The Children Were My Teachers
In 1 Peter 5:1–3, Peter appeals to the elders as a fellow witness of Christ’s sufferings and as one who will also share in His glory. He tells them to be shepherds of God’s flock, watching over those under their care—not because they must, but because they are willing, as God desires; not for dishonest gain, but eager to serve; not lording it over those entrusted to them, but being examples to the flock.
This passage speaks to leaders in the church, but its wisdom reaches far beyond the pulpit.
Not everyone is called to be a preacher, but everyone is called to be a teacher.
Whether we acknowledge it or not, we are teaching others by the way we live. Our actions preach. Our attitudes instruct. Our responses become lessons. The people around us are always learning something from the way we carry ourselves.
Early on, when I began working as a Special Education paraprofessional, I learned a hard truth: many of the children I served came from broken homes and broken places where they did not feel safe.
One young man in particular gave me a hard time every single day.
We seemed to go head-to-head like goats on a hill.
He challenged me constantly. He resisted. He shut down. He acted out. Yet even in the middle of those difficult moments, I cared about him deeply. I did not discuss him with others in a condemning way, and I refused to label him by his behavior.
One day, another teacher and I were talking, and in what I believe was a Spirit-led conversation, she told me something I had not known. Every morning, she saw his father yelling at him in the car before dropping him off at school. When the young man got out, tears were in his eyes.
Suddenly, so much made sense.
I understood why he shut down in the classroom.
I understood why he resisted.
I understood the silent question that was likely living inside his heart:
Why try?
If every day begins with shame, criticism, or fear, eventually doing nothing can feel safer than trying and failing again. Learned helplessness begins to settle in, and the child who looks defiant may actually be exhausted.
Before that conversation, I tried to manage his behavior.
After that conversation, I began trying to model the patience Christ had given me.
That shift changed me.
Yes, we still bumped heads.
Yes, he still acted up.
Yes, there were still consequences.
But something else began happening, too.
He would come back and apologize.
Sometimes I would ask him, “Are you going to do the same thing again?”
And with that raw honesty only some children can give, he would answer, “Yes, Ms. Lisa, but I still love you.”
I would thank him for his honesty and send him back to his seat until the next round.
That honesty told me something important: a relationship was being built, even in the middle of correction.
I know I only had a short time with him, but in many ways, he became one of my teachers.
He taught me how to model patience.
He taught me perseverance.
He taught me acceptance.
After I left that school, an old coworker called and said someone wanted to speak to me.
It was him.
He said, “I did it, Ms. Lisa. I got a C on my report card. I DID IT!”
I cried tears of joy.
There was a time in my life when I cried mostly because of the suffering I had endured. But now, I often cry in celebration for others when they take even small steps forward.
Because small steps are victories.
To some people, a C on a report card may not seem like much.
But to a child who has wrestled with discouragement, resistance, and the quiet lie of Why try?, that grade was more than a letter. It was proof that he had moved forward. It was evidence that effort mattered. It was one more crack in the soul chain of hopelessness.
This is why I do not believe in lording over or managing the children I serve.
I sit beside them.
I pull out my pencil and paper.
I do the assignment with the class.
I model discipline.
I model what a teachable Spirit looks like.
I model perseverance.
And by the grace of God, it works.
The teachers are appreciative of this method, but more importantly, the children see something different. They are not merely being told what to do. They are being shown what it looks like to keep trying.
This is shepherding in its quiet form.
It is not about control.
It is not about power.
It is about example.
The children I serve may think I am teaching them, and in one sense, I am. But often, they are teaching me too. They are teaching me how deeply people need patience, safety, and someone willing to sit beside them rather than stand over them.
And perhaps that is one of the clearest ways to reflect Christ.
He does not lord over His flock.
He walks among them.
He teaches.
He restores.
He strengthens.
And He leads by Love.
Sacred Pause
Who is learning from the way you live?
Perhaps your greatest teaching is not happening through your words, but through the patience, humility, and compassion you model each day.
Prayer of Repentance and Shepherding
Heavenly Father,
Forgive me for the times I have tried to control what needed compassion or manage what needed understanding. Cleanse my heart from impatience, pride, and the desire to lead without Love.
Teach me to shepherd the people You place in my life with humility and grace. Help me be an example, not by power, but by patience; not by force, but by faithfulness.
Thank You for the children, students, and struggling souls who teach me how to Love more like Jesus. Let my life reflect Your kindness so that others may find courage to take their next step forward.
In Jesus’ Name,
Amen.