This is about my friend, Shelly. Yesterday she was here.
Today she is gone. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. I sat with her a few
short weeks ago and, although she looked frail, impossibly thin, and her small hands
shook, she looked beautiful. Her blue eyes still sparkled. Her smile
still lit up the room. And, her spirit was spunky. I thought we had more time.
I should back up a bit.
I met Shelly five years ago when I accepted a job at Mary
Stark Elementary as a Title I reading interventionist. I joined a team of two
others; Shelly and her sidekick/forever friend/quasi-sister, Laura. We were all
housed in the same large room that was a maze of desks and file cabinets and
leveled reading texts. Room 100A. I was given the desk (a table, really), next
to Shelly’s, separated by a file cabinet and bookshelf, both covered in
pictures. Her desk was in the center of the room, facing the door to the
hallway. I soon learned why she wanted that spot and hung tenaciously to it. The
door was generally kept propped open and Shelly’s vantage point in the room
allowed her to see everyone that walked by. At unexpected and frequent moments
throughout the day she would shout joyfully, “Good morning, Farrah!” Or, “Joshua,
come see me!” Or, “Radke!” (our principal) “We need more money for books,” scaring
the crap out of me, the kids, and half the neighborhood. She greeted every
living person that floated by. Boisterously. As if she hadn’t seen them for a
month. Warm rays of sunshine spilling from her central spot and splashing onto
the shoulders of coworkers and students. She was the center of our universe. We
all loved her. That was evident.
The moment I knew that I had made the right move leaving my
local, rural school for a larger district, was the August Open House night of
that same Fall. I watched beaming children and sweating parents roll through
the doors of my new school, and into the arms of Shelly. She knew every name.
Insisted on hugging each child. Greeted each parent as if they were best
friends. Pure love radiating from her tiny frame. It was evident that teaching
in that high-poverty building was the joy of her life. A calling, perhaps. Mary
Stark Elementary coursed through veins.
It didn’t take long for her faith to find its way to her
lips. She spoke of her God so easily. Our God. We knew immediately that we
shared a common faith. Conversations in that Title room over the next four
years were rich and poignant with deep things of faith. I can’t even say with
certainty how many times we quietly shut the heavy door to our empty office,
clasped hands, and raised our corporate voices in prayer. You think people don’t
pray in school? We did. We prayed when she first knew something wasn’t right
and the results confirmed that her cancer had returned. We prayed when test
after test came back with disheartening news. We prayed for strength and
comfort. For her. For her family. And for the rest of us that loved her.
I close my eyes even now and I can hear her entrance into
the building each morning. It wasn’t soft, like a butterfly alighting on a peony.
It was an entrance. I could hear her greet coworkers all down the hall
as she made her way to our office. Stopping to chat briefly. Her laugh – that
musical, glorious laugh – echoing off the concrete-block walls. She made
everyone in her orbit feel special and worthy of her attentions. She was never,
NEVER, too busy to talk with anyone. Life for Shelly was about people.
Her family, first and foremost, her friends, and her beloved students. She made
time for them all.
When I got the call that she had died, I couldn’t believe
it. There was too much life there. Too much energy and vibrance, even weeks ago
when I sat at the foot of her hospital bed in her living room and held her newborn
grandson because her arms were tired. She talked so matter-of-factly about her
final days and I sat in wonder at her calm. We cried. As I look back, I’m not sure
what about specifically, but I think we both knew we were beginning our
goodbyes. I thought we would have more time. We didn’t.
I am so very, very sad that my friend is gone.
But this I know. I know that the sun still resides in Room
100A. Shelly left fragments of herself in that place. The walls echo still with
her infectious laughter. The file cabinet by her desk still carries the imprint
of the endless family photos she proudly displayed and referred to often. (“…
and Brynnlee… oh, that girl!!”). The stepstool still carries the dust from her
tiny feet as she reached for books on the top shelf. The thermostat is finally
able to stay at a static temperature (the Title gals know what this means).
Above all, the desk that faces the door that opens to the hall that carries an
endless current of people…. The place where her sunlight streamed onto the
lucky students and staff of Mary Stark Elementary…. That place will always be
just a little brighter and little warmer because of her legend. Her sun cannot
be dimmed.
I am better for having known her.
