"ALL GOOD THINGS"
          Written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosla


            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 mischievousness 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 Mark 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 instruction
            in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had
            in 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 the
            class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left
            the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Mark 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 lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a
            sideways 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 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
            Chuck's 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 his 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.
MY OTHER SITES
"THE JESUS STOP"
"SITES TO SURF"
"FRIENDS POETRY PLACE"
JANE'S QUILTING