story time.

As I finish up the last months of my internship, I'm aware that my career will start in full-force any day now. People often ask me, as a counselor, would I rather be in a high school, middle school, or elementary school. Truth be told, there's something to love about each level. When I started the program, my heart was for high schoolers: career planning, scholarship advising, break-up therapy, etc. Small children scared me: they're sticky and they say really strange things, like interrupting your lesson on bullying for breaking news: "I lost my front tooth last night." I was unsure of that I had the patience to work with the wee ones and segue their stories of lost teeth and t-ball victories into meaningful guidance lessons. The further I get into it, though, the more I adore working with children. There is never, ever a dull moment with any child from Kindergarten to fifth grade, and the best part: they are always, ALWAYS delighted to see you. Unlike at the high school where a visit from the counselor is often greeted with a collective moan and looks that scream, "What now??"

The younger the child, the more they love school and learning. Any day of the week, I can walk into a first grade classroom and the kids are tripping over themselves trying to tell me how good they did on their AR test or how fast they can add a worksheet of figures. Not only do they love reading at this age, they especially love being read to. So my forte as a counselor has quickly become reading books. This is a slow, tedious process: read a page, show the illustration in an arc that ensures that all children can see the action. The basic formula for a guidance level at this age is book, short discussion, art activity. The summation of this formula is that I love, love, love what I do.

As I think about my potential career as an elementary school counselor, I can't help but wonder what the students think my role is. At the K-2 level, they rarely grasp the idea of individual therapy, response to intervention, test coordinating, classroom guidance, etc.

I'm reminded of a story about my dad that our preacher has related to me on more than one occasion.

As a teacher, Dad had to put in 25 years before he could retire. Many teachers will long surpass the 25-year minimum; Dad seemed to always see his 25 years more like a jail sentence. Maybe he had more spring in his step on Day 1, but at least by year 20 the days ticked by like years at a time. So for the last three years of his career, Dad rewarded himself for good behavior and took on a role as PE aide for our 3rd-5th grade school. Basically, for three years, he played kickball for a living. But it wasn't all fun and games; there was, of course, some real work involved, like monitoring the hallways and lunch room and doing other duties assigned to the three men on faculty.

Here's another thing about my dad: somewhere along the way, he's become enormously handy. Not just in a change-the-lightbulbs kind of way, but in a Tim the Tool Man kind of way. So just after his glorious retirement, he started doing odd jobs for people around our town, including our preacher.

One day Brother Joel got off the phone with my dad after discussing a project, and told his wife that Dad would be over Monday morning. His son, Carson, who had played kickball alongside my dad at the elementary school, found it odd that Dad would take a day off from the little league to work on a project for Joel. When he asked his Dad why Mr. Tim wouldn't be at school on Monday, Joel explained to Carson that Dad had retired after his 25 years of working.

In all seriousness, Carson chewed on this for a moment and then asked, "So Mr. Tim has been a hall monitor for TWENTY-FIVE YEARS?!"

I think about that story sometimes, as I walk through the halls and high-five second graders or as I color with Kindergarteners or read to first graders. What do they think I'm doing here? And I can just hear them, one day, saying, "You mean to tell me that Miss Lindsey has been coloring for TWENTY FIVE YEARS?!"

And you know... that's not really a bad gig.