The Porch of His Presence

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BLACKBOARDS AND BLESSINGS

The Room Shown by Flashlight

It was evening when I first saw the room that would shape the next twenty-seven years of my life.

The school was still under construction. The director led me through the shell of the building with a flashlight, beams of light cutting through dust and plywood. When we reached my future classroom, there were no desks—just wiring, half-installed cabinets, and the echo of possibility.

But I didn’t mind. The promise was enough.

This was a brand-new vocational-technical high school—close to home, full of potential—and I had just earned my master’s in education with a focus in botany. At last, I wouldn’t be teaching general science to junior high students, but full-fledged biology to high schoolers. I was eager. Ready to share what I loved.

The early years were promising. Many of the students, though bound for careers in carpentry, auto mechanics, or culinary work, were surprisingly capable. I checked the IQ scores of a few—bright minds, truly. More mature than the middle schoolers I had taught before. Quieter. Respectful, if not always interested.

And that was the shift.

In my old middle school, the students were rowdy, yes—but enthusiastic. They wanted to learn, raised their hands, debated answers, sometimes even taught me something. At Votech, students came for their trades. Most didn’t see the point of biology. Over time, interest faded. Resentment crept in. Equipment was tampered with. Even the sturdy biology lab tables with gas jets and burners were quietly vandalized. Some days, I spent more time preserving order than teaching life.

But for a few golden years—just three—we were allowed to design our own curricula. And those years saved me.

I created a course called Educational Aquaria, though the students called it “Fish Class.” It was built around the beauty and balance of a miniature ecosystem. Twenty students. Ten aquariums lining the room. Two students per tank. They learned the water cycle, the oxygen-carbon dioxide exchange, the nitrogen cycle. They studied how fish, plants, water, and light formed a living, breathing system.

And we didn’t stop there. I taught them how to make the aquariums beautiful—how aesthetics matter in nature, and in life.

That class lit something up. It was hands-on, meaningful, and alive. Some said I should teach it on television, like a “Mr. Science” show. At national workshops, other teachers asked for my curriculum. For a time, I felt like I was truly reaching them.

Then, the curriculum changed again. No more biology, chemistry, or physics—just “general science,” supposedly tailored to the vocational shops. But the classes were mixed: one student in food service, another in HVAC, another in masonry, all in the same room. How do you tailor a science lesson for six different trades at once?

I did my best. But year by year, it felt less like teaching and more like enduring.

In the later years, I quietly changed my approach. I taught the assigned content, yes—but I focused on the beauty, complexity, and value of the natural world. I knew many of the boys hunted or fished. I used that connection. I gave them windows into ecosystems, into the unseen rhythms of the world they lived in. And sometimes, that was enough.

After thirty years—twenty-seven of them at Votech—I retired. I was tired. But not bitter.

Even now, some of the students I least expected to remember me come back. They tell me I was their favorite academic teacher. And I believe them.

Because sometimes, what you teach doesn’t show up in a test score.
Sometimes it comes back years later…
like a light in the dusk,
or a classroom first seen by flashlight.