Food is never hard to find at my school; like an old friend, it’s there to celebrate with us on Shakespeare Day, Pi Day, and best of all—the National Honor Society Teacher Appreciation Luncheon. On this special day, kids and parents of NHS prepare a spread that looks more like a king’s banquet than a parents’ potluck. 

Every year, my colleague Clint comes skipping into work the morning of the luncheon. And like the camel on the Geico hump day commercial, he pokes his head into our classrooms gleefully asking each of us, “Guess what day it is?!”

We always look forward to this luncheon, and, although the food is incredible, there’s more to it than just the food. The luncheon is given during a half day of school, so without a class looming in 30 minutes, teachers are given the chance to laugh and linger as the kids who brought in the food walk by to say, “Thank you.” Relationships are celebrated, stories are told, and all of us are reminded of why we teach.

In this setting, I witnessed a conversation unfold that I’m hesitant to write about. It’s not that the content was a problem. It’s because the conversation felt sacred—like overlooking the sunlight spilling over an aspen grove or the moments following a moving concert. Words and applause are not enough. 

The conversation was…beautiful.

After we got our food, Jim, a math teacher, joined me, Clint, and our huge plates of fried chicken and pasta at our table. In between bites, Jim asked me what God did in my life over spring break, while Joe, a social studies teacher, sat down and started talking with Clint. The hum of conversation filled the cafeteria as teachers briefly left their tables to grab more food and lemonade. 

As Jim asked questions, I shared more about my spring break. And by the time we wrapped up our discussion, only Jim, Joe, and I remained at our table.

This was when Joe began to open up, “I’ve found that as hard things come, especially this year, faith is all I’ve got left. I don’t know what I would do without it.” 

Jim and I had finished eating, and our empty plates were pushed aside. We leaned in to hear what Joe was going to say next. He talked more about needing God to make it through the challenges he had faced, and again he mentioned the difficulty of this year.

“I heard something earlier this year about you struggling. What happened?” I asked. 

After a moment’s pause to gather himself, he talked about his daughter losing her baby and his midnight drive down I-25 to be with her. 

Jim and I listened, shaking our heads as Joe shared what needed to come out. 

Looking down at his empty plate, he told us his daughter’s husband died shortly after they had lost the baby and that the last time they saw each other was at a family barbecue. The pain he felt, a father’s pain for his daughter, was in his trembling voice and behind the tears filling his eyes. 

At that point, the cafeteria was quiet. A few people walked through, gathering empty serving plates and wiping down tables, but we were alone. 

My question exposed a wound. Someone, I thought, needs to say something. 

I waited for a question or an answer to come to mind, but before I thought of an appropriate comment, Jim spoke.

“How is she doing now?” he asked. They were next to each other, and Jim had turned his chair to face Joe. The voice that came with the question was calm and full of love. 

Joe talked about his daughter’s grief and her battles with the insurance people. All the while, we listened intently. 

Then I saw it. Something had come over Jim. Tears began to fill his eyes too! 

When Joe finished talking, I didn’t search for the right words to say or the next best plan of action. I simply waited for God to speak through Jim. 

“God loves you,” Jim whispered. The truth of his words had substance, much more satisfying than the fried chicken and pasta we had filled ourselves with 10 minutes earlier. God saw Joe’s burden and knew how to reach him.

“Can I pray for you?” Jim asked. 

Joe nodded, and Jim reached out his arm to place it on Joe’s shoulders—now a little lighter. We all closed our eyes as Jim prayed, and although the prayer was spoken with authority, it was clear in his trembling voice and pauses that the weight of his brother’s burden was being shared. 

When Jim finished his prayer, Joe couldn’t talk. But no words were necessary. He reached out to hug Jim and leaned across the table to hug me as he wiped his tears. Then, he was gone.

Jim and I got up from the table and walked out of the cafeteria. 

“Thank you, Jim,” I said. “God was using you there.” 

He nodded and returned the compliment, saying something about the question I had asked Joe. When we got to the corner in the hallway where the math department meets the English department, we said goodbye (like we had many times before), and I walked back to my classroom. 

What had happened at that table, like the last notes and chords played at a stirring concert, still moved through me. It moves through me now as I finish writing this story. God was there at a cafeteria table in a public school, and we all left a little different than we had come. We were part of something we could not have orchestrated on our own. In the midst of what many would call a very secular place, we all caught a glimpse of a conversation both sacred and beautiful.

Erin Ahnfeldt, a Christian Educators member, husband, and father, has the great privilege of discussing authors and stories with 130 teenagers in his English classes. He’s also a storyteller who loves writing about the evidence of God's creative handiwork in the pages of our lives. 

If you’re interested in receiving his honest stories about the struggles and beauty of being a Christian teacher in a public school, check out erinahnfeldt.com. Sign up here to receive Erin’s stories.