you only start to worry
Remember, remember
That God is patient, too
And think of all the times when others have to wait for you.
My students need to wait for me when an assignment didn’t load properly or my screen won’t share. My sons need to wait when I am still teaching, but they are done for the day and why can’t I answer their questions and requests RIGHT NOW? Or later when I am preparing lessons and focused on that instead of the story they are trying to tell me.
Being patient is hard work. The more I think about it, patience is an excellent choice for this year. We all need to have it and we all deserve to receive it, too.
I need to be patient with myself. That is particularly difficult when I feel like I have too much and too little time all at once. Or when I feel I am in a fog and can’t focus; or I feel overwhelmed by the unknown. It’s easy to feel like a failure when a reasonable goal isn’t met and the only reason is “welp, it’s Covid.” I will quiet the voice who berates me “What happened to reading more and cleaning out that closet?” I can be more understanding towards myself when I intended to be present with my family, but the latest presser got my attention instead.
I’m committing to demonstrating more patience this year. Yes, even towards my husband when he saunters into the kitchen and blows out my scented candle for NO REASON. I will be patient with students who turn in blank assignments or don’t log in all day. I will have patience for those who are trying to navigate these past, present, and future months as best they can, even if we don’t share the same point of view.
Patience isn’t all we need, but it’s a start. We are mourning the loss of how life used to be and a future that is uncertain.
Be patient with yourself, friend. You deserve it.
Did she notice the tears welling up in my eyes? I don’t think so, she was very focused on her job. But they were there and I was caught off guard and quickly composed myself. She carried on with her task, oblivious to the quiet sob I choked back. Or maybe she was being kind and ignored this burst of emotion – she probably sees it often in her role at the blood donation clinic.
As I reclined in the lounger and listened to the whirr of machines around me, I did some self-analysis. My emotions had snuck up on me and it was unsettling. It didn’t take long to think of another time I was ambushed by my feelings.
Covid-19 has caused me to become emotional many times, that’s not new or unexpected. When I drove by the local high school and the sign out front said “School Closed” I felt the tears rise with the realization that we would not being going back for a long time. My grief for the students was logical. Telling my children we wouldn’t be going to Disney like we’d planned was hard news to deliver and understandably sad. Finally seeing my parents after months of only phone calls had me sobbing as it was twinned with the knowledge it would be months before we could be together again. Those instances made sense.
Then there was the time, few weeks into the lockdown this past winter, when I was at the grocery store. Covid protocols were still being implemented and adapted. As much as I craved getting out of the house, I found it was upsetting to see the realities of our new situation: long lines, two metres distance, and masks. This trip was different, though. I was more relaxed and felt less like a scavenger scouring the shelves during a zombie apocalypse. But then I turned a corner and there it was: the bottle of hot sauce I needed to buy for the soup we were having for dinner. And along with that were the tears.
No, I’m not adverse to spicy foods. And no, it wasn’t out of my price range. The bottle in question was the exact same type that a student in my class brought along in his lunch bag. It was the topic of many lunchtime conversations with my classroom family. The hot sauce made me miss those kids in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Grief is funny that way. It can sneak up on you when you least expect it. The smell of coffee brewing on a summer evening makes me miss my long-departed cousin. Wearing a cozy sweater brings with it the sadness of the loss of my sweet friend who definitely would have loved it. Jellybeans instantly and unfailingly connect me to memories of my grandpa who always had some in his pocket. And hot sauce was a tangible reminder that I would never teach that group of kids face-to-face again.
I have given blood before. I have been poked and prodded and had medical exams. Needles do not faze me, nor does blood. In fact, the kind nurse hadn’t stuck me yet when I felt the tears gather. All she had done was take my hand.
It was not about the hot sauce, or the needles, or the masks, or the two metres, or the lack of human touch. It was and is all of it. And we all carry it differently on a given day. Let’s be kind to each other and gentle on ourselves.
Cliches are frequently used because despite being tired and worn, they ring true. I often do wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I teach my students to read between the lines. Hindsight really is 20/20.
Hindsight, you fickle thing. Our current state of shelter-at-home has given a completely new lens with which to view our present circumstances as well as perspective on our past. If January me knew what was coming, she would not have gotten so upset about the mess in the basement or the piles of laundry needing to be folded. She would have spent her time hugging friends and buying stock in Lysol.
Alas, we do not have the ability to truly view our alternatives and their consequences in the moment, but we can learn from them. Our mistakes, disappointments, failures, successes, joys, and triumphs all shape us.
Today’s post is penned by a guest writer, my friend, Charmaine. We all have our “then and now” moments and I’m grateful she has allowed me to share hers.
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“April 1992 included the wedding day I remember in vivid detail. I give it the place of honour and respect it deserves because it changed the trajectory of my life. Now that date has a new importance. While It still reflects change, it also mirrors growth and healing. April 2020 me is okay. More than okay.
The 1992 version of me could never have imagined the Covid-19 reflections of the 2020 me. Then again, none of us were prepared then or even a few months ago for our current daily lives.
Now some people I love are on the front lines, at risk every day to help and support our communities. Others are at home, minimizing risk. Some of the people I love are out and about with little concern for risk while some live in almost constant fear of this unpredictable virus. People I love are dealing with significant health concerns unrelated to Covid-19, while others are battling anxiety, depression, and loneliness as a result of it. Many of the people I love are healthy and thriving – well, most days.
Hey, 1992 Me, did you know that in twenty-eight years people I love will include educators doing a crash course on distance learning? Not likely. People I love are students doing what they can (sometimes) to keep up. They are pastors shepherding their communities and law enforcement officers keeping us safe. People I love are essential workers doing their under-appreciated jobs. They are engineers developing new technologies to assist in crises and scientists researching and recording Covid-19 data. And there are skeptics in my circle, too.
1992 Me could not have predicted that people I love are now struggling to provide services and keep businesses afloat due to a pandemic. Some are unemployed and under financial strain while others are unfazed by current economics. I care and weep for those who are grieving loved ones they could not say goodbye to in meaningful ways. We reach painful milestones of past losses without the presence of friends and family. People I love are displaced due to border closures and immigration bans.
People I love are living fretfully and in tension with the restrictions imposed on their lives, waiting anxiously for a return to normal. Some live chaotically with more responsibilities than before. Some live in resentment and defiance of current restrictions and legislation. People that I love are also living calmly in spite of restrictions and promoting peace.
Some believe these are the end times. Conversely others believe that the future will be a better normal than the past. How do I respond to these polarizing and painful perspectives? I don’t need to convince anyone of my version of truth. I don’t need to have all the answers about science, eschatology, human behaviour, politics or grief. People wouldn’t listen if I did.
Instead I choose to live gratefully for every day I am given; for people I love whose life experiences are different from mine, who challenge my perspective and check my privilege; for God’s grace to cover my mistakes, His abundance to provide for my needs, His presence to give me peace, His blessings to give me joy, His promises to give me hope. I choose to be kind and generous, humble and forgiving, faithful to my Creator and to those entrusted to me.
We are lonely, at times. We are scared, at times. But we are not alone.
“I can try on these ones, right? That’s fine, but not those shoes.”
Correct. Not those ones.
Those ones belonged to her and now they belong to me. They are the best pair I own. Not because they are a certain brand or cost more than others, although they are a very good pair of shoes.
Those shoes were meant for someone else. Someone kind and wise and good who didn’t get a chance to wear them.
The owner of those shoes knew how to make you feel like the smartest person in the room. She listened with focused attention and compassion. There was no judgement, but she could challenge your thinking and loved you even if you didn’t see eye to eye.
She was the organizer of book clubs and prayer journals and pushed us to self-reflect. She valued friendships, relationships, and sincere dialogue.
She was my friend.
She would often arrive early to life group at our home and we would steal a few minutes to unload the frustrations of dealing with our loved ones. We talked about parenting and screen time policies and balancing the demands of family and work life. And she asked good questions about faith and God. It was a time I enjoyed and now I cherish.
Those shoes belonged to someone who was quick to tell you what she admired about you, who freely handed out hugs and arm squeezes. She loved cozy sweaters, chocolate, tea, and wine. Oh, and camping, but I can overlook that.
She is gone, but not entirely.
See, those shoes belonged to someone with vast circles of friends. With her passing those circles have expanded and connected to create a web of relationships. When her girls get together I learn about her crazy summer adventures, her time as a new mom, and how she has impacted so many lives. Her legacy lives on in every telling of those memories.
Those shoes were bought by someone I wish I had had more time with.
So no, son, you can try on any of the shoes in my closet. Have fun, tease me about my fashion choices, hobble around in high heels, but leave those shoes.
Those shoes are special.
I was not on board at first.
I didn’t say that out loud, I kept that to myself. But I was less than enthusiastic. It was tough to get my head around the logistics and the point of the whole thing.
However, it wasn’t my vision and I wasn’t about to squash someone else’s big idea. So I got on board, albeit reluctantly.
The “it” was a gift shop for students to purchase items for someone they love. They paid for the gift using a Kindness Ticket they had earned by doing something nice for others. The store would be stocked with gently used items from staff and community.
We had close to 500 students. That’s a lot of items to collect. A lot of kindness tickets to distribute, a lot gifts to wrap which requires a lot of manpower.
Not my vision, not my idea to squash.
So I asked friends for donations and scoured our home for items that might be suitable. And it started to come together. A former office was converted into a shop and the gifts began to pour in.
Another concern I had was over how the students would feel about choosing a second-hand item instead of something new. Many of our kids live close to the poverty line and I was worried about their dignity. Again, I trusted those who were leading the project and kept my doubts to myself. I started catching my students doing things for others and handed out our Kindness Tickets.
Remember the manpower issue? Not an issue. Retired teachers and university volunteers along with community members manned the store and it was up and running. Any doubt I had that this might not work were swept away when my first student was invited to go shopping. The pride in earning a ticket was overshadowed by the absolute joy they had upon their return to our classroom with a carefully wrapped gift in hand.
Some students announced what they had bought and who it was for while others decided to keep it a secret. The care and thought that went into each purchase was staggering. The supportive excitement they had for each other’s selections was unexpected. They even scouted out possible gifts for their friends to select: “I saw a purse that would be perfect for your grandma!”
The Kindness Gift Shop was a success.
The next year it was decided to do it again. Would we have enough items a second year? Would the novelty have worn off? Would people be willing to volunteer again.
Yes. Donations rolled in. My own parents contributed rolls of wrapping paper along with gift items. The timing of their downsizing move to a condo was ideal. I brought a trunk full of supplies from a town two hours away because I matter to my family and so my school matters to them.
We are a few years in now and this November when I announced to my class that the Kindness Gift Shop would be happening it was met unanimously with cheers followed quickly by outbursts of their plans.
“Last year I got a gift for my mom so this year I’m getting something for my baby sister.”
“I’m getting something for my grandma this year!”
“I can’t wait to get something for pops. I don’t have any money, but he deserves something special.”
New and returning volunteers signed up to help. Wrapping supplies were restocked and new Kindness Tickets were distributed.
As the week of the shop opening approached one student asked me if everyone had earned their ticket yet. I explained that while we have a kind group, a few still needed to be recognized. That’s when my heart grew three sizes.
“Has Josh* received one yet? Because I saw him helping Amina with her math and he deserves one.”
“What about Ryan? He always lets us use his smelly markers.”
“Asia needs her ticket because she invites anyone to join her games at break.”
“I notice that Daniel always looks out for Chris and they have become really good friends.”
“Can we tell you about kids from other classes that have been kind?”
This went on for ten minutes or more. They stopped asking if their classmates had gotten their tickets and just kept sharing all the positive things they noticed about each other. Kids who sometimes went under the radar heard how they were seen by their peers and they sat a bit taller. Students would nod and murmur their agreement about the kind attributes others mentioned. This was a turning point in our classroom community and for me. It’s nice to be noticed by your teacher, but it’s powerful to be recognized by your classmates.
It’s not easy to change or try new things. We are creatures of habit and seek comfort in the predictable. I’m grateful for those who took a risk and thought big. I’m grateful to work with educators who take chances and make a difference. I’m grateful to be part of a community who seeks to care for students they might never meet.
When someone thinks big, support them.
And maybe tell your doubts to just pipe down.
I have been inside schools my entire life. First as a student and then for the past two decades as a teacher. That is a lot of hallways, classrooms, and offices. And smells. Oh, the smells. Wet shoes, basketballs, the glue we are no longer allowed to use due to “health concerns”, paint, and crayons.
The crayons.
Any time I smell that sweet tang of a fresh box of crayons I flashback to my elementary school. Not my high school or the first school I taught in. Always and forever that smell reminds me of a very specific time and place. I went there for eight years, but the memory is always of grade three and me wearing a green t-shirt. An oddly specific yet at the same time unimportant memory.
Memories are funny that way.
Just like an 80s sitcom that decided to phone it in and do a flashback episode, I can be instantly transported to the past by just a smell. Maybe it’s my superpower, who’s to say? I have yet to unleash its full potential, that’s for sure, and it is definitely competing with my other power of disposing of secret snack wrappers. But it is real and I feel like it is getting stronger with time, much like the cracking sound my knees make BUT WE AREN’T TALKING ABOUT THAT TODAY.
Every spring when the peonies and lilacs come out I find myself riding my old blue ten-speed bike with a bouquet of freshly-cut flowers for my teacher. They are wrapped in a wet paper towel and I clutch them tightly with one hand while navigating the short ride to school with my other. I can still see them atop Miss Zondervan’s desk in a green vase.
Walking into a home that has coffee brewing is a direct pipeline to my Aunt Steffie’s kitchen on a Sunday morning. Our families alternated homes for post-church “coffee” (it’s a Dutch thing) and one whiff of that sweet elixir being made and I can see the machine in the corner of her kitchen while she places sweets on a plate as if I am standing there today.
Winter brings early evenings, Christmas lights, and cozy fires. I might be in the van or taking a walk when the distinct scent of crackling fire from a nearby home is in the air, and bam! I am in our maroon Oldsmobile 88 on a winter night heading to my Uncle Jake’s house for a Christmas party. The kids all hung out in his basement with the massive console TV and ate chips in freedom from the adults laughing it up in the living room. Those were the nights that if you stayed out of sight long enough your parents forgot you were there and you could stay up extra late with the big kids.
Did you ever have a pair of mittens that fit great when you first got them, but soon the thumb hole on one didn’t line up and you were forced to wear them with your one thumb cramping from being held at a weird angle? That’s not just me, be honest. If I smell a wet wool mitten, I can feel my left thumb tingle with the memory of a pair of mauve mitts from 1980-something. Stacey in my class had the same pair and we often mixed them up when they were drying on the heather in the hallway. But we could always figure out which pair was mine because FAULTY THUMB HOLE.
I could write a whole series of posts on memories conjured up by simple smells:
Jiffy Pop = Mrs. St. Pierre’s house on a Friday night.
Black licorice = the jellybeans my grandpa kept in his shirt pocket.
A freshly-lit candle = my childhood kitchen.
Newly-applied nail polish – getting my nails painted gold by my big sister.
Freshly-scooped pumpkin guts = roasting seeds in kindergarten with Mrs. Laurence.
Just-opened bag of chips = playing games with my cousins at Auntie Ina’s house.
Tim Hortons chocolate dip doughnut = getting ready for a family road trip by picking up a party pack.
These memories seem to all be chunked into my early years. I’m not sure about its significance or if there is any rhyme or reason. But it happens more and more and I’m not complaining.
These are simple memories, not the trips we took or the long-coveted gifts I received. They are every day events. The common factor is that they are all connected to family and friends. Sharing those day-to-day moments with people who mattered are what I keep conjuring.
Sometimes I worry that time is going by too quickly and we haven’t done enough or been enough for our kids. But we eat dinner together, play card games (even though they cheat at Old Maid), brew tea and pop popcorn. Maybe we’re depositing into their olfactory memories and one day the smell of freshly-baked brownies will cause them to pause and call their mom. Or text. I’ll take it.
You take a block from the bottom and you put it on top. You take a block from the middle and you put it on top.
It teeters and it totters.
It weebles and it wobbles, but you don’t give up.
In September my teaching partner and I opened up a new pack of Jenga. Not literally, of course, but humour me. We opened up the box and there were twenty-eight fresh new blocks. Each one had a name and a story. They looked similar, but once you looked closer you could see the lines and grains that made each piece unique.
Gradually, over the days, weeks, and months, we created a tower together. Other pieces played pivotal roles: our fairy godmothers who brought us apples to feed hungry learners, guest teachers who taught us problem-solving and teamwork, community officers who cared enough to teach us about safety concerns. Steadily and quietly a Music teacher, a French teacher, the Special Education team and school administration came alongside and with care and intentionality created a strong foundation. Cheering and encouraging us in the background were yard duty teachers, support staff, and parents.
A few times our tower teetered. It tottered. It even toppled. But each time we picked up the pieces and rebuilt our tower. We created something special: a classroom community.
Some students joined and some left. We kept their pieces because they are part of who we are. They were part of the creating process and therefore part of us.
Over time the pieces shifted and repositioned as friendships faded and new ones developed. We faced loss and heartache more than once. We learned to be resilient and that it is okay to cry. Happy and sad feelings can co-exist.
Our Jenga class learned that failure is part of growing. When we attempt to do hard things we sometimes fall down, but the joy is in the rebuilding. It’s wise to be patient and reassess before jumping back in. Efficacy is a result of taking a breath, pausing, and then moving forward.
Gradually, the blocks became the builders. The students set goals and held each other accountable for their actions. They cheered each other on and checked in when a classmate struggled.
During the final days of this school year we reflected on our classroom community. We took our actual blocks from the middle and put them on top. The pieces eventually toppled, because that is the purpose of the game after all, isn’t it? But it was not a failure, it was a symbol of our strength. Everyone took their block home that day knowing they could be a pivotal piece in another community.
No matter where they go, they will remember that they were part of something special: our classroom family.
She wasn’t a warm or doting person, I don’t think it was anything personal, it just wasn’t her nature. Gruff, no-nonsense, and strict are apt descriptors. When I recall my time as a grade three student, complete with my terrible mullet and gangly arms and legs, my memories include learning the Canadian provinces and capitals, cursive writing, long division, and her. Miss Van Gurp.
She had a reputation for being mean. Haven’t we all had that teacher? The one the kids whisper about on the playground and warn you to avoid? The teacher you hope you don’t have. The teacher you inevitably get.
Miss Van Gurp didn’t put up with antics. She indeed was strict, to the point of smacking hands with a metal ruler if you really stepped out of line (the rumours were true!). She wasn’t a smiler and she demanded compliance. She was not an adult who doled out hugs or high fives. You were expected to do your work and you simply received a quiet nod for a job well done.
Students often forget that teachers have multiple sides and aspects to their lives and characters. We all tend to forget that about each other, don’t we? We put people into boxes and categories, unaware of the subtext of people’s actions and words.
Recently a post popped up in my social media feed of a citrus fruit fundraiser for an elementary school and it reminded me of a story from years ago.
Once there was a young girl in grade three who had a sick sister. Her parents were frequently out of the country to provide their daughter with the medical care she needed. The girl and her other siblings spent days and sometimes weeks staying with various caring family friends.
Soon it was time for the annual school fundraiser – citrus sales. Every student who sold a box of fruit would receive an ice cream sundae, the kind in the plastic cup with the little wooden spoon.
The girl’s parents were out of town during this time and even if they were home, she wouldn’t have pursued citrus sales. Even at the age of eight, she knew she wouldn’t put that on to their overcrowded plate. That’s just the way it was then, it wouldn’t be forever. Next year.
A few days into the sale, her teacher called her up to her desk at the front of the room. She had a sales slip half filled out with a grapefruit order.
“I’d like to get a box of grapefruit, could I buy it from you?” she asked, barely lifting her eyes up from the ink blotter.
The girl hardly knew what to say, but she knew what this meant. She would get to partake in the sundae celebration, just like all the other kids. In the midst of family upheaval and crisis, she would have this little bit of normalcy.
“Okay,” was all that squeaked out. The teacher completed the form, then carefully separated the carbon copies: white for the school, yellow for the salesperson, and pink for the customer.
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” she said gruffly as she handed the girl the pink page, “you may go to your seat now.”
In a giddy daze the girl went back to her desk.
A fews later when the sales were completed, she proudly collected her ice cream treat with the rest of the school. It was chocolate, of course. She carefully peeled back the cardboard cover and she licked that plastic dish clean.
Sometimes “I see you. You matter. I care,” sounds a lot like “I’d like to buy some grapefruit.” You just have to listen.
Tough Bananas 