He was in the first grade, the class I taught at St. Mary's School in Morris, Minnesota. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Ecklund was one in a million.
He also talked incessantly. What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I corrected him for misbehaving. "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."
One morning, I made a novice teacher's mistake. When Mark talked too much, I often said to him, "If you say one more word, I'm gonna tape your mouth shut." It wasn't 10 seconds later that Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again." I walked to my desk, I opened my drawer very deliberately, and I took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk and made a big X over his mouth.
I then returned to the front of the room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it. I started laughing. The class cheered. As I walked back to Mark's desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."
The years flew by, and before I know it, Mark was in my classroom again, this time for junior high school math.
One Friday, after working hard on a new concept all week, I sensed that the students were frustrated with themselves and edgy with each other. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand, so I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each other and write it down.
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday, I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone," I heard whispered.
Several years later, after I had returned from a vacation, my parents met me at the airport. There was a light lull in the conversation. My father cleared his throat as he usually did before saying something important. "The Ecklunds called us last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is." Dad responded, "Mark was killed in Vietnam. The funeral is tomorrow and his parents would like it if you could attend."
The church was packed with his friends, the pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played Taps. After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there waiting for me. "We wanted to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had been taped, folded, and refolded many times. I knew without looking at the papers they were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary." Vicky reached into a pocketbook, took out her wallet, and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group.
That's when I finally sat down and cried.
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