Bring Me Back a Rock (part 2)
That is until one cool breezy fall day in November, the last school day before the Thanksgiving holiday. The classroom buzzed with the electricity of children hardly able to contain their excitement. All they could think about were the intriguing adventures awaiting them over the holiday. By afternoon, with only one more hour of school, no one was in the mood for learning. So I ditched the video of The First Thanksgiving which they had seen every November since kindergarten, and instead decided to have a sharing time where everyone got a chance to tell about their plans for thenupcoming holiday.
You sat in your usual place, right next to me, and listened while your peers told about cruises to the Bahamas, trips to Disneyland and visits to Grandma in New York and other faraway places. With no one else left to share, I turned to you and asked, “Johnnie, would you like to tell us what you’re doing over the Thanksgiving holiday?”
“Yes,” you said proudly. “I’m going to Kernersville to visit my aunt.” The words were barely out of your mouth when the class erupted with laughter. Everyone knew Kernersville, about twenty minutes outside of Winston-Salem, was nowhere special to go. You froze in embarrassment and began to retreat back inside yourself.
I rushed to your rescue, “REALLY!” I yelled out over the laughter. “Would you bring me back a-a-a rock,” I stuttered. “I could really use a nice rock.” The room became perfectly still with an uncomfortable silence as you silently nodded, “Yes,Mrs. Reynolds.”
Thanksgiving break, like all vacations, ended much too soon. Children returned to school with stories, pictures and items to share, each child trying to outdo the other with tall tales and embellished stories. This time I knew better than to put the spotlight on you and ask you to share, but without warning you stood up and began to slowly walk to the front of the room. The shock and fear I felt for you made me hold my breath so hard, I believe my heart actually skipped a beat. For a moment you just stood there looking down at your feet and then without saying a word, you reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a rock. A rock washed and polished until it shined like a new penny, a rock just small enough for two tiny trembling hands to hold. A rock that neither you nor I could possibly know would change our hearts forever.
The entire class silently awaited my reaction. They were obviously confused and taking their cues from me on how to react. “WOW!” I said, reaching out with the kind of hands used to hold a newborn infant or something priceless and delicate. “It’s absolutely perfect. This is exactly the kind of rock I was hoping for. Please tell us all about it.”
Hesitantly, you began to tell about the rock—where you found it—why you chose it. With every word, your voice grew stronger and your stance grew taller. At long last, all eyes and ears belonged to you. At the conclusion of your share, classmates applauded with enthusiasm and someone yelled out, “Johnnie, YOU ROCK.” I watched you like a proud mother bird watches her baby bird take flight for the very first time. I knew it was time to let you go.
Finally, you had found your wings and it was time for you to soar.
Needless to say I received many rocks that year. So many that we began a classroom rock collection. Some rocks came from volcanic mountains and underground canyons. Other rocks came from local restaurants or a relative’s backyard. Every rock had a story and earned another pushpin on the map. By the end of the school year the class had collected nearly fifty rocks and had learned more about the world and themselves than any number of books could have ever taught them. Students from other classrooms came to know us as the rock experts and you, Johnnie, you were the rock master.
As fate would have it, your family moved away that summer and left no forwarding address. So I never got to see you again or say goodbye. But the rock tradition continues. Every year I tell the story of “bring me back a rock” to my new class of students. I tell them that all rocks from previous class collections are boxed up and put away except for the rock inside this clear plastic cube. This rock has a permanent place on my desk and in my heart. As I hold up the rock I explain that it may look ordinary and insignificant but it’s by far the most precious rock of them all. This rock represents love, courage and acceptance of others. It is the very rock that started it all and it was given to me by someone who will always be near and dear to my heart.
Thanks Johnnie, and wherever you are, “bring me back a rock.”
~Adrienne C. Reynolds
You rock
BalasHapus