It was the evening before leaving on our annual Christmas pilgrimage to California to spend the holidays with Sandy’s family. Sandy and I had just sat down for a few minutes to collect our thoughts and discuss our plan of attack for packing, when there was an unexpected knock on our door. Answering the knock, I was greeted by a line of five teenage boys, led by our neighbor across the street, each of them former students of mine. The way they had arranged themselves on our sidewalk, it looked as though they were prepared to sing a song and I halfway expected an old movie Christmas scene to be performed in our front yard. To my disappointment, however, they were merely there in search of my son, who was gone for the evening.
But before they left too quickly, I mentioned my observation, that the way they had lined themselves up led me to believe that they should be singing us a Christmas carol. One of them agreed while chastising the others for not listening to his earlier idea to do this very thing. Another suggested that they sing “Jingle Bells,” most likely because that is the only Christmas song with words that had actually remained in their collective memories. The five of them argued and laughed and mixed in a gentle, joking push here and there and then they were off, back across the street, understanding that my request for a Christmas carol was made mostly in jest and feeling like they had sufficiently participated in the fun.
As I closed the door, I was glad for the exchange, but a bit disappointed in the end result. I wandered through the kitchen (the kitchen is a magnet for me when I don’t know what else to do) and saw several frosted, Christmas cookies that certainly would not be eaten by the time we left in the morning. “Text Brody,” I told Sandy, “and tell him that if they all come back and sing us a song, we have cookies for them.” I wasn’t sure how they would respond, but I was hopeful that they would come back.
I’m not sure others understand how satisfying it is for me, as a teacher, to see my former students in other contexts - to interact with them in positive and fun ways outside of anything associated with school, but I cherish those moments. Among the five was the full gambit of students, from wonderful in the classroom to frustrating and various degrees between the two. But here, at my front door, they were just teenage boys in the neighborhood, who, whether they know it or not, I care about. The past conflicts with math and homework were forgotten and I was able to simply appreciate who they are now. More than I wanted I song, I simply wanted them to know that I appreciated their visit. I wanted them to know, in the smallest of ways, that despite our lack of contact since middle school math, I still cared about them and enjoyed their silliness. I am not always good at that, but this was a rare opportunity that I did not want to slip away.
The second knock on the door came just a few minutes after Sandy’s text. This time we both went to the door, cookies in hand, to see what would greet us. To our delight, the five boys immediately burst into a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells,” complete with choreographed jumps and a solo backflip by one as the grand finale. And then they converged on the cookies like a school of sharks to fresh meat. We thanked them and we all laughed and then they quickly shuffled back across the street, mission accomplished.
They probably thought it was nothing - a moment’s entertainment and an easy way to score some dessert. But it was more to me than they will likely ever know. It was much needed encouragement in the midst of a difficult year as a teacher. It was refreshing and oddly inspiring. It was an unexpected, unintentional blessing and the perfect way to be sent off on our holiday excursion.
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