At first, everything seemed fine.  Mrs. Hienton pushed her grocery cart across the parking lot.  She held her phone up against her ear and listened to her friend talk.  People walked in and out of the entryway, but then, barreling through the parking lot, a car came out of nowhere.  It all happened so fast—the car, the confusion, the side mirror just missing her.  She had stepped back just in time, lifting her hands in shock.  And that one movement saved her from serious injury, maybe even death.

Mrs. Hienton shared her story in front of the staff, pacing back and forth across the auditorium stage.  As the principal of our school, she wanted to offer a little morning motivation, and it worked.  By the time she was done, the yawning had ceased and everyone was listening.

“I was livid,” she said.  “And my first response was to light him up.”

She described walking to the man’s car after watching him park.  She considered the possibility he could have a gun, but her anger drove her to his window.

“Sir, do you know you just hit me with your car!”  As her words poured out, she saw his face.

He was older and obviously confused.

“Sir,” she said again, talking a little slower, “you hit me with your car!”

She looked up and saw the car he scratched while trying to park.

He didn’t speak.  Instead, his hands shook as he grabbed his wallet and fumbled through credit cards.

“I had no idea what he was doing,” she told all of us as we sat wide-eyed on the edge of our seats.  “But watching him struggle brought compassion.”

Eventually, the police came and asked if she wanted to press charges.

“All I told them,” she said, “was to help this man who was obviously struggling.”

A change had come over her.

“Guys,” she said into her microphone, “I walked up to that man’s car with anger, but once I got a glimpse into his story, my heart changed.”

We all got the message.  We’d been there before with students, and she knew that.

Eventually, the auditorium doors opened, and I navigated my way through the sea of students toward my classroom.

It was Monday, and classes on Mondays are only twenty-five minutes long, so it always feels like the day will fly by without a hitch, but that’s not what happened.

Just before the bell, Cody walked into my classroom already done with school.  He was tired, a little grumpy, and he was going to eat his food whether I allowed it or not.

And since day one, I made it clear I didn’t allow it.

We all watched a couple of scenes from Superman, and as we were talking about being misunderstood like Clark Kent, I looked over and saw Cody eating some chips.

His math teacher had introduced us the year before.  That’s when I found out he’d been through some hard years, including being in the house when his brother ended his own life.

“Everyone get out your journals,” I said, “And Cody, can you put away your food.”  I said it loud enough for him to hear but tried to avoid sounding confrontational.

He kept eating his chips, and I kept prepping the class for the journal they were going to write about being misunderstood.

As I talked, I walked closer to his desk, attempting to add a little pressure for him to do what I asked a few minutes before.

“Sometimes people see us a certain way,” I said, standing a few seats away from him, “but they’re often wrong.”

Another handful of chips went straight into his mouth.

He crunched away, and I felt my face getting hot.

The class looked at him and then looked back at me.

Nobody made a sound.  And with each movement he made, I felt my blood pressure climbing.

“Cody,” I said with a little more zest, “I asked you to put away your food!”

He crumpled up the bag of chips.

And his next move was a gut punch.  Looking straight ahead, not at me or anyone else, he slowly pulled the plastic wrap off his rubbery white cheese stick and stuffed the whole stick into his mouth.

There was no expression on his face, no indicator he was even registering what I was saying.  He just chewed on that stick.  And for a brief moment, with the students’ eyes on me, I wondered if maybe I should make an example of him—to unleash the consequences that come with that level of disrespect.

My angry speech was moving into the silo of my mind, ready to launch.  Just a few seconds, and I would push the red button.

Then, something stopped me—Mrs. Hienton’s story.

I pictured her at the window of a scared older man, fumbling with his credit cards.  And I pictured a younger Cody crying in the kitchen after his brother’s death.

Suddenly, he wasn’t the enemy.  He was a broken kid, and he was alone.

My angry words never came.  With the class watching, I walked over to his desk.  And as he stared straight ahead, possibly waiting for the fight he assumed was coming, I reached down, picked up his trash and threw it away.

“You need some paper?” I whispered.

He still hadn’t bought a notebook—an item he probably couldn’t afford—so his desk was empty.

He nodded, and I brought him some paper.

That’s when he did something he hadn’t done before.  The shroud of disengagement fell from his face, and he started to write.

As I left the parking lot that day, my mind went to a verse I’d been processing all weekend:  “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses” (Heb. 4:15).  In other words, Jesus gets us.  He sees our brokenness, and He understands.

That’s incredible!  The same God who made the stars understands us.  And He’d probably appreciate it if we’d try a little harder to understand each other.  I know that’s why He gave me that verse over the weekend and then my principal’s story on Monday morning.  He’s the help I desperately need, and if I take a look around, I’ll find He’s always there, helping me see people like He does, one person at a time.

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