One of the biggest little hellions that I teach came up to me today and asked how to spell my name. My heart leapt a little as I wrote it on a piece of paper and gave it to him. He ambled back to his seat and sat down and laboriously began copying what I wrote. Writing is a real chore for this young man.
He wrote slowly, tongue sticking out, head a millimeter above his paper. And a few minutes later he strutted up and asked how to spell, “I love you.” I nonchalantly wrote it for him and made sure to smile after he went back to his seat. My heart sang. Not because of being so unabashedly loved by a 5 year old, but because he felt love in his heart to write that. This boy has been suspended four times in four weeks. This little boy is almost incapable of feeling empathy. This little boy’s dad is in jail. He never sees him. This little boy has deep emotional and psychological issues. And this little boy was writing me a note that said he loved me. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better he came back and asked: “How do you write, ‘You’re the best teacher?’”
I have been Golden Keying this young man for several weeks now (see blog entry, “Weekend Retreat, Part II”). I have been striving to completely block out the problems he brings to the class—the chair throwing, the punching and fighting of classmates and other staff members, the middle finger going up, the running across the tables and running out of the building—all of it, and replacing these with a conscious realization of the Presence of God.
And then he walked calmly up to me and handed me his paper. “I wrote this for you,” he said. I took the paper, studied it for a few moments, and then put a hand on his shoulder. I looked him straight in the eye, and said, “I love you too.” A few students standing nearby screamed, “EEEKKK…He said he loved Nasir.” To which I looked at all of them and said, “I love all of you.” More screaming ensued, and then a sort of stunned silence settled in the room as those words slowly sank in.
“You do?” one little girl asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Another silence, and then:
“Can you be our Daddy?” one of them asked.
I looked as deeply into their eyes as they would let me and then said:
“No. But while I’m here with you I can be your teacher. And I can love you.”
“Can I live next door to you?” another asked.
“Maybe someday,” I smiled.
And then we had snack and went on with our day.
Did I have to call security later that day when Nasir tried to fight a hall monitor and a seventh grader at the same time? Yes. That’s not the point of the Golden Key however. The prayer changes me and my response to him. When my thoughts change about him and I begin to see him as a Child of God, he does change, slowly, but surely—it’s a happy by-product of the Golden Key.
And as I restrained him until security came, I looked down into his wide, frightened eyes, and said, “No matter what you do. I will always love you.” He cried and cried, moaning, “I want to go home.”
“I know,” I said, “I know.”
And I filled myself with a prayer for this little jangling bundle of nerve endings named Nasir, and then handed him over to security.
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog