There is always one who gets there early.

It’s her routine. For thirty-six plus years, her car is the first in the parking lot, usually by 6:30 am. 

Maybe she needs to grade papers, or finish lesson plans, or copy papers. 

Maybe she needs the early morning time for peace and quiet in her favorite place. She sees each desk or chair, and thinks of the little ones who will fill the seats. 

She collects her thoughts in the early morning, and she is ready when the buses arrive.

She has purchased extra snacks because there’s always one or two who never have anything. She doesn’t want anyone to be left out.

During spring testing, she can’t do anything else while her students complete their assessments, so she prays for them, one at a time, her eyes resting on each little head as she gives thanks for their lives and for the opportunity to teach them this year.

She loves them. They are her babies. She has no children of her own.

Or maybe, it’s a late night, and there’s a truck still in the parking lot at 2:00 am. Coach is washing uniforms and breaking down film after driving his team home on the bus. They lost in overtime, a real heartbreaker of a game, but after an hour and a half they made it back to the school.

Coach is there later than usual because he has to take one of his players home. The kid’s ride never showed. The kid waits an hour, making excuses, but Coach knows the story. He asks no questions, and gives the kid a ride home.

Coach will work Sunday afternoon on his plans for the week and get his grades in the computer for the nine weeks. Report cards go out Thursday.

He will require any player below a C to attend study sessions after practice until that average comes up. 

He will get home to his own family much later than most lawyers, or bankers, or accountants, or anyone else who works a typical 9-to-5, and he will receive far less pay.

But he loves math and his students, and he knows someone needs to teach his players how to be men.

They might not get those lessons anywhere else.

I’ve always wondered why Teacher Appreciation Week falls as it does. It’s the first full week of May, established in 1984 by the National Parent-Teacher Association. Is it because it’s at the end of the school year, and we want to make sure to thank our teachers for a job well done? 

Or do we want to throw them a carrot to make sure they’re gonna stick around another year?

Because the work is getting harder. 

The students and their personal situations are more complicated than ever.

The legislative acts are piling on deeper.

You want to celebrate Teacher Appreciation Week?

Before you roll out the biscuits and barbecue dinners to thank a teacher, try listening to them first. 

While the goodies are appreciated, I sometimes wonder if teachers might be better served by providing them a day off and a bus to go to Montgomery during the legislative sessions.

They don’t have time to email or make phone calls to their senators or representatives. They’re too busy calling their students’ parents, as required in their intervention plans, to inform them of academic progress or lack thereof.

Teachers are also tired this time of year. May is a month of awards days, field days, plays, art exhibits, showcases, and concerts. 

It is a time for readying both kindergarteners and seniors for their caps and gowns: one group just beginning their school days, and the other at the jumping-off-place of life.

It is a mental and emotional draining of the soul, a time of both taking stock of the year and just trying to get through until the last day, asking the same questions they’ve asked themselves every other day: 

Can we make it through today without little Johnny having a meltdown?

Will I get scratched or kicked today? Will we need to call our mental health coordinator?

Will I get cussed by a parent over playing time?

Will my students be safe this weekend?

Am I doing enough?

For all those in education, please know this:

Yes, you are doing enough. I don’t know how you’re getting through everything as it is.

Then again, yes, I do know.

At the bottom of it all, there is love.

Please continue to carry on. We need you now more than ever before. Your work is meaningful. At the end of the day, when you lay your heads down on your pillows, you can rest knowing you are the hands and feet of God.

And you’ll be at the school by 6:30 am next Monday to do it all again, whether they feed you chicken fingers, or not.