All the 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
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. Marked 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 II 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

NOTE from Katie!! if ya took the time to read all this ya deserve a hug !!! thanks

Next

Home