When I was in fourth grade, we had a class pet. I cannot even remember what the thing was. Maybe it was a gerbil. Or a ferret. It was certainly some kind of rodent-like species. I don’t remember the animal, but I do remember its cage. As is common in many elementary classrooms, students shared a variety of responsibilities. We helped to keep the classroom clean, took turns leading lines or holding open doors, and we rotated who was responsible for taking care of this creature each week. It was my turn to take care of this rodent-pet, and it had all gone terribly wrong.

I had taken the animal’s cage outside to dump out the shavings and clean everything, and I had dropped the glass cage there on the sidewalk. Glass was everywhere. I felt alone and scared of how much I had messed up. I remember scooping up all the shattered glass and walking terrified back to class. What would my classmates say? What would my teacher say? I opened the door, dumped all of the glass pieces on my teacher’s desk, and I just started to cry. I had irreparably messed it up, and I knew it.

My teacher took my hands, and made me look him in the eyes. And then he did what all great teachers do — he asked me questions. “Do you think I can buy another cage?” Through tears, I struggled to admit that he could. Then he said, “How much do you think you are worth?” I had no answer. My teacher said, “I can replace the cage, but there is only one of you.”

In fourth grade, I learned that my worth is not based on my performance.

Teachers have an infinitely complex job. We teach more than content, and each day we are surprised by unpredictable opportunities to communicate Truth.

May students at FRCS know what they are worth.

May teachers at FRCS know what questions to ask.