We will carry your light to the ends of the world

I had the great honor of teaching Liam twice. The first time, he was four years old, and I was a college student patching together my own summer camp for the kids of Millsaps College professors. The second time, Liam was ten years old and a student in my fourth grade writing class. I had the honor of teaching Liam, and I had the great honor of learning from and loving Liam.

At three years old he was a flaming ball of fire, like the one in a video game that you land on and then get supercharged running, jumping, spinning into the future, hearing dings and winning it all. Catching all the gold, hitting the top of every peak, swirling through an ecstatic, electrified world. He was that ball of fire. He was the ball of fire running rings around me.

In the air rock band in my preschool classroom, he was the one on the electric guitar banging his head wildly, springing into the air, and rolling vigorously on the floor. He was the kid so powered by the blazing energy of the moment that you had to stop the game for everyone’s safety, including his own.

He was the kid asking, “Why?” after each page I read and listening in curiosity to every answer. He was the first one to jump in and say, “Let’s go!” Let’s build this instrument out of Kleenex boxes and rubber bands. Let’s use our toilet paper binoculars to climb to the top of jungle gym and find new galaxies. Let’s turn on our flashlight and crawl through the tunnel. Let’s conquer the world.

At ten years old he had the tender heart of a poet, and the flaming ball of fire flew behind him on the soccer field. In class he wrote in cursive slowly and intentionally, as if on a scroll. He was pensive, focused, and absorbed everything. He tried every new writing strategy I introduced. At recess, he stormed the field and took charge of the ball. He built his team, he gave high fives, he passed the ball. He understood language. He understood language so deeply that you knew he felt the pulse of the human heart. He could feel the speed of a sentence, and he knew how to pull the reins back on his words to slow down and make you feel. To rush the ball, to rush the ball down the field and then: Stop. Kick. Goal!

I remember sitting in the car grading papers while on a road trip and pausing to tell my husband, “Listen to this.” I read him the words Liam had written in a story about soccer in what we called Small Moment Stories. I read his words and my husband said, “That’s a fourth grader?” It was hard to believe. The level of introspection, the wisdom beyond his years, the power of his words. I had visions of his future and how we would grow into this voice more and more deeply. I know I’m not the only one who had such visions.

Liam and I were connected by more than a love of writing. We shared a passion for the French language and culture; my mother is French, and his mother spent time living and learning in France. She introduced Liam to all things Francophile, and we sat on the floor when I babysat him and read French storybooks. His father was my archaeology professor at Millsaps College, and I studied abroad in Greece, where Liam spent several summers doing archaeological digs with his dad. Liam’s family was part of a community that was like a second family to me when I was in college.

He was one of the first children I encountered in my life who grew roots deep in my heart. He was one of the first children to teach me: “This is what it means to live with joy. This is what it means to give it everything. This is what it means to love a child. Maybe I, once a child, also deserve this same kind of love from myself.”

Liam and I were connected in another way, too. You see, I learned in the exact same classrooms where Liam did. I even had some of the same teachers as Liam. And I was a child who was suffering while making honor roll and excelling in numerous areas of life. From the outside, I was succeeding. Making straight As. Singing in the Mississippi Girlchoir. Impressing teachers with my writing. Winning book awards. On the inside, I was hurting deeply. I felt like I didn’t deserve to feel the way that I did when other kids were physically abused, homeless, or had no parents. I suffered quietly for the most part, reaching out to one teacher who gave up her planning time to talk to me.

It would take me almost ten years to discover that all around me, in every corner of my life, waited an army of people who would rush in to help me, to listen, to validate and support. They were friends, they were teachers, they were therapists, and they were family. They were my army, my warriors of love. They wanted to help.

Today this deeply beloved child, Liam, is gone, and I know I am not the only one to think, “If I had known you needed help, I would have done anything to save you. I would have dropped everything. I would have answered the call at any hour, skipped work, driven straight to where you are, sat with you for hours. I would have done anything. I would have fought for you. Fiercely.  And I’m just a teacher who loved you and last taught you three years ago. I’m just a person who babysat you and microwaved your broccoli and spooned applesauce onto your plate. I know there are concentric circles of dozens of people in your life closer to you than I am. All of us would have done anything to let you know that we see you, we hear you, and to tell you that your presence in this world matters.”

Now as an adult, as a mother, I feel it aching in my heart. I feel what I couldn’t see when I was a child, devastatingly lonely and confused even as I walked through school with a circle of friends, sad and searching.

For my own son and all other children, I feel these words aching:

You are incredible. You are magnificent and loved fully, through and through. You matter. You bring something to the world no one ever has before or ever can again. You are enough. If only you could feel how much you are loved and wanted in this world, precious child. You are enough. The light of your life is enough. Nothing you do will extinguish that love or that light in you.

Come to us with the worst thing you’ve done, and we can handle it. Come to us with your biggest fears, and we can handle it. Come to us with your most crushing disappointments and devastating defeats, and we can handle it. Your biggest problems hold no candle to the sacred value of your life.

We are here. We are here for everything, through everything. You don’t have to hide your suffering from us. We can witness your suffering and still love you. We can see you broken and still love you. Get angry and shout. Crumble and cry. You can let it out, and we will still love you.

This pain will end. The bad things you feel in your heart live in the heart of everyone—your classmates, parents, and teachers—but it may take a little time for all of you to be able to admit it to each other.

Ask us for help. Your pain is real, and we will believe you. Sometimes pain looks like anger, feels like confusion, sits like sadness. Whatever the pain is, it is real, and we take it seriously. It doesn’t matter how much money you have, what grades you make, how talented people tell you you are, how much people like you. Your feelings are real, and your experiences are valid.

You are not alone, and we will work tirelessly to help you get what you need, to help you feel whole. You deserve to live, and the world needs you. You are important, you are special, you are irreplaceable. Nothing is more important than your one wild and precious life.

Here in this room today is Liam’s army, his warriors of love. Look at the size of this army, the size of this love. Look around. Remember. Your army is out there, too, ready to listen, ready to love, ready to help. It won’t feel comfortable to ask for help, but it is essential.

Liam lit up his world.  I see his eyes sparkling in my classroom, his legs carrying him across the field, his voice soaring to hit the high notes on stage. I see him as the three-year-old ball of fire flaming across the room.

Today we feel a vast darkness around his light. We are full of questions. So many questions. And the only thing that makes any sense to me today is that we go forth from here and learn to love each other better than we ever have before. That we listen better than ever before. That we speak more honestly and openly than ever before, showing ourselves when we’re afraid of what others might see in us. That we lean on each other more than ever before. That we build each other up more than ever before. That we search for the light in each other and in ourselves better than we ever have before.

Liam, we love you, and we will never forget you. We will carry your light to the ends of the world. 

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