Encouragement

Emily walked by my desk for the third time to throw something in the trash. She glanced my way as she headed back to her seat. She opened her text book, closed it, and then opened it again. Emily sighed.

I looked in her direction.

She nervously smiled my way, before she dropped her head to reengage with her history book. Which I doubt she read. As we sat in study hall, she waited on me to finish reading her story. A few days prior, Emily had approached me and asked if I would read something she'd written.

I smiled. "Of, course."

She tilted her head to one side causing large ebony curls to cover half of her face. Emily tucked them behind her ear and exposed the deep dimple in her cheek. "That would be great."

"Do you want any feed back?"

She hesitated. "Yes. please." Emily turned and walked away. She half skipped her first few steps.

To be asked to read a paper may not seem unusual except I'm not Emily's English teacher; I teach her math.

Emily loathes math. I'm not quite sure that's a strong enough word. She sits in the back row and desperately tried to understand the formulas and theorems I write on the board. Often I look at her when I ask the class. "Do you understand this concept?" If she doesn't nod, I approach the new material another way.

At times, Emily's face will get red and with furrowed brow, she looks like she's about to cry.

"If you're still confused," I glance around at the freshman, "see me after class and we'll try to meet another time."

Emily pinches her lips closed and nods. Not so much to me, but to the math book in front of her. The one she desires to burn and has told me so repeatedly.

I approach Emily at the end of class and encourage her not to give up.

"It's not you, Mrs. Perkins," she forces her book into her backpack; "I like you. But I hate math."

I watch one of my brightest students leave frustrated...again.

I knew of Emily's interest in writing because of how she spends the majority of her time in study hall. She often pulls out a pad of paper and—hunch over it like a scribe with a quill—writes for the entire class period.

One day, I'd asked what her writing interests were.

"Sweet stories," she said. "No violence. No killing. And no math."

I’d laughed.

That Thursday, I finished reading the piece Emily had written. I smiled. She does write sweet stories, but more than that, she has a talent for writing. I looked up into questioning eyes. "This is good," I said.

Emily exhaled, "Really?" She held her history book to her chest.

"Yes. This is really good. May I show you a few suggestions I made?"

Emily almost knocked over her chair trying to make her way to my desk. For the next few minutes, we look at her piece together.

"This means a lot to me, Mrs. Perkins. Thank you."

I saw something in Emily's eyes that I'd not seem all year. Hope. We'd found a common group--one on which I could encourage her to believe in herself and one on which she could receive.


May you be encouraged today by the smallest act of kindness. Better still, may you be the one to give it.