What child is this, who, laid to rest . . . .
Snow is falling. Huge flakes like white feathers shaken from the sky, a rare thing in the North Carolina Piedmont at the beginning of December.
Another rare thing: Today a former student is buried.
He was eleven years old.
I stand at the kitchen window, watching the snowflakes fall. Eleven years. That is all he had.
An only child. A latched seat belt—I can envision his mother reminding him—wasn’t enough.
I begin wondering about enough.
Did we do enough?
Nearly the whole of his short life was spent at elementary school. How much of our focus was data and test scores? Did he feel successful?
College and career ready doesn’t matter at all when you die at eleven.
Should it matter so much when you don’t die at eleven?
Were we enough? Did he enjoy coming to school, or did he endure it?
I can hardly endure the heaviness of that thought.
The bleakness of the gray December day, but for the snow, matches the bleakness in my soul. On the television in the living room, Christmas music softly plays:
What child is this . . . .
He is Everychild now. Mine, yours, ours, all children, coming to school, day after day.
Do they have the chance to get out of the box, before they’re put in a box?
Do they have the opportunity to develop a hunger for knowledge? Do their teachers create dynamic experiences that empower the children to own their own learning? Or are the children starved for authenticity, their minds and days numbed by worksheets, by sameness, by constant assessment, by irrelevance, by teachers in survival mode, by hierarchical machinery?
Underneath all those wheels in motion lies the child. Motionless. Powerless.
Haunting that such a beautiful snow should pour on such an ugly day, for snow can mean many things beyond ice crystals. It represents death, yes, but also wisdom, purity, innocence, blessing.
Wisdom, blessing, and strength to you, Everyteacher, for Everychild in your hands. Strive for more than enough. For joy, for awe, for love-of-learning-for-life ready. There’s no way of knowing whether this child will live a hundred years, or just eleven.
What child is this, who, laid to rest . . . whom angels greet, with anthems sweet . . . .
Every minute matters.