“Teachers, we have some goodies in the lounge if you want to stop in and help yourself,” the secretary announced over the loudspeaker.
It was a teacher workday, but I was wishing I had a roomful of students to keep me hostage until lunch.
I tried to distract myself by grading papers and planning lessons plans at my desk, but my mind was on the secretary’s announcement, conjuring up an assortment of pastries and sweets arrayed in the room down the hall. Could it be a stack of white boxes from the local bakery or some edible holiday gifts on doilies from the culinary arts class? One of the science teachers often brought leftover desserts from the restaurant where she moonlighted on weekends and I pictured them spread out on the tables, just waiting for me to get more than my share.
I was still obsessing about the “goodies” when the phone rang an hour before lunch. As I spoke to the parent, my eyes and my hand went to my white For Today book in the corner next to my reading glasses. When we said goodbye, I remembered I had not read the day’s message and took a few minutes to do so.
The passage was about reaching out for help, so I called a program friend and told her about the temptation that I had been battling all morning. “I’m surprised I haven’t made an excuse to go down there already and dig in,” I confessed, then added, “Now I’m hoping they’re all gone when I go in there to get my lunch out of the refrigerator.”
I called a program friend and told her about the temptation that I had been battling all morning.
With the door to my empty classroom closed, I named a few names of likely candidates who were notorious for stockpiling enough for their whole department and then named a few names of the teachers who left the stuff in the lounge in the first place. I guess I was mad at everyone that day. “Why do people do this,” I whined, “use the faculty lounge as a toxic dumping ground?”
“I’m no better,” I had to confess in the middle of my rant. “I use it as a feeding trough—or a corner bar when I’ve had a bad day.”
“Can you go in there with gratitude?” the wise voice on the phone asked.
“As a place to store my lunch, yeah,” I answered, “but those snacks—”
“People usually give things, especially food, out of love,” she said. “Can you just be grateful, even if you don’t eat it?”
“Yes,” I said, weakly.
I thought of this when I headed toward the lounge at lunchtime, still unsure what I would do when I came face-to-face with “goodies” that threatened my tenuous abstinence. No matter what, I decided, I would be grateful, newly aware that someone merely wanted to share.
It was easier than I ever imagined. The “goodies” turned out to be rolls of bulletin board trim and packages of construction paper. I was grateful.
—Linda, USA
