ALL GOOD THINGS
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 mischievousness 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 Mark 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 by 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 instruction in the "new math," he
did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in 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 their 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
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 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 Chuck's
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 his 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.
Written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosla
that care to make "a difference", God Bless You and thank you
for enriching lives of others. I know of teachers that went the
extra mile in my life and will always have fond memories of them
However, we have other people that "make a difference" in our lives
and perhaps we could call them "teachers" of life school. I do know
that we all "reap what we sow" and I can only hope that I "make
a difference" in others lives as well.
My parents are retired educators and I can remember many students
crossing their paths and my parents "making a difference". My dad is
retired but still tutors anyone who needs help. He also has a full time
prison ministry and is an ordained minister. He will never retire
from life school. My mother spends extra time and effort helping
the grandchildren and great grandchildren learn, see and be all that
they can be. My parents are my heroes!
