we were supposed to have more time.

To my school kids:

We were supposed to have more time.

We didn’t know we’d be saying goodbye for good on that Friday when our world shut down. And unfortunately, I’m not naïve enough to believe that I will see every one of you again. Some of you will move away due to your parents needing to start new jobs, the financial hardships that come with this weird economy, or the normal ebb and flow of agricultural work to which our community is so accustomed. To my fourth graders moving to a different building next year, I hope you know how much I loved working with you.

To the students I work with most often in our resource rooms or as a friend in your classroom, I know you may not understand why you can’t be at school. Why did school stop? Why don’t I see my teachers and my friends anymore? Someday, you might come to realize why this happened, but for now, I’m sorry that you are sad and confused. I promise we didn’t want to leave you like this.

I was supposed to have 55 more days to say “Good morning,” knowing that it might be the best part of some of your days. 55 more days to say, “Hey, let’s take a walk” and hope that I could help you sort out some of what is making you so upset. 55 more days of being sure that you’re in a safe environment for at least seven hours every day. 11 more Mondays of being relieved to see your faces after hoping you were safe over the weekend.

I miss your stories and all of the facts I learn from my students with ASD. How else would I know exactly how a solar flare would affect the universe? Or that there are currently 7.4 billion people on the planet? Or that the Sears sign is blue in the U.S. but red in Mexico? 

I’m smarter because of you.

I miss seeing my limited-verbal student learn how to use an iPad to communicate, and how your face lights up when we finally share a mutual understanding of what you need. And when another student and I do the “stars and socks” sign language dance and we both laugh long and loud at how silly we are. 

I grieve the chances I will miss to give you grace right when you need it. To show how desperately I want to keep you safe, and to be there for you in some of your worst moments. I grieve all of the things we would have been able to celebrate as you learn and grow and accomplish new skills.

But you will keep learning, and you will keep growing. All semester and all summer, I will be cheering for you (from an acceptable distance) and praying my heart out for your safety and well-being. That’s all I know to do, and I have to believe that it is enough. Because if there’s one thing I know (and desperately need to remember), it’s that God is faithful and he hears our prayers.

Please be safe, remember to play outside, and make good choices,

Miss Danica.