81 Faces

I sat at 'my' desk, wearing my trusty cardigan and penny loafers, armed with enrollment list and pencil. This one has dimples, that one has frizzy bangs. Round. Slender. The little boy with shaggy hair. The silent girl with a long braid. The loud one.


Four brown eyes kept peeking at me, tiny voices whispering, then checking to see if I noticed.

"I like you jacket."

It's a cardigan, but I'm pretty sure they haven't learned that word yet. Maybe I should teach them, because they're going to see that article of clothing a lot over the next two months.

"Where do YOU think this piece goes? Don't look at his, he might be wrong!"

Out of the entire class, I think the tiny girl who can barely hold a glue stick is the only one who got it right.

"My second name is ______. I can spell it, want to see? [spells name] It's my Dad's name, too, but not his second name. I have three s in my name, but my Dad doesn't have three, only me. [10 minutes pass] And you know what? I want to be a painter when I grow up. I want to paint houses on the inside and the outside, because I like painting, it's what I like to do. Can I take this home? I didn't finish yet."

I envy my little pal for his social skills, but I hope ten years from now he's in 11th grade and planning to graduate from high school before he becomes a house painter. Maybe if I go back to first grade, I'll discover what I want to be when I grow up!

After two days of school, I'm still struggling to learn names. Family situations. Learning preferences. Challenges. Favorite colors.

All I know right now is that I see Him on every face -- all 81 of them -- and I hope they see Him in mine.