Lesson Learned
They say teaching is the art of guiding others into knowledge. But what I’ve discovered over the years is this: the best way to learn… is to teach.
When you teach something to someone else, truly teach it, not only do you confirm your understanding—you deepen it. You’re forced to think through every step, to clarify your thoughts, and often, to confront new questions you hadn’t considered. Teaching becomes a shared journey where the teacher and student learn together.
I’ve learned that students don’t all learn the same way. Some absorb information through listening. Others need to see it. Many need to do it. It’s not enough to deliver a lesson; it must be offered in multiple languages of understanding—spoken, visual, and hands-on.
Sometimes, I had to teach subjects I hadn’t studied myself. I was asked to step into unfamiliar territory, to guide students through content I had only just begun exploring. But in doing so, I discovered that teaching those unfamiliar subjects not only benefited the students—it expanded my own horizons. I learned alongside them. We walked the road together.
Over the years, I also learned the value of clear communication. How to write test questions that were fair and understandable. How to give lab instructions that were simple, precise, and easy to follow. The goal was never to trip up my students—it was to guide them toward understanding. That clarity of communication became one of my most refined skills.
And patience—oh, the patience. Patience with the students, yes. But also patience with myself. I made mistakes. I still do. But with God’s grace and the help of the Holy Spirit, many of those mistakes became lessons. Sometimes, even blessings.
One such lesson came early in my career. I was just 21, in my first year of teaching. A sudden downpour soaked the day, and I noticed a young female student walking home in the rain without an umbrella. I offered her a ride. Seemed the kind and responsible thing to do.
But a school board member saw me, and the next day, I found myself in the principal’s office. He gently but firmly explained: “Never do that again. Never be alone in a room with a female student with the door closed. Never offer a ride, even with the best of intentions. It can be misunderstood.”
I was young. Naïve. But I took the lesson to heart—and never forgot it. Lesson learned.
Another moment, a bit more humorous, arrived when I was late for school one morning. I had graded about sixty student notebooks—each filled with classroom notes, an important part of their grade—and I placed them on the roof of my car while I gathered my things. Then, in my rush, I forgot they were there and drove off.
The wind did its work. As I turned onto the main road, the notebooks flew everywhere—scattered across the street and into the roadside brush.
To my astonishment, two cars—one coming up behind me and one from the other direction—immediately stopped and blocked the road. The drivers jumped out and helped me gather every last notebook. Not one was lost. Not one was opened. Somehow, miraculously, the pages stayed intact.
I thanked them with all my heart. And from that day forward, I reminded myself: slow down. Take your time. Prepare well. Lesson learned.
There are many more stories I could share. But these two stand out as turning points in a long journey of growth. I may have stood at the blackboard all those years, but I didn’t just teach.
I learned.
And in that shared space between student and teacher, I discovered something profound: we were all learning together.
Lesson learned.
—Sol Aisling
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