When I first became a teacher way back in 1992, I had a pretty good grip on the reality of teaching. My parents and most of their friends were educators, so I knew full well what I was facing. In fact, I ran from God’s calling on my life for several years. I had no desire to live the emotionally, physically, and financially draining life of a teacher. But I loved God with all my heart, and I finally answered His call to teach.
During that first semester of “practice teaching,” we periodically returned to college and shared our teaching experiences with professors and fellow teaching candidates – the good, the bad, the ugly, and the absolutely unbelievable. At the ripe old age of 29, those times of personal disclosure were somewhat comical to me. Many of my younger classmates suffered from a complete culture shock. Having read all assigned textbooks and manuals on teaching, they naively thought they were prepared. But they were not prepared at all. Neither was I. Not really.
But as a teacher’s kid, I had heard all the war stories, so I knew a teacher really did not get to eat, drink, potty, or relax from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. each school day. I knew teachers teach seven classes per day, with as many as 30 kids in each group. I knew almost anything can and will happen in a 50-minute class period. So, I was prepared for complete chaos and carnage.
But I was not prepared at all for the way I felt about my students. I mean, I instantly fell in love with those kids. I not only learned the names of my students, I learned their family members’ names, their likes and dislikes, their tragedies and triumphs, as well as their fears and failures. From day one, those were my kids. And three decades later, they still are.
I was also not prepared for how much my love for them would cloud my perspective.
I was a hardcore Mama Bear at home. My two boys got away with nothing back then. I was stricter than strict. My lines of parenting demarcation held firmly to scriptural boundaries, always. Ask either of my sons now, and they will laughingly tell a story of that strictness, accompanied by a Bible verse in a mocking voice that sounds eerily like my own. (But, if I am not mistaken, they seem to quote those same verses to some sweet grandkids I know.)
I was totally different in the classroom. I saw pain, heartache, poverty, loss, and deep needs that I alone could not meet. I wanted to; I tried to – in a zillion different ways.
But I soon learned the hardest lesson that Christian teachers ever learn: We cannot fix or save our students. Only God can!
Truth be told, I am still learning that lesson as I look at the absolutely desperate situation of our world. I see our society celebrating abortion and murder of our own children up until the moment right before birth. I hear of countless mass murders, suicides, and innumerable crimes of violence. I see our youth being taught the lies of transgenderism and gender dysphoria. In fact, lies abound all around us, while the truth of God’s Word is scorned, mocked, twisted, and practically banned from every facet of life.
My heart breaks for those who do not know Jesus or the freedom of His love and salvation. I grieve for those who are in bondage to the very sins they shamelessly celebrate. I pray for those who rage against Him and everything He died to give them. I mourn for those who are so obviously lost and in need of the Savior.
But I can’t save them. I could not even save myself. I, too, am just a sinner saved by His grace.
But therein lies the truth of the lesson I learned as a young teacher: Jesus can, and He will save them – IF I am willing to live out His love right before their eyes. My relationship with Jesus must permeate everything I say and do, every single day of my life.
Granted, I was not a math teacher, but I do know for certain that the only part of this salvation equation you and I are responsible for is sharing what we found in Christ. It’s that simple.
So, if you know Him, then share Him with this lost and dying world. And if need be, share Him with words.
