All the Good Things
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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,
but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his
occasional mischieviousness delightful.
Mark 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 him 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 my 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 instructions in the "new
math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in the
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
frowning, 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 me the usual questions about the
trip - the weather, my experiences in general. There was a
light lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a side-ways
glance and simply says, "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 I-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 and sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. 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
Chucks 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 this 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.
THE END written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosia
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