Last Wednesday during 7th period, I waited. Students were unzipping backpacks and finishing side conversations.

“Does anyone have a good thing?” I asked.

On Wednesdays, the students and I begin class by sharing “good things” like getting sleep, acing a test, or having lunch plans. Once the “good thing” is shared, I’ll repeat what was said and count “1, 2, 3.” Then, the whole class claps once in unison. At least that’s how it’s supposed to go. If it’s a morning class, the unison part is a little difficult.

Serenity’s hand shot up. Despite the difficult chapters in her story, she’s a positive leader, always quick to offer encouragement to classmates. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“Go ahead, Serenity,” I said.

She sat up straight, preparing herself for an announcement.

“I’ve got a new best friend!” she said with a smile.

“Oh yeah, who’s that?” I asked.

She paused to build drama. And then, like a sculpture unveiling her statue, she announced her friend’s name.

“Mrs. Hienton!”

What? I thought, a little shocked. A teenager calling a school principal a “best friend” doesn’t happen every day.

“Mrs. Hienton is Serenity’s new best friend,” I shouted, and then I counted, “One, two, three!”

The whole class clapped once. Perfect!

Then I smiled at a thought—Serenity’s new best friend, Hillary Hienton, has been busy, not just befriending students, but stepping up as a leader for the entire district.

One staff meeting last week sent all of us on a trajectory none of us saw coming. Changes were ahead, and being our fearless leader, Hillary wanted us ready.

The meeting was a quick “stand-up” meeting on a Monday after school.

“You can stand in the back if you’d like,” she said, “but you might want to sit down for this.”

As people found seats, she began telling us about the crisis at Jenkins Middle School. Engineers had inspected the building and deemed it unsafe, so all those kids needed a new place to learn.

“This definitely isn’t going to be easy,” she said, “but our location is the best available option for those 7th and 8th graders.”

Staff members looked at each other with wide eyes.

“How many kids is that?” someone asked.

“About five hundred.”

Stunned silence.

Teachers shook their heads in disbelief, and then Hillary lifted the microphone to answer the unspoken questions.

“Some of you will have to move to different parts of the building. Others are going to share classrooms.” She paused, letting us absorb the news.

“This is a real opportunity for us,” she said, her voice calm and steady like her smile. “Those middle school families are struggling, and we can welcome them.”

People had questions, and she fielded each one with a sense of humor, but there was something else in her answers. She kept coming back to kindness.

Two days later—the same day Serenity revealed her new best friend—I was sitting in my office after school writing lesson plans. The other English teachers had gone home, so the English department was quiet.

Just the way I like it, I thought, but then I could hear Hillary’s voice getting closer.

“This is our English Department,” she said, like she was giving a tour, “and this space will also be available to anyone who needs it.”  She was referring to the table and chairs, the sink and microwaves.

The conversation was happening around the corner, so I couldn’t see anyone, but I could hear every word.

“What about these offices?” a man asked, apparently the one being led on the tour. He was referring to the offices surrounding the meeting area, and his voice shook with angst.

“No,” Hillary said, speaking slowly. “Our English teachers use those, but you have access to everything you see here.”

Whoever she was addressing seemed to be someone from Jenkins, and he wasn’t done. He chuckled, obviously frustrated.

“You said people could use this area, but now you’re saying they can’t use these offices?”

His tone was biting.

A moment’s pause, and then Hillary responded.

“The teachers here know you need space,” she answered. Her voice was gentle, like a warm blanket covering whatever cold anxiety the man felt. “They work in these offices, but they’ll be doing everything they can to share this area.”

Eventually they left, and when they did, I sat in the quiet, totally thankful.

Hillary had talked to the staff about demonstrating kindness and being welcoming. That’s easy to say to a Doherty staff who gets you. But one on one with a frustrated Jenkins staff member? That’s totally different! She practiced what she preached, and as strange as it might sound, I was proud of her.

Today, I wheeled my last wagonload of books and supplies out of my old classroom. The walls were bare, the bookshelves empty, and just as I was pulling it all out the door, Hillary was standing there. Again, despite the storm around her, she was smiling. She was standing next to Mr. Gaal, our Superintendent, giving another tour, and they asked how I was doing.

My honest answer? I’m doing well.

All day, Doherty staff members greeted Jenkins teachers. Security guards carried desks, students painted “Welcome to Doherty” signs, and counselors wiped down tables. Kelci, the middle school math teacher who’s taking my room, gave me a cheerful “Hey Erin!” every time I passed. People were helping people. With that kind of real community, how could I not be doing well?

There’s a new sign in the hall that sums it all up for me. A Jenkins teacher put it on her door, anticipating what those middle schoolers will be feeling—what we’ll all be feeling—when they walk into Doherty.

In big, bold letters, it says, “Great Things Never Come From Comfort Zones.”

Hillary was right. This has been an opportunity. If there’s an author of our stories—and I believe there is—He knows the most beautiful sunsets require a few clouds. Nobody asks for upheaval. Changes that come like stormy weather tend to make people want to throw up, but I’m learning to be thankful for an Author who gives us clouds so we can see the sunsets. And I’m thankful He gave me a principal who makes students like Serenity feel like they have a best friend.

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