When I walked into school last Wednesday, I never expected to see students crying.  And I certainly didn’t expect I’d be crying.

We were doing an activity that’s common in English classrooms talking about our stories being like a river.  And in that river there are rocks–the conflicts, settings and people–that determine which direction it flows.

“Today,” I told them, “the rocks you’re going to write about are the people in your stories who have shaped you.”

Students wrote about them in their journals and then wrote the names of those people with black sharpie on rocks.

Eventually, I put them in groups to talk.  Some students during 6th period found courage to talk about parents who never showed up or boyfriends who helped them find healing.  Others talked about God and how a military move or a friend helped them find faith.

Conversations eventually slowed.

“Okay, back to your seats,” I shouted.  “And you can put your rocks here.”  I pointed at an empty desk in the front of the room.

Students brought up their rocks, setting them down with gentle plunks.

One of them had the name “Mom” on it.

“Who wrote this one?” I asked.

Nataleigh raised her hand.

“Tell us about your mom, Nataleigh.”

She was leaning sideways in her chair with her back against the wall, but when I called on her, she straightened up a little.

She talked about her mom being her best friend, about shopping together and how her mom listens to her when she’s discouraged.  The words poured out, and then something happened.

A thought popped in my head—Her mom should hear this!

The thought hadn’t occurred to me in other classes.  Somehow, like a white dandelion seed, it drifted gently into my head and took root.  But dandelion seeds don’t move without wind, and as I listened to Nataleigh talk, I knew the wind behind this idea was the Spirit of God.

She finished, and I asked a question.

“Nataleigh, if I give you extra credit,” I said, pausing with a delighted smile, “would you get out your phone right now and tell your mom what you just told us?”

Let me pause to say that cell phones aren’t allowed at our school, so Nataleigh was understandably hesitant.

“It’s okay,” I said, “I won’t take your phone.”

She smiled, and the class erupted in giddy conversation.

“Heck yeah”, she said, reaching for her backpack.

She put her phone on speaker and dialed her mom’s number.

Students shushed each other as the phone rang.

“Hello,” came a faint voice.

“Hi Mom.  You’re on speaker phone in front of my class.”

“Yes?” her mom said, sounding confused.

“Um, I’m calling because we’re doing this activity.”  She paused to think. “It’s this thing where we write about five people who’ve influenced our stories, and I chose you.”

Nataleigh smiled again.

“Oh honey,” her mom said through the speaker, “you’re gonna make me cry.”

“We’ve been a team, Mom.  I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby!”

They both hung up, and everyone applauded.

Then, Scarlett raised her hand.

“Can I do that too, Mr. Ahnfeldt?”

“Yeah, me too,” said someone else.

“Who all wants to try this?” I asked, and then I was looking at a forest of raised hands.

I looked at the clock and paused to think.

My plan was to finish class with a discussion about Of Mice and Men.  If I let twenty students do what Nataleigh did, there’d be no time for anything else.

The students’ pleading eyes weighed heavy.

“Okay Scarlett, you’re next,” I finally said.  There was no stopping the train; nothing seemed more important than making those calls, even a discussion about Steinbeck.

Scarlett called her grandma, telling her how she’s always looked up to her.

“I love you, Grandma,” she whispered.

“I love you, too, sweetheart!” her grandma replied, and then tears started to run down Scarlett’s cheeks.

After each person hung up, we clapped and someone else started dialing.

Taliah called her grandma too.

“Grandma,” she shouted, lifting the phone up close to her mouth, “Don’t say anything bad; my class can hear you.”

Students giggled at the warning.

“What darling?” Grandma asked, and then it happened.  “Oh sh*t! The dogs!”

“Grandma!” Taliah shouted, trying to cover the speaker.  “People can hear you!” But Taliah was laughing, and we all laughed with her.

Grandma kept going.

“You stupid dogs, get the h*ll out!”

“Grandma, grandma, can you hear me?”

“Yes honey.  What is it?”

“My class can hear you.  I’m calling to tell you how much I love you.”

“Oh T!” she said warmly.  “I love you, too!  You’re my girl!”

“Grandma, you’re making me cry,” Taliah said as tears filled her eyes.

And Jasmine passed her some Kleenex.

With each phone call, there were more tears.  Students who didn’t even make calls were crying.

Finally, Halo called her mom.

“Mom,” she said, her voice breaking, “I know sometimes I give you attitude. . .”  She paused, and Taliah put her hand on her shoulder.  “. . .but you’ve always been a rock for us even when things got hard.”  When the tears came, she had to stop.

“Halo, you know I love you,” her mom said, and then I couldn’t help it; I was crying too.

To be honest, being a teacher has made me kind of a control freak.  But as Nataleigh talked about her mom, I knew God wanted me to let go—let go of following the rules about cell phones, let go of having some “rigorous” discussion about Steinbeck, and let go of my lesson plan to give way to His.

When the bell rang to end class, students were still wiping their eyes and offering hugs.  Things were definitely not under control, but control isn’t what we needed.  We needed love.  That’s where God’s little interruption took us.  He’s the only one who controls the rivers of our stories.  And if we want to enjoy the ride, sometimes we need to let go.

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