ALL 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
>>> > > > > 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. 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 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
>>> > > sideways
>>> > > > > 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
>>> > > 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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