Sometimes I wonder how much of a difference I’m making in the lives of the preschoolers I teach. I wonder why I’m throwing so much of myself into this.
I know I’m there to demonstrate love, first, to nurture and teach them their ABC’s, bend down and coach them on how to write their first name, and give them room to explore and play like tiny civil humans. I know I do so much more than that, too. Like… give them tips on pencil-holding, nose-blowing, turn-taking, Bible verse-remembering, and germ-containing.
But you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who actually remembers their preschool teacher. Ask around.
The furthest my memory takes me back is to Kindergarten. Mrs. Ray was old. I remember to things: her classroom and her wrinkles. I have no crafts or projects or notes home to jog my memory. But my dad wouldn’t have hired her if a.) she didn’t love Jesus or b.) she wasn’t just-right for teaching his little “blued-eyed bomber”.
I guess it’s not about the remembering of details later in life. Or being remembered, as it is about the laying of a foundation – a messy mixture of truth and trust and love. One that may not solidify until years later, after the memories all fade.