Barb

I never really knew what Barb thought of me. If I'd have had to guess, I would have said she didn't like me all that much. It was a season in my life in which most persons didn't like me all that much, or at least, the world seemed that way. 

It was middle school. 

There is no worse season to try to live through than middle school. In fact, I think the only persons who look back on middle school with any sense of positive nostalgia are the ones who were making middle school so very middle schoolish for the rest of us...and seem to have forgotten that. 

Words you will never hear anyone say: "Middle school was a great time for me!" No, it wasn't. It was a time of raging hormones, dramatic shifts in social structure, weird little dynamics nobody could describe, and the first real stratification most of us ever experienced, as we finally got to choose our way through things like band or choir or study hall or art or sports or theater...on top of finally being divided into "gifted" and "not gifted" groups. Middle school was awful. 

And yet, something about those awful years put a seed in my heart that, when given the chance to work with students in the K-12, I chose the middle school. It's where I thought I could make the biggest difference. 

I forget the exact context because it wasn't something I said. It wasn't something I posted on social media. One of my friends posted something that included a little something about me being at the middle school as a staff member, about some contribution I was making there. 

In the comments section, here comes Barb. 

"Those kids are so lucky to have you." 

Barb, who was one of my sixth grade teachers. Barb, who I never knew whether she liked me or not. Barb, who saw some of my hardest and most awkward years. Barb, who was quiet but kind and absolute loads of fun. 

Twenty-five years later, Barb took a few minutes out of her day to comment on a random post made by an intermediary, to speak to me and say, "Those kids are so lucky to have you." 

In other words, Barb was recognizing that I was good there. That I had something to offer there. That something in my own experience was going to be an asset in what I would be able to do there. She saw all of the possibilities of the season, connected to the story that she held in her head of me, and she took a moment to offer some encouragement and goodwill. 

I needed that. (Spoiler alert: I always need that.)

I think we all need that. I think we need those folks who hold different parts of our story, and who can see those parts from an angle that we can't see, who are willing to step in for a second and connect some of the pieces for us with encouragement and goodwill. 

Here we are, four years after that comment, and I still remember it. Of the millions of little things, quick sentences, few words that I have read on the Internet in the time since that comment, I remember that one. Because it meant so much to me. 

And it reminds me to be that person for someone else, even if we've been disconnected for a long time. It reminds me that I see the stories of others from angles they simply cannot and that sometimes, my perspective can be an encouragement to them if I'm just willing to step out and say it...with grace and goodwill.