I say it'll be okay, but sometimes I don't think I say it with much conviction

Every morning, we have meetings (devotion) where we're given little slips of paper with words that are supposed to inspire us to be better teachers. We read them and though I understand the words, I don't really understand until my cousin speaks. She has a way of speaking where everyone can relate to. She speaks in a way that her sincerity is in every word she says because she truly does care, and that she wishes for us to get that these kids are more than students, they are us (but hopefully much much more).

Days, like today, I hear her speak and I have an urge to close my eyes and have her voice flood my senses: I admire her vigilance, her honesty, and her unwavering hope for these kids.

I am not a patient person; I snap at the slightest provocation. There have been moments where I've yelled out of anger and stress, but it didn't really do anything but to scare them. Isn't that a little too Machiavelli for me? If I teach with more love, with more patience, I hope that they will listen better and try to comprehend what I teach.

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There's a quiet boy who was in Spanish class but since he didn't cause trouble and didn't speak that often I overlooked him. He is big for his age and looked like he's mature enough to be left alone, but I should have taken notice of his eyes, the kind that says he could nunca cause harm to anyone. He has eyes that holds loss, sadness, of want of someone to take notice of him.

He asked me to take him to the bathroom because he wanted to blow his nose. At first, I had just returned from the classroom to watch my kids, so I was hesitant to leave them to take another kid from a different grade to the bathroom. When he came out of the bathroom, as we started to walk back to sanctuary, his face scrunched up like he's been holding back a great deal of pain, and he started to cry. He didn't sob. He didn't wail. He cried silently, great big tears that broke my heart. I hugged him and wished that I could take it all away.

I wished I could protect him from all the other kids who laugh at him because he can't enunciate words as well as they can. I wished I could keep him from getting pummeled by the world, by its expectations and by its cruelty. I wished I could keep him from building those walls that will keep him in the future from getting hurt, but will also keep others at a distance. Finally, I wished he knew just how special and wonderful he is, and how special and wonderful he will become.

But all I could do was pat his back as he cried and pray that God is watching over him.