the verge of tears, I stood up and stormed out of the faculty room, huffed all the way back to my classroom, and let the door close behind me.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but Mark had left his lunch on the table and followed me back down the hall to my classroom. Then my mentor opened my classroom door and closed it behind him.
Mark walked toward me, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Tom, as your mentor, don’t you ever, ever do that again. You want to get through to him? You need to love him. You need to care for him. You need to show him, every day, how much he matters. Tom, when he knows how much he matters, maybe then he’ll start to show you that he cares.”
“Tom, what did I tell you before that first day?” Mark asked. Without waiting for me to respond, he continued, “This work is all about relationships. This work is about loving and caring about kids. Without it, you have nothing. And right now, with this student, it looks like you have nothing. Instead of holding him in for recess, what if you asked him to have lunch to get to know him? Instead of yelling at him, what if you encouraged him the moment you saw something positive? Instead of calling home for being in trouble, what if you called home for something great? When do you think he last heard a compliment? When’s the last time you think mom received a positive call home? If you want to get through to him, Tom, maybe it’s you who needs to change.”
Humility set in instantly. It was the lowest moment of my young career and, ultimately, one of the most humbling moments I have ever had as an educator. Tears streamed down my face as we stood together in my classroom that October afternoon. After some necessary (and deserved) harsh words, Mark stepped toward me, and this amazing teacher of twenty-six years leaned in and gave me a hug.
I realized at that moment that he had become emotional too. He truly cared for me. He desperately wanted me to succeed.
Mark then whispered softly, “You can do this, Tom. I believe in you.”
He was spot on. I needed to change. It was my heart that had hardened.
In that moment, faith overcame fear. In that moment, empathy overcame my hard heart. In that moment, I realized relationships really were the foundation of our work as educators.
Later on that year, I’d learn that the child I struggled with had been the victim of one of the worst abuse cases I’d ever see in my entire career. That was the reason he acted the way that he did. When I started to take the time to see his heart and understand his story, I was no longer blinded by my own shaded lens. Just getting to school in the morning was an accomplishment for this boy. I had been so focused on myself that I couldn’t see him. I had been so focused on my needs, so insistent that he conform to my rules and my ways of doing things, that I had completely missed looking at his heart and what it was that he really needed.
Mark was right. I will forever be grateful that I had a colleague, a true mentor, who called me out face-to-face and set me straight. He didn’t gossip about my shortfalls in the faculty room. He coached me and challenged me when needed. He openly shared his experience, and through his example, I learned it was okay—even courageous—to ask for help. His mentorship ultimately changed the course of my career. And it was exponentially compounded by what happened next.
As the months went on, my respect for Mark grew. I watched as he asked our principal if he could take the first few minutes of a faculty meeting to lead a fun activity for the team. I watched him dress up for assemblies to make kids laugh. I watched as he created the type of classroom where kids wanted to be. He had high expectations for and loved every one of his students—and they thrived.
I no longer wondered why every fourth grader wanted Mr. Wieder as their teacher. Mark’s students felt loved in his classroom. He challenged them and made them believe they could rise to meet his challenge. Mark impacted hundreds of students over the years. He made the learning experience personal and authentic for them. The relationships Mark had with his students and the way he fostered an inclusive culture made them feel like they belonged and could change the world. His relationships were the foundation of the success that occurred in that classroom.
Mark attracted people to him, students and staff alike. It wasn’t his step on the pay scale, the bulletin boards that he hung, or how pretty his handouts were. He was a personal and authentic person. He treated others well, and he focused on relationships and loving others in everything he did.
Over the next few months, learning from Mark and other experienced colleagues, I began to change my practice. I found that as I changed my own mindset, my students responded—just as Mark had said they would. The experience of a veteran teacher is invaluable, and Mark guided me as only a true mentor could. My heart softened. When I changed my mindset from what I taught to who I taught, the real work came into focus. I began to understand the immense connection between personal and authentic relationships, classroom culture, and student learning outcomes.
As my attitude improved, so did my students’ behavior.
As my love for them grew, so did their respect and concern for me.
As my heart opened, their lives could finally be poured into.
As a team, working through things together, we began to win.
Teachers are some of the only people on the planet who go to bed worrying about other people’s children. Early on, I’d go to bed and stare at the ceiling with frustration from the day. Months later, after many lessons learned, I still lost a tremendous amount of sleep but for entirely different reasons. I’d gained immense empathy for all my students because I had a better understanding of what was on their plates, all they dealt with at home, and all the things I took for granted in life, for which their little hearts longed.
The months went on, and things improved. I received encouragement from other teachers, as well as guidance and support, and my confidence increased. I finally felt like maybe, just maybe, I could do this teaching thing.
When I changed my mindset from what I taught to who I taught, the real work came into focus.
I’d soon learn that the next few months would be some of the most difficult that I would ever encounter. My core would be shaken. My confidence rattled. My heart broken. I would question over and over again if I had the courage to be a teacher. I often wondered if I had a strong enough heart to work with kids.
It was the Wednesday before spring break. Due to the upcoming break, students were dismissed early that afternoon. The previous night, Mark and his wife Rae Ann had picked up the brand-new fourteen-foot camper they had just purchased. He had such excitement in his voice as he showed me the pictures from the brochure and told me all about it that day.
“Check this part out, Tom. We can put the grill back here. The bedroom is back here,” he’d said.
After school that day, Mark was heading home to pick up his wife to go and watch their son, Mark Jr., play tennis at his college in Maryland. They were going to get to use their beautiful new camper for the first time, and I was excited for them. As we stood in the hallway that afternoon and wished each other a great, long weekend, I waved and said, “Have a great time, Mark! Enjoy the new camper! Have a safe trip. I’ll see you on Tuesday!”
I didn’t realize it until later that everything changed in that moment because those would be my last words to Mark. I didn’t know that moment would be our last. I didn’t know that goodbye would be my final goodbye to my mentor.
If only I could have said “thank you” one more time.
The following morning, I walked outside to retrieve the local newspaper
