The Fifth Stage

Early Friday morning I stopped by a café on Main Street to pick up a bagel and coffee before school. I saw a colleague tucked into a corner reading a Bible over her own bagel and coffee. I paused by her table to say hello before rushing out the door. Being privy to my situation, she inquired earnestly, “How are you?” I answered that I am good. No prospects yet, but everything is fine. “But I am really struggling with forgiveness… Your Bible would probably have something to say about it.”

I am not particularly religious these days. But I have been walking around hating my principal for what she did to me. And it’s exhausting. I will try anything. Peter has been encouraging me to go to counseling, but I figured God might be a faster, cheaper alternative. This ire has got to stop.

She said she’d shoot me some verses on email. I rushed off to get ready for the Women in History project presentations and a rather tricky math lesson on capacity.

During my prep period that morning I had to ask the vice principal a question. I have not spoken to him since I was fired. I have considered him an accomplice in my demise and unworthy of my compassion or attention. I have avoided interactions with administrators unless absolutely necessary. I mustered up my nerve and entered the office; unfortunately the principal was also there, as well as a couple of other specialists. Everyone seemed upset and flustered, but this is often the case. Then the principal said, “Have you heard the news?” No. Pause. Uncomfortable looks. “Sarah Morton died suddenly this morning.”

I had met Sarah at the curriculum institute two summers ago and could tell immediately that she was a phenomenal teacher. My mentor last year suggested that I observe her teach and get to know her, recognizing that I might connect with her approach. I did. She was intelligent, creative, consistent, playful, professional, remarkable. I asked her to be my mentor this year, and although my principal had not approved the relationship, we had met several times this year. She was a compassionate, generous coach. I had not seen her since I was fired, mired in my depression and generally bad attitude.

She ran marathons. She has three children, the youngest of whom is a senior in high school. She was not yet fifty years old.

She contracted a strep infection last week, and died on Friday morning.

She was the best our profession has to offer.

I sat down, breathless. I did not know her well, but she was the best model of the teacher I wish to become.

A few minutes of crying, processing, conversation, then people began to disperse, returning to the demands of running a school. For a moment only my principal and I were left in the room.

As I was leaving the room, I walked over to her and said, “I forgive you. Not that you need my forgiveness, but I need to forgive you.” As I hugged her I felt the anger wash away, dissipate into noxious vapor and disappear. It was over.

My unemployment is an inconvenience. I am alive and I cannot live in anger.

Now back to becoming the teacher that Sarah Morton showed me.