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A Touching Story
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. 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 said, "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
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