There are some things they don’t teach you in college.

Ah, college…I remember those happy, joyful, days at Lambuth University when I thought I was going to change the world, when I thought the worst thing I had to prepare for was finals, the National Teacher’s Exams, and Dr. Bob Hazelwood’s next essay assignment. I spent those four years learning a little about the history of American education, some classroom management, and a few teaching strategies. I learned a lot about writing useless lesson plans, compiling decorated poetry anthologies, and making really cute bulletin boards. I learned the most about drinking coffee, feeding myself on a shoe string budget, and how late nights led to sleepy days. I learned that math was not so bad when someone actually took the time to teach me; that my child psychology professor hated banana pudding and that I hated studying child psychology; that if you’re short, you’d better stand on a stool to watch your blue salts turn white over a hot bunsun burner or you get salt shot up your nose; that the same science professor that made us heat up the salts would give me an “A” if I promised never to take one of his classes again after I turned over said bunsun burner and set his lab on fire. I learned about other cultures and how to value diversity by living in the dorm and touring across the nation with my choral group. I learned there was life beyond the little one-red-light county where I grew up. I learned that teaching was my passion. What I didn’t learn about was that empty desk.

Tragedy affects a small town differently than in other places. In a small town, most people grow up with each other from daycare through high school, and then your kids grow up together, then grandkids, and so on. When something happens, everyone is affected in some way or another. Grief is a shared event that brings the whole community together. And our little county has seen its share of grief. Growing up, and on into young adulthood, I experienced several tragic events that changed the lives of my friends and others, but for the most part, my life went on as it always had. April 14, 2002, however, was a day that changed me forever. It was a beautiful spring Sunday evening, and I was at work at my weekend job waiting tables in a local fish restaurant close to the Tennessee River. It was an old-fashioned diner type restaurant with three dining rooms and a lobby where the prep counter was. Beside the counter was a single table tucked into the corner of the lobby where family members and close friends would sit and drink coffee or eat their dinner while they chatted with us as we worked behind the counter. Seated at this table this particular day was one of our “regulars,” one of my favorites. Beside him was another local man, a unique gentleman who worked at the local radio station, and who always knew what the latest talk was and didn’t mind sharing it, although he didn’t often get the facts right. I went over to warm their coffee, and almost eagerly, he told me that there had been a terrible dirtbike accident that afternoon and the young grandson of our county sheriff was killed. It took me a second to realize that the sheriff only had one young grandson. And he was one of my 8th graders. I felt my chest tighten. Because this particular gentleman had a tendency to sometimes misunderstand things, my immediate reaction was to say, “No. You’re mistaken. It was someone else.” But he insisted. And suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

I love teaching. I always have. I lived for those “lightbulb” moments and the look on a child’s face when something I was trying to teach them finally clicked. While I know I haven’t always been the best teacher, no one can fault me for the love I had for my kids. I didn’t have children of my own, but my students were my kids. They were my life. And I could not fathom losing one of them. While I stood in stunned silence, thoughts of denial racing through my head, the other man, my favorite, gently took the coffee pot out of my hand and put his arm around my waist, trying to get me to sit down. But I wasn’t having it. I had to know for sure. These were the days before Facebook and Twitter, and even if they had existed, I couldn’t have checked them because there was no service down there. I ran to the phone and called my mother, and all I could get out was “Mama…” and she began to cry. And I knew it was true. She tried talk to me, but I couldn’t listen…I just had to concentrate on taking my next breath. Because somewhere, one of my kids had just taken his last.

I had to clock out early that night. My sister Jeanna, who was also a teacher at the same school, came to the restaurant to break the news to me. She took one look at me, knew what I had already knew, and made me leave. The ride home was a blur because of the tears that finally came and wouldn’t stop. Nothing, though, could have prepared me for what I found when I pulled up in my driveway. There were kids. My yard was full of them. They were heartbroken. And they needed me. I had to pull it together.

And I did. I choked back my tears as I wiped thiers. I put my grief on hold as I helped them deal with theirs. My fiance’, now my husband, put off holding me while I held them. And through it all, the craziest thing…there was a whippoorwill singing its heart out in one of the trees nearby; a constant, non-stop warble that seemed to say, “I’m ok, I’m ok”. I felt Zeke close by.

Zeke Wallace was a once-in-a-lifetime kid. Tall, with highlighted brown hair and huge blue eyes, he charmed most every girl he looked at but never knew it. He was unassuming, humble, and a true Southern gentleman-in-training. He was loved by all, including his teachers, and he was smart enough to use that to his advantage. Zeke and I were well acquainted…I had known his family forever, and he had taken piano lessons from me when he was just a little boy. He called me “Woman.” The only kid who had ever gotten away with it before or has since. I pretended to fuss at him when he did, and he pretended to be ashamed. That’s just how easy our relationship was. He loved the outdoors – hunting and motorcross were his passions. He died doing what he loved…racing dirtbikes. My last memory of him was of that Friday before, of him cramming for a test in the 15 minutes I had given them to look over their notes one last time. His seat was the first one in the third row, and I could tell he hadn’t studied the night before, as usual, because of the intensity with which he was scanning the pages in his notebook. As was the fashion in those days, he was wearing denim overalls over an orange henley, with one strap undone. The kids were goofing off, talking when they were supposed to be studying, so I called time. When I told them to put their books up, Zeke sighed loudly with frustration and slammed his notebook shut, saying, “Five more minutes, Woman! Just gimme five more minutes!!” And guess what? He got them while I stepped outside the door so I could laugh without him or the class knowing how funny I thought that was. But he knew. I could tell by the twinkle in those blue eyes that he knew he had gotten away with it once again.

The next morning, I got up after a sleepless night and got ready for work. Each step I took going through the motions of my morning routine was filled with dread. I knew what was waiting on me, what I would see when I walked into my classroom. And I didn’t know if I was strong enough to handle it. I drug my feet until I was almost late, and then on the way out the door, I started to cry again. “I can’t do this,” I told my fiance’ Kelly, who had taken the day off work to be with me and the kids. “Yes, you can,” he said. “You have to. They need you.”

And I knew he was right. Zeke’s friends – and they were all Zeke’s friends – were going to need me to be strong for them. I knew they were devasted, and as much as my heart was breaking, I knew theirs were broken that much more. But before I could deal with them, I had to deal with something alone…something that was waiting for me in my classroom. And I knew that until I dealt with it, I wasn’t going to be any good to anyone. So I slipped into school the back way and faced what I had dreaded every minute since I heard he was gone.

Zeke’s empty desk.

I knew seeing that empty chair was going to knock the breath right out of me, and it did. To anyone else, it would have looked just like all the other empty desks in that room…nothing made it stand out, nothing made it different, nothing made it special. Except that it was Zeke’s desk, and now he was gone, and in my mind, that desk would be empty forever. And that broke me. I sat down in his chair where he had sat just two days before, and I got mad. Mad at Zeke for loving motorcycles so much, mad at myself for having a heart that loved too hard and got attached too easily, mad at God for allowing a freak accident to steal away a boy just beginning to live. For the next 20 minutes, I was Jacob in the book of Genesis wrestling with God in the field by the ford of the Jabbok river. I screamed, cried, raged, blamed, pounded that desk, and wore God out in my grief. And by the end of the fight, I knew I would be wounded, just like Jacob, forever limping with an ache that wouldn’t heal. But also, like Jacob, I knew I would walk away from this nightmare blessed. Blessed to have known Zeke and to have loved a student so much that losing him would change my life forever. And then I had to let him go. I sure didn’t want to, but I had to, because I did have a heart that loved too hard and got attached too easily. And I loved those heartbroken children, and they loved me, and we needed each other. So, I steeled my resolve. No more tears, I told myself. I have to be tough, not emotional. They don’t need me to be emotional. They need an example. They need strong. But I was wrong.

Every Monday morning, the Fellowship of Christian Athletes met 30 minutes before classes started. It was normally only sparsely attended. But I knew today would be different. I knew that’s where they would be, looking for answers, and so that’s where I went. That morning, the meeting was full – full of shattered children who needed to know why. Some crying quietly, some weeping out loud, some sitting in frozen silence, all confused. This wasn’t supposed to happen to them. To someone their age. To someone who was so full of life, of potential. Someone who was so young. Too young. Absolutely too young.

I walked into that classroom with dry eyes and a strength that I didn’t realize I could muster. I was determined to be tough. But what I noticed was, when I tried to be tough, they tried to be tough. When they saw me with no tears, they stiffled theirs. I don’t know who was putting on a bigger act, me or the kids. But what I realized is, these babies needed to grieve, and they needed someone to show them that it was ok. And so I did what I do best. I started to teach.

I taught them with my tears that it was ok to cry when you’re hurting like we were. I taught them with my arms that it was ok to lean on someone when you weren’t strong enough to stand on your own. I taught them with my laughter that it’s ok to remember good times and share a smile of remembrance. And, against the will of the “state,” I taught them that prayer in school really was ok. We spent the entire day together doing nothing but comforting each other. We teachers needed that time with them as much as they needed that time with us. State tests were coming up and we certainly needed the review, but that was not important. We did what was important that day. We just loved on each other and remembered a boy with a sweet smile in denim overalls.

Zeke’s desk remained empty the rest of the year. The kids started writing on it, and I didn’t have the heart to stop them. Pretty soon, every inch of that desk was covered with messages to Heaven for Zeke. They did the same thing in his locker. It was almost as if they knew he was reading every word. And knowing Zeke, he probably was and enjoying every second of it. That desk became a tribute to Zeke, and a place where anyone who needed to feel close to him could go and sit a while. The kids were fiercely protective over it and would not let it be moved out of place or occupied for more than a few minutes. One day, a couple of weeks after his funeral, we got a new student. When he walked in, he headed for the only empty seat in the room. I knew instantly what was going to happen, and it did before I could stop it…every kid in that room stood up and screamed, “NO! That’s Zeke’s desk!” Bless his heart, he got the wits scared out of him, and in his confusion, threw his hands up and just sort of backed away. I felt so sorry for him…there’s no way he could have known what he was walking into. I quickly explained to him about our loss, and then called the office to have another desk delivered. I let him sit in my chair while I once again dried tears and assured them all that everything was going to be alright. That poor child never was comfortable in that room and never really fit in with the others…I guess tragedy creates a bond between life-long friends that’s almost inpenetrable.

Summer came, and with it healing. Kids are like that…they bounce back from things quickly. I don’t know if that’s because they’re too young to be jaded by life’s hurts and disappointments, or whether they just realize that life is too short to spend it in sorrow. They played baseball, hung out at the ballpark, went to the river, and did all the things that kids in a small Southern town do during summer break. And I’ve no doubt that Zeke was right there with them. Then, they grew up. They moved on to the high school that fall and left their grief behind. They didn’t forget…they will never forget…they just remembered to live. I thought often about Zeke during those months, especially during the hot the summer evenings when the whippoorwills sang. I don’t hear them very often anymore, but when I do, I know Zeke is close by and I smile and remember the lessons the student taught the teacher.

When I returned to my classroom that fall, Zeke’s desk was gone. I don’t know if it had been taken away, or if the staff had just cleaned it so well that not a trace of writing was left. I missed it, but in a way I was glad it was gone…its absence was sort of a reassurance that I was going to be ok and that life goes on. I knew this wouldn’t be the last empty desk I would deal with. There have been others since…none directly out of my own classroom as Zeke was, but others who were just as loved and that I grieved just as hard. But the lessons that first empty desk taught me have gotten me through each painful loss, and have helped me help my students get through as well. With each tragic death, a little piece of my teacher heart dies, too. After 29 years, you would think it would get easier, but it does not. My heart by now is full of little holes that nothing will ever fill, little scars left by the memory of children who used to live there. And like Genesis Jacob, that old wound still festers and hurts and I will carry it around with me forever. But God has blessed me, too. Because, my life is better for knowing, and loving, those souls who, in life and in death, taught me more about being a teacher than anything I ever learned at Lambuth University.

There’s just some things they can’t teach you in college.

In memory of Zeke Wallace, Joshua Storey, Joe Moreno, Justin Tolley, Amy Lee, Holly Bobo, Connor Middleton, Nathan Cagle, Allie Henderson, Mason Keen, Tyler Spann, Johnathan Culps, and many, many others. And, in honor of the Cruse family, who just days ago lost their precious daughter Emma out of the same classroom from which I lost Zeke. My prayers are with her family, her friends, and her teachers.