A man limps to the church pulpit and within five minutes, he changes my perspective on handicaps. He says, "I can tell you my biggest problem. It's obvious. But you can't because your problems are not. I was born with cerebral palsy. There it is, I've put it out there. You know what's wrong with me." He tells how cerebral palsy affects his life.
I'm comforted in his candor. No longer naturally wondering, I look past his limp and focus on his message which is full of compassion for the rest of us without obvious problems that are easy to explain and hence, receive help. He sees our problems as more difficult than his own, because we often have to hide our problems because of embarrassment or shame--what a shame, because we often need consoling and a helping hand more than he ever does.
A few weeks ago, our students wrote essays describing their world. My teaching partner coaxed them to be more authentic, to speak more deeply, to be more honest. On a designated day, their essays coded with a number, the identities removed, they were passed out to a different class than their own.
The responses were remarkable. Students learned of each other, learned that everyone was going through some heartache. No one was immune from pain. Mostly everyone felt friendless. The readers wrote messages of hope back to the authors.
When I told Tony about their collective pain and the discovery of their commonality, he responded, "Of course, they're teenagers." They share the teenage condition, but they didn't know everyone else was suffering from the indemnities of their phase.
On the day the students anonymously exposed themselves to one another, one student burst into class after school, because he needed to share his ephiphany, "Everyone just needs a friend!"
"What are you going to do with this knowledge?"
"I try to be everyone's friend now; I'll keep trying."
He left as quickly as he came; he just had to share the excitement of his new knowledge: that he wasn't alone, and he knew what to do to help others.
~~
A fellow student of his was late for class. The young man who came bursting into class with his epiphany let me know the other young man was late: he'd taken him to lunch.
I'm comforted in his candor. No longer naturally wondering, I look past his limp and focus on his message which is full of compassion for the rest of us without obvious problems that are easy to explain and hence, receive help. He sees our problems as more difficult than his own, because we often have to hide our problems because of embarrassment or shame--what a shame, because we often need consoling and a helping hand more than he ever does.
A few weeks ago, our students wrote essays describing their world. My teaching partner coaxed them to be more authentic, to speak more deeply, to be more honest. On a designated day, their essays coded with a number, the identities removed, they were passed out to a different class than their own.
The responses were remarkable. Students learned of each other, learned that everyone was going through some heartache. No one was immune from pain. Mostly everyone felt friendless. The readers wrote messages of hope back to the authors.
When I told Tony about their collective pain and the discovery of their commonality, he responded, "Of course, they're teenagers." They share the teenage condition, but they didn't know everyone else was suffering from the indemnities of their phase.
On the day the students anonymously exposed themselves to one another, one student burst into class after school, because he needed to share his ephiphany, "Everyone just needs a friend!"
"What are you going to do with this knowledge?"
"I try to be everyone's friend now; I'll keep trying."
He left as quickly as he came; he just had to share the excitement of his new knowledge: that he wasn't alone, and he knew what to do to help others.
~~
A fellow student of his was late for class. The young man who came bursting into class with his epiphany let me know the other young man was late: he'd taken him to lunch.
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