The teenaged man-child sat across from me and wept openly. His Thanksgiving had been horrible, he told me. His sobs wracked my heart as I fought back tears of my own.
I took his hand and squeezed it three times. I didn't want to embarrass him but in my family that means I LOVE YOU.
I reassured him that his teachers wanted the best for him that we were his biggest cheerleaders.
He shook his head and smiled.
The fact is as much as some kids say they hate school, it is often their only respite. The warmth, the food, and the fellowship from 8 to 3 is the best they have in their lives for now.
I am an intentional teacher. The way I teach, the way I deal with students, the way I supervise--all intentional. I am on the look out constantly for those downward cast, sad eyes, which can be found on solemn and happy faces. Some think they are good at hiding the pain they feel in their hearts, but I am an intentional teacher, an intentional person. I am looking--constantly.
I will say hello. I will ask how you are. I will make conversation. I will be looking.
I am intentional.
Take my hand and squeeze. I LOVE YOU!
Merry Christmas!
Well said.
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