He was one of the students I knew needed extra love. He was also one of the students that Mark helped me learn to understand. After Mark pushed me to really get to know my kids, I began eating lunch with students one-on-one each day to get to know them as people rather than just as learners.
Cody was one of those students who marched to his own drum. During recess, most times, he’d wander the playground on his own. He’d often come to school with mismatched clothes or missing his homework. It was during our first lunch together the previous November that my heart began to connect to his. When I asked Cody what his biggest goals were that year, he smiled faintly and said he “was hoping to make a friend that year.” I remember holding back tears the moment I internalized it. I remember feeling awful that it had taken me until November to know that about him. We had spent so much time together in the classroom, yet I hardly knew his heart. I remember promising myself in that moment that I would do whatever it took to help him. Before I could really teach him, I had to try to understand him.
Over the following months, Cody and I ate lunch together regularly. As Mark had suggested, I’d play soccer with him at recess, and other students would join in. I learned of his love for science and video games. I discovered his fun-loving, quirky personality. The more I got to know Cody, the more he knew I cared for him. His attendance and grades began to improve. He began to display some confidence, and his smile began to show more frequently. The day he came in telling me about his two best friends in the class, he wore one of the biggest smiles I’d ever see on him.
After a few moments of reflection, I read Cody’s essay. He had written about me.
Tears flowed from the moment I saw my name on his paper following the word admire. For the first time, I felt that even as a brand-new teacher, with so much to learn, I could have an impact on the lives of others. I finally had that feeling, one that Mark probably had countless times over his career.
I spent the rest of that evening feeling proud of my kids. They shared their hearts with me through their writing and articulated why they admired others with such detail.
Students were off the following day, as it was a teacher in-service day. After spending the majority of the morning with the other fourth-grade teachers in the district and then going out to lunch with my team, we returned for the afternoon sessions. Soon into that afternoon session, a voice said over the loudspeaker, “Tom Murray, if you’re in the building, please come to the office.”
My colleagues looked at me, perplexed. I had a sinking feeling; something just didn’t feel right. I grabbed my bag, packed up my stuff, and stepped out into the hallway. One of the district administrators, Karen Beerer, was walking toward me. I will never forget what she said to me: “Tom, it’s not your family, but something’s happened.” We walked downstairs to the main office. She couldn’t bring herself to say much else.
We entered the high school principal’s office and someone closed the door behind us. As I sat in the chair they had pulled out for me, I looked around the room and saw the superintendent, the two assistant superintendents, and my school principal, Bill Gretzula, who had tears in his eyes. Bill had been a rock of courage and support for me since Mark’s loss. He said, “Tom, this morning something terrible happened.”
I remember feeling like I wasn’t strong enough to hear what he was about to say. I can remember bracing myself for the worst.
Bill continued, “This morning, while at home, Cody passed away.”
My tears fell like rain and wouldn’t stop. What did stop, however, was my world at that moment.
Bill went on to share additional details of what they knew about how the death occurred. “I’m so sorry, Tom. I know how close you were with him.”
Cody was ten.
The flashbacks began immediately. I remembered spending lunch with him, kicking the ball with him at recess, and his beautiful smile. Closing my eyes, I could hear his laugh from the day before. I had flashbacks of the times he mistakenly called me “Dad.” I recalled the ten-year-old boy in my class that I’d grown to have a personal and authentic relationship with, a student that I had loved.
I never had the chance to return Cody’s essay to him. I was never able to share with him how much his words and encouragement meant to me.
If I’d only had one more chance. If I’d only had one more opportunity.
Police ruled Cody’s death due to “accidental causes.” To this day, I hope and pray that was the case. For a child who was dealt a very tough set of cards in life and for all he shared, I’ll forever wish I did more for him.
As a brand-new teacher who was already struggling emotionally due to the loss of my mentor and friend, I went from heartache to feeling like I couldn’t go on. I can honestly say that I didn’t believe I had the strength or the courage it takes to be a teacher.
The following Saturday, I went to another funeral—my second in five weeks. This time, it wasn’t for a well-known teacher whose life was celebrated by thousands and thousands of people. This time, it was a small service with a handful of family members, a few neighbors, and a few classmates with their parents, who exhibited far more courage than I could have dreamed, to pay respects to their fourth-grade friend.
Saying goodbye to Cody that final time was another defining moment for me as an educator. As I stood there saying goodbye, tears for this boy I had grown to love streaming down my face, I promised myself that no child would ever come through my doors without knowing they were cared for and loved. No child would ever walk through my classroom door without being told, and more importantly shown, that I’d do whatever it took to show them how much they mattered.
Mark’s relationships with others defined who he was and helped me see who I wanted and needed to be. Cody’s relationship with me helped define who I was and who I needed to be—for him and for every child who walked through my classroom door.
The best thing that we can give kids this school year is not a new curriculum or technology; it’s an empathetic heart that sees and hears theirs.
As we begin our journey to make learning personal and authentic, know that the work starts with us. If we want to leave a lasting legacy, as every educator does, the work begins in us. The best thing that we can give kids this school year is not a new curriculum or technology; it’s an empathetic heart that sees and hears theirs. The foundation of creating learner-centered, personal, and authentic experiences is, and always will be, relationships.
It is our mindset. Our lens. Our way of thinking. Our relationships. That’s where learning that is personal and authentic begins. Education begins and ends with people, and we must own our roles in this process. When we become more concerned about what we teach than who we teach, we have lost the purpose of the work. We must look deep inside ourselves and discover who we are before we can impact anything outside ourselves and, ultimately, who our students will become.
We must love our kids more than we love our pasts. We must love our kids more than we love our habits. We must love our kids more than we love our own egos. We must love our kids enough to change ourselves when needed.
The work is hard. The work is stressful. The work is emotional. But our kids are worth it.
Together, we can do this.
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