Boots and all his energy had certainly made an impression on me. He is very small -- I doubt he will be in my third grade classroom. I wondered how I would respond to him if he were . . . but I shrugged it off and continued with our tour of the school where we would be student teaching for the month of January. Belize had enchanted me from the start, and it felt wonderfully familiar. The Lord was letting me get my feet wet in the field He is calling me to. That morning, I was escorted to my classroom and was introduced to my wonderful cooperating teacher and the third grade class. Their eager smiles and whispers made my heart skip.
Later that day, we began our field placements, and I returned to that third grade classroom for observation. At first it was difficult to tell the students apart, but I knew it wouldn't be long before I could. Each one had a stand-out personality, plus more energy than I've seen in a year!
It was in those first few minutes that I saw faded dinosaur boots suspended just a few inches off the floor, and their owner squirming in his desk chair, waving his arm wildly and calling out to the teacher.
I didn't know what to make of Boots. I watched him closely that day, wondering where in the world he got his energy, feeling unsure about his behavior in the classroom, and processing how the month would go knowing that my classroom dynamic would include the antics of this small boy. When I taught my lessons, how could I reach him? How would I inspire him to listen? Could I get him to behave?
After school, I shared my questions with my cooperating teacher, who gave me the greatest gift he could possibly give.
The gift of seeing.
Boots, my teacher explained, was a broken little boy who was hurting over some painful instability at home. His behavior in the classroom was the natural outflow of that. Because home was sometimes unstable, Boots was building walls to protect himself. He was in self-preservation mode. Some children in these situations withdraw and avoid interactions with people. Boots, however, was putting up the tough-guy front. He was small, but he was definitely king of the mountain.
Boots filled my mind all night. When I returned to school the next day, I cracked a smile as he walked in. I'm onto you, Boots, I thought. Although his walls had almost fooled me the day before -- all I noticed were his behavior and his volume -- it was as if those walls were now made of glass, and I could see right through them. Now, everything Boots did or said looked and sounded different to me. I could see him though the glass.
What I began to see was beautiful. Boots had a smile that could bring sunshine into the darkest room. He was eager to please, and he craved approval from his peers as well as from his teacher -- and me. He seemed very confident in himself, yet his incessant need for affirmation suggested otherwise. I found myself fascinated by him, and I felt like the Lord was placing a special stubbornness in my heart for him -- determination to see Boots through the end of the month and love on him the way he obviously needed to be loved. Determination to see past his brokenness and to see the real boy inside.
He was on my radar, so to speak. I noticed every time he moved or switched seats or ran out of the room or sharpened his pencil or grabbed his friend's homework and hid it. I was beginning to see.
Time for a language arts lesson. I love language arts, but as I scanned the room I noticed Boots' shoulders slump a little. As he sullenly grabbed his pencil and began copying the header onto his paper, his face settled into thundercloud mode. As my cooperating teacher taught the lesson, I moved around the room, observing students' work and kneeling to assist them as needed. When I made my way to Boots, he glanced up at me, blinked hard, and said two words:
"I cannot."
"Sure you can!"
"No. I no read. You help me."
A pang hit my heart, hard. I have no idea what happened after that. All I know is that Boots and I dove into that worksheet with a fervor I've rarely felt. We sounded out letters, synced words with their meanings, and formed complete sentences on paper.
"Your handwriting es muy bien," I remarked.
Boots was unusually attentive while I worked with him, concentrating hard and putting forth great effort. I noticed how easily he could accomplish his work if I stayed there and spent time coaching him through it. If he ever thought I would leave him (several other students were calling for me to come check their work), he would lose focus and flounder in a panic. I sensed the importance of my staying there, and I assured him I wouldn't leave until he was finished.
Just before the bell, he scratched out his last word and slowly made his final period. He looked at me for further direction and seemed surprised that I was grinning. "You're done!" I said. "Great work!" I moved in a little closer so only he could hear me. "I knew you could do it. You worked really hard, and you should be very proud of yourself. Estoy muy orgullosa de ti."
Boots sat back in his chair as though exhausted from the effort, but his face glowed with pride. We locked eyes again, and I knew that some sort of deeper victory had been won that day.
For the remaining weeks, Boots and I were close. He brought me bracelets and stickers, drew me pictures, and ate lunch with me during lunch hour. I drew him pictures too, and played fútbol with him and his friends after school. I teased him, and he would dish it right back to me. I found that this pint-sized third grader had a stubborn streak that almost surpassed mine (this made for some interesting interactions!). On the day I brought stickers to school for the students and made a rule that each student could have one sticker, he somehow walked home with three. I FaceTimed my mom back in the United States to tell her that story, and we couldn't stop laughing. There was just something about this boy.
That's why leaving was so painful.
He cried -- hard. Perhaps something had happened at recess to upset him, but I wondered if his tears had more to do with his realization that I was leaving. For my students' sakes I acted as normally as possible, and we successfully kept the atmosphere cheerful and celebratory. My tears would come later.
I had all the students sign a t-shirt so I could take their signatures with me back home. Each student eagerly participated and drew hearts and flowers alongside their name, but Boots refused to sign for quite a while. I assured Boots that he didn't need to sign the shirt if he didn't want to. I would love to have his handwriting, but I would not make him do it.
After a good while, Boots came up to me quietly and asked for the marker. He sniffed, rubbed his eyes, and then bent over the white fabric and labored over his name in large letters. With each letter, I felt the significance of the moment. Boots was letting me go.
When he had formed the final letter of his name, he straightened and flashed that familiar, mischievous smile. Later that day I gave notes to each of the students and gave them hugs as they left school. Boots was one of the last to leave, and as he clomped over to me, his cocky smile was still intact.
"Miss! Miss Jordan! You -- give me -- letter?"
"Sí, por supesto!" Yes, of course, I said, kneeling to give him a hug. When we pulled away, he blinked at me a few times, then dashed out the door, flashing a grin at me over his shoulder as he ran into the field to play fútbol with his friends. His large backpack smacked his small back as he ran out into the sunshine.
My brave boy. My Boots.
The gifts of God sometimes come in pint-sized packages. This little boy and his story remain etched in my heart. I try not to think that I may never see him again . . . and I pray for him. For his heart. For his family. For his future. I dream about what he could be, about the plans God has for his life. His story is a familiar one; broken people are all around us. Walls have been erected everywhere; masks are worn to conceal the pain inside. But through Boots, God gave me a gift that I will carry with me wherever I go. The ability to reach beyond those walls. The care and determination to truly know what lies beneath those masks.
The gift of seeing.
