Episode 8: A Worthy Guide

I teach college, so brand-new concepts: I don’t usually have to teach them to freshmen.  Juniors and Seniors, sure.  Freshmen, I’m more like a guide, to take them past the place where they’re most comfortable, and I begin with ideas that they might be most familiar with.  I ask questions. I smile. I wait for them to answer, if they do.

I don’t teach them what to think—I try to teach them how.  I try my best to make them uncomfortable, because comfortable people don’t learn. Most times, it’s just talking. 

So, when I found myself sitting in my office last fall, not being able to breathe, l knew I was stepping into new territory.  I couldn’t stand up and take a walk. I couldn’t talk.  I could barely think. My emotional range was, in the words of Hermione Granger, akin to “a teaspoon.” I carried zero emotional margin.  The past few years have been a test. It’s been tough.

And so, I found myself in my office, alone, praying I could cry.  Sobbing would have been beautiful. Wailing, well, that would have been embarrassing, but a quick bout of snot-slinging grief would have been wonderful.  A single tear? Bring it on. I’d take what I could get. 

So…why did I need strong emotion?

Even now, months later, I have no idea.

I was backed up. I don’t know. I couldn’t process everything.

So, I’m a professor, a teacher.  But I’m also a guide, and a guide is worthless when he has to lug around secrets along with maps and reference books. 

Ok, so I’m also a dad, and when I’d sit in the office and beg God Almighty for the tears to make it to the end of the day, I also knew I’d have to lie to Emma when she asked how my day was. I couldn’t tell her that I taught my classes, but I barely made it to the car to drive home.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my job, but these panic attacks have very little to do with work.  I couldn’t live my life where I hated work—ask anybody; I love what I do.

But I ain’t lying to Emma, either.  God wasn’t giving me tears, but I could find a guide.

One who could teach me how to handle my emotion. To process the grief.  To cry if I need to, but maybe not on demand.

While we’re at it, Emma needed to learn that, too.  I just knew I wasn’t the guy to teach her that stuff. Not yet, at least.