Just a good word. A eulogy to Dr. A.

I’ve only had the opportunity to give one eulogy in my lifetime. After my grandfather passed away a few years ago, I just felt the sudden urge to speak of the impact his legacy had left on me. Being an English teacher and having the knowledge of Greek and Latin roots and affixes tells me that the word eulogy means, quite simply, a good word. Today, I will give my second good word.

Today, heaven gained one of the greatest men I’ve ever known. I count myself lucky that I was fortunate enough to work with, to know, to love, Dr. Bill Alexander. For those that may read this and were not privileged to know him, I’m sorry for your loss.

Dr. A, as he was most affectionately known, was first and foremost a teacher. Yes, he had one of those big long titles that school districts like to give people of his experience, degrees, and expertise, but he didn’t like to be called it. He was a “facilitator of learning”—he often said—the truest of callings—a teacher. He was a man of principle. He was a man that in his deepest core loved every child unconditionally. He was a man so full of compassion that it spilled out of his very body into everyone he came into contact with. He was a leader, who led through acts of basic human kindness. He was a lover of nature—of Science. He never saw the bad in people—only the good. Although, he was technically an administrator he preferred to be in the classroom—molding minds, reshaping futures, undergirding as many students as possible with positivity.

He did all those things for the teachers who worked for him as well. He never missed an opportunity to stick his head into my classroom, always bright eyed and bushy tailed, and say, “Good morning, everybody! Wow, Mrs. Merideth, there sure is a whole lotta learnin’ goin’ on in here! I can just feel it!” Just his mere presence made my students smile. And, every day my students would come back from his 3^rd period Challenge class, out of breath with excitement, telling me of all the cool experiments he had done with them.

“Can I wash my hands, Mrs. Merideth? Asked a student as we headed to lunch. “We have been experimenting with fruit flies.”

On another day, a student asks, “Can I have a napkin? Somehow I got blood on my shirt?

“From what?” I asked.

“Oh we were doing this experiment with Dr. A. We were trying to figure out our blood type.”

And then again, just today, a student leaves her lunch table to come to the teachers’ table to say, “Mrs. Merideth, I hate to bother you at lunch, but we are doing an experiment for Dr. A.” Can I look at your fingerprint and your eye color?”

Dr. A, was a teacher. A facilitator of learning. A mentor. A friend. A great, kind, compassionate, and wonderful man.

This week has been a hellacious one. Too often this week I found myself frustrated, overwhelmed, and quite frankly stressed out. This Friday, in a late afternoon meeting to tell the faculty of his death, my priorities got rearranged. I didn’t finish that stack of papers I was grading—instead I just left them in a neat pile on my desk. I decided to come home and see my husband, and talk to my parents and sister, and to call my best friend. I decided not to get stressed about the work I needed to do for Monday, but instead talk to just of few of the people that matter most to me.

After several tears shed in a quiet place, I decided to do what most often comes most naturally to me in times like these; I got down on my knees and prayed.

I prayed for Bill’s wife, Jane. I prayed that she would find peace, comfort, and grace that only our Lord and Savior knows how to give. I prayed that the friendships she has formed over the years help her to find some comfort in what seems to be a hopeless situation. I prayed that she would find joy, the same way her husband did, by looking into the faces of children. I prayed that in the times she misses Bill the most she can just sit on her porch, with Maude in her lap, and feel Bill’s presence in the sunset over Lake Greenwood.

I prayed for his son, Will. I prayed that he would hear his father’s wisdom and take heed. I prayed that in the days and weeks to come that God would show him His face and he would only rely on Him to be his strength. I prayed that he would feel his daddy’s presence every time he touched the dirt of that garden his daddy loved so dearly.

I prayed for his best friend, Henry. I prayed that he never forget the shape of his friend’s face, or voice, or the memories of all their wonderful times together. I prayed that he feel his friend’s presence in his soul—a soul that seemed to be one they shared.

I prayed for my principal, who too lost a great friend and mentor, who will have the cumbersome task of leading our faculty through this deep and irreplaceable loss.

I prayed for me. That I would forever remember the legacy of Dr. A.

On Monday, as I walk from the parking lot into Bell Street Middle School, I know I will feel his presence. I will take in the nature and beauty of the world around me. I will leave my door open until the tardy bell to remind me of his morning visits. I will listen, share tears, and be compassionate as children express their grief for the loss of their great teacher. I will hear his still, small voice in my times of frustration and give that difficult child one more chance. I will teach with my heart on fire for learning and passion for children. I will facilitate success. I will lead through his example of kindness and positivity. I will thank God that I got the chance to work with, to know, and to continue the work that he so desperately loved.

I tell my students at the end of every school year, “It’s not over with you and me yet. Never forget, I will always be your teacher.”

In that great, blissful expanse called heaven, I say to you, Dr. A, “Today you hang up your super hero cape and replace it with some angel wings, but It isn’t over for you and me yet. Never forget, you will always be my teacher.”