The man was desperate and cried out to the Teacher, “Lord, I believe.” And in honesty, he added, “Help my unbelief.” I memorized those words over twenty years ago, and they resonate with me even more now than they did then.
So often my inner cynic doubts the value of what I do. As a teacher, I sometimes have only a semester with students. I feel like I teach so little course material in that time, let alone add anything positive about how to be human. Sometimes my heart hums with pride when I read a student’s essay and marvel at how far she has come. Then that cynic reminds me that before ever joining my class, that student already had an aptitude for writing and would have made progress with any teacher she had. At times, I find that thought comforting as the weight of my students’ success no longer bears down on my solitary shoulders. At other times, I’m left thinking, “Does it matter?” Even more disheartening is volunteer work. I’ve worked at camps many summers. I love summer camp. (One of my friends who recognizes my tendency to withdraw was surprised by my enthusiasm for summer camp, but yes, this withdrawal-prone introvert loves summer camp.) This last summer, I volunteered at a camp specifically for children who live in orphanages. The camp gives them a week of fun and love, urging the volunteers to advocate later for the children’s adoption. At the end of the week, it’s heart-breaking to put the kids back on a bus and send them back to a hopeless future (because in their country, they legitimately do not have a future). It’s easy to think, “Does it matter?” Does five days of camp really make a difference? I felt like Longfellow in his bleakest of Christmas lyrics, written from the brink despair. But then, he heard the bells ringing hope: “God is not dead; nor doth He sleep.” No bells pealing jolted me from my doubt, but sweet memories did. I had stable, loving parents, who also had stable, loving parents, who also had stable, loving parents. My teachers at both school and church were encouraging and invested in me. Growing up, I went to camp for only five days every summer. And twenty years later, I still remember people from camp, who, for a couple days or even a couple hours, took time to care for me. I remember guest lecturers in university, chapel speakers, regular customers at Donut World who brightened ten minutes of my Saturday morning shift. These precious memories are not of grand sacrificial acts. They are small, routine even. But do they matter? Yes. Most definitely yes.
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