Fifth Grade Teacher Continues To Inspire
My fifth grade English teacher.
I can still see her in my mind’s eye.
Spry. Intelligent. High pitched.
Diagramming sentences. It was the thing that made her eyes sparkle. It was the thing that made her seem lighter than air. She spoke of it as a young maid of her new beau.
She would walk the small platform in front of the classroom and start with a simple sentence, and a simple structure. Before our eyes, the sentence would take on a life of its own, become more complex, and blossom with modifiers, adverbial phrases and participles.
Chalk in hand, she would write at a dizzying pace. Vertical lines and horizontals lines, connectors and ladders and diagonals, going here and there, this way and that.
Finally, the denouement, the climax of her rapture, her opus: a line for each word, a word for each line.
This teacher gave me a glimpse of a world that was ordered or orderly. And this order was a good thing. It was not only a good thing, it was cause for jubilation.
She taught me how pleasure can be pure and free. That passion can transform the mundane to something terrific and lovely. And that it can be infectious - we can pass it on to others, and they would love it if we did.
I would watch her leave the room, uplifted and comforted. If we could find the right place in the diagram for each word in our sentences, somehow the world was going to be alright. Because of her, I rested in the thought that the turmoil that surrounded my 10-year old life would, in the end, like each word finding its place in the diagram, sort itself out. Later in life, I would discover what King David said in Psalm 16: 6: “The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.”
Francis Collins is a brilliant scientist who headed the Human Genome Project, a project to map our DNA. In his book “The Language of God,” Collins wrote about being similarly inspired by a charismatic chemistry teacher who could write on the blackboard with “both hands simultaneously”.
“I discovered for the first time the intense satisfaction of the ordered nature of the universe,” wrote Collins. “With the enthusiasm of a new convert, I decided my goal in life would be to become a chemist.”
Collins would make several detours in life before becoming the celebrated scientist that he is now. At critical points there was a teacher who helped or prevented him to make the right life choices.
Before this school year opens, I, like most teachers, will sit down alone in an empty, quiet classroom with shiny floors. I will have a sense of urgency to get set up. And excitement about the fresh crop of students coming in. Then I will have a tinge of sadness and regret. I will pray for God to give me the grace not to make the same mistakes of the past. A promise will hang heavy in my room and in my heart: God help me if this is not the year I will make a difference for good.
The title for this monthly feature is taken from “teachers editions” which are big binders teachers use to help create lesson plans. But instead of lesson plans it will feature thoughts and ideas about teaching and learning, children, books and life. It is written by a teacher. One who hopes someday to be like her fifth grade teacher, who dusted her students with sparkle from her eyes. Or Collins’ chemistry teacher, who could write on the blackboard with both hands – simultaneously.
I can still see her in my mind’s eye.
Spry. Intelligent. High pitched.
Diagramming sentences. It was the thing that made her eyes sparkle. It was the thing that made her seem lighter than air. She spoke of it as a young maid of her new beau.
She would walk the small platform in front of the classroom and start with a simple sentence, and a simple structure. Before our eyes, the sentence would take on a life of its own, become more complex, and blossom with modifiers, adverbial phrases and participles.
Chalk in hand, she would write at a dizzying pace. Vertical lines and horizontals lines, connectors and ladders and diagonals, going here and there, this way and that.
Finally, the denouement, the climax of her rapture, her opus: a line for each word, a word for each line.
This teacher gave me a glimpse of a world that was ordered or orderly. And this order was a good thing. It was not only a good thing, it was cause for jubilation.
She taught me how pleasure can be pure and free. That passion can transform the mundane to something terrific and lovely. And that it can be infectious - we can pass it on to others, and they would love it if we did.
I would watch her leave the room, uplifted and comforted. If we could find the right place in the diagram for each word in our sentences, somehow the world was going to be alright. Because of her, I rested in the thought that the turmoil that surrounded my 10-year old life would, in the end, like each word finding its place in the diagram, sort itself out. Later in life, I would discover what King David said in Psalm 16: 6: “The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.”
Francis Collins is a brilliant scientist who headed the Human Genome Project, a project to map our DNA. In his book “The Language of God,” Collins wrote about being similarly inspired by a charismatic chemistry teacher who could write on the blackboard with “both hands simultaneously”.
“I discovered for the first time the intense satisfaction of the ordered nature of the universe,” wrote Collins. “With the enthusiasm of a new convert, I decided my goal in life would be to become a chemist.”
Collins would make several detours in life before becoming the celebrated scientist that he is now. At critical points there was a teacher who helped or prevented him to make the right life choices.
Before this school year opens, I, like most teachers, will sit down alone in an empty, quiet classroom with shiny floors. I will have a sense of urgency to get set up. And excitement about the fresh crop of students coming in. Then I will have a tinge of sadness and regret. I will pray for God to give me the grace not to make the same mistakes of the past. A promise will hang heavy in my room and in my heart: God help me if this is not the year I will make a difference for good.
The title for this monthly feature is taken from “teachers editions” which are big binders teachers use to help create lesson plans. But instead of lesson plans it will feature thoughts and ideas about teaching and learning, children, books and life. It is written by a teacher. One who hopes someday to be like her fifth grade teacher, who dusted her students with sparkle from her eyes. Or Collins’ chemistry teacher, who could write on the blackboard with both hands – simultaneously.
