Search Institute

This is a story of travel, speaking, schools, teachers, and death. But more so it’s about family, community, and the capacity of people to be there for one another when needed.

My grandmother had been in hospice care for 25 months. For the past many years, she had gradually slipped deeper and deeper into dementia. My parents, especially my mother, had visited her almost everyday for over a decade, and thus they were the last two people I think my grandmother truly remembered.

In many ways, it had been a long, long time since I had seen my grandma. I visited on occasion, but it had been years since she and I had had any real connection beyond her fleeting glimpses back into the present times. She remembered my son Peter the most, always commenting on how beautiful he was. It always interested me that this was her resounding memory since by the time he was born her eyesight was already begun failing her. I can’t imagine the last time (or the number of times) she had actually seen him. But something about his light and energy (which is prodigious) had resonated with her, searing an image in her mind.

I was scheduled to go to Chicago last week for three days of speaking and training. As it turns out, each day elicited a rather remarkable story, personally and professionally. But this story is about last Thursday.

I was going to spend the day at Deer Path Middle School in Lake Forest, Illinois. The plan was for me to spend six 40 minute sessions throughout the day with each grade level team. It was going to be a long and intense day, but I was looking forward to it. A few days prior to the training, I got an email from the assistant principal at the school. She wrote to tell me that a much beloved staff member at the school had passed away unexpectedly. She wanted me to know so that I had a sense of the emotional backdrop of the day. I was deeply saddened by the news, but also grateful that she had had the foresight to let me know.

On the Sunday prior, my mother gave me a call as well. She called to tell me that the hospice staff had noticed a steep decline in my grandma, the type of precipitating decline that is the harbinger of the final stages of life. After all the years of slowly fading away, it appeared the end days were upon us.

I went to visit Grammer on Monday afternoon. I was planning on going on Tuesday with my wife, but a coworker and friend wisely told me to not wait, since who knew when the moment might arrive. I spent Monday afternoon with my grandma, whose eyes were open and who was still able to speak, albeit in words and phrases difficult to understand. But I was able to tell her that I loved her, stroke her face, and spend a few moments together in great peace.

In a wonderful final moment with her, I was sort of scolded for the last time as only a grandmother can do. I had been gently stroking her cheek, to which she was responding with, “Nice, nice.” However, when I kissed her cheek and told her that I loved her, her face got a pained expression as if I were making her uncomfortable. My mother and I realized that she didn’t like the feel of my beard against her face. I shaved that night.

On Tuesday, my wife and I returned to Grammer’s bedside to say goodbye, knowing that she would die while I was out of town. By that point, she could no longer keep her eyes open and she did not speak. My wife held her hand, we all cried, and Erika and I enjoyed a few last moments with Grammer, telling her we loved her and wishing her peace along her journey. It was perfect to share this moment with my wife, a moment we also shared with my grandfather.

Thursday morning. I was getting ready in my hotel to head to Deer Path when my cell phone rings. It is my mother with the call we had all been waiting for. Grammer had died quietly in her sleep that night. My mom seemed remarkably at peace and I told her I would talk to her later.

I sort of floated out to the car. I had, of course, been expecting the call, even waiting for it. Even so, when it actually happens you’re not sure how it’s going to hit you. I had a 10 minute drive to the school. I put in some good music (a mix of Wilco, Radiohead, and Ryan Adams) and hit the road. My 10 minute drive took me 40. I got lost. I was supposed to start at 8:25. It was 8:40 and I wasn’t there. I was panicky. I was embarrassed. I was angry. I was sad. I was late.

I got to the school, went to the wrong office, was briskly escorted to the room where I was going to be. I ran into the room, apologized repeatedly and often. And the day began.

And that’s where this story of sadness and loss ends. And a story of community, family, camaraderie, and friendship begins.

Just as planned, I met with each group of teachers, even the first group for whom I was late. And group after group came in, engaged, friendly, thoughtful, and full of energy. But what was really remarkable was the experience I was having. I had sort of braced myself for a long, arduous day. I had prepared myself to be mindful of their emotional state considering the horrible tragedy they had experienced. But I hadn’t really expected the effect the day was going to have on me.

As it turns out, apart from being with my own family, there are few places I would have rather spent my day than with a group of teachers. I speak and write about the importance of colleagues and the central role good relationships play in a teacher’s life. But often I do so as if it were theoretical work. It’s not. We all, regardless of where we work or with whom, have almost unlimited capacity to care for and tend to the needs of the people around us.

I had the tremendous privilege to not only be around a staff who had come together in a remarkable way in light of their own circumstances, but who also had it in them to take me in for the day as well. By the end of the day I felt like a member of their school family as well, as staff members came to offer their own condolences and words of care. Throughout the day we had almost constant laughter and conversation. There were stories and challenging questions. And most of all, there was a sense of community and collegiality that transcends any analytical work around deciphering the importance of collegiality in a work setting. This was the kind of community that goes beyond some sort of study.

So to the staff of Deer Path, I want to say thank you for letting me be part of your community for a day and for tending so well for me. And to anyone else reading this, I want to remind you to be mindful of the communities in which you work and live and the extraordinary potential we have to take care of one another. These communities are blessings beyond compare. And don’t you forget it.