All The Good Things

He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School 

in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark 

Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that 

happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional 

mischieviousness delightful.

Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again 

that talking without permission was not acceptable. What 

impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response 

every time I had to correct him for misbehaving - "Thank you for 

correcting me, Sister!" I didn't know what to make of it at first, but 

before long I became accustomed to hearing it 

many times a day.

One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked 

once too often, and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I 

looked at him and said, "If you say one more word, I am 

going to tape your mouth shut!"

It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is 

talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me 

watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front 

of the class, I had to act on it.

I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked 

to my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out 

a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's 

desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them 

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."

At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior-high math. 

The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom 

again. He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since 

he had to listen carefully to my instructions in the "new math," 

he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in the third.

One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on 

a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were 

frowning, frustrated with themselves - and edgy with one another. 

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 

on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then 

I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each 

of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of 

he class period to finish the assignment, and as the students 

left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. 

Marked said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. 

Have a good weekend."

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. "Really?" I

 heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to anyone!" 

"I didn't know others liked me so much!" No one ever mentioned 

those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them 

after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise 

had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy 

with themselves and one another again.

That group of students moved on. Several years later, after 

I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As 

we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions 

about the trip - the weather, my experiences in general. There 

was a light lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a 

side-ways glance and simply says, "Dad?"

My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something

 important. "The Eklunds called last night," he began.

"Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years. I wonder 

how Mark is."

Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he 

said. "The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like 

it if you could attend."

To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where 

Dad told me about Mark.

I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark 

looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that 

moment was, Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the 

world if only you would talk to me. The church was packed 

with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of

 the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? 

It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said 

the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one 

those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin 

and sprinkled it with holy water.

I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of 

the soldiers who had acted as pallbearer came up to me. 

"Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I 

continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about 

you a lot," he said.

After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed 

to Chucks farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father 

were there, obviously waiting for me. "We want to show you 

something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. 

"They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought 

you might recognize it."

Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of 

notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and 

refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers 

were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each 

of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so much 

for doing that" Mark's mother said. "As you can 

see, Mark treasured it."

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."

Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put this in our wedding 

album."

"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."

Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, 

took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to 

the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said without 

batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our lists."

That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark 

and for all his friends who would never see him again.

by Sister Helen P. Mrosia

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