The cell phone rang just as I pulled into the parking lot at work. I hesitated before answering. I was pretty sure I didn't want to hear this message. Phone calls had brought difficult news all week. The daughter of dear friends was critically ill in the hospital. The ten o'clock phone call the night before had been encouraging; the one at two-something in the morning had been devastating. Doctors had been unable to record normal brain activity. They were going to run tests again in the morning, but the outlook was bleak. I had been praying for hours, asking God to heal this 21-year-old young woman.

I answered the phone and received the news I had feared; Sarah had died. I wanted to run and comfort my friends. I wanted to call our sons and hear their voices. I wanted to drive home, climb back in bed and hide from painful reality. Instead I needed to start my work day and face the 120 freshmen who were my math students. Teaching Algebra seemed impossible at the moment, but I took a deep breath, asked God for support and walked into the school building.

People often ask me why I teach in a public school instead of a parochial school. I suppose the biggest reason is simple. We have never lived near a Lutheran high school. Parochial schools are great, but I also believe it is important to behave as a Christian in a public setting. Dealing with three deaths in five months gave me more opportunities to behave as a Christian than I wanted.

As I looked into the faces of my students that morning, I knew I needed to say something, but what? Some of the students' recent childish complaints echoed in my memory: "He won't give my pencil back!" "I can't sit by her, we don't get along." "Can we pick our own groups? I don't like this one." Then I remembered that recent reunion with these dear friends and how we parents had rejoiced in the fact that our children were finally getting old enough to actually like their siblings. And now Sarah was gone. I wanted to show my students how silly their little frustrations with each other were. Would they still argue if they knew they only had a few days left with their classmates? Would they look at their brothers and sisters differently knowing their time together might be short?

I talked to my students that day about relationships and how precious they are. I let these 14 and 15-year-olds know how this young lady, only a bit older than they were, was once vibrantly healthy, but now so quickly gone. We discussed organ donations. I couldn't talk specifically about my faith, but we could talk about death and families and friends.

And then we talked about math. We graded homework, took notes and did practice problems-just like we had the day before. Six different discussions happened that day with six different classes. At the end of the day I was thankful these young people had let me share my grief with them and had seemed to listen to our discussion. I asked God to give them strength to bear their own burdens.

A few days later I found a gift on my desk from one of those students. A beautiful artificial rose lay on a stack of papers waiting to be graded. Beside it was a note that was even more beautiful:

Dear Mrs. Hartwig,

I was very sorry to hear what happened, and after all that's occurred in the past I admire your strength. Even after all of that tragedy, you try to bring something good out of it by telling us not to take life for granted, and not to wait until a being draws its last breath to say something from the heart, to just take a moment and realize that fighting over something petty is a waste of time and it could be the last thing we ever say to each other.

God Bless,
Crystal Harris

The rose still sits in my classroom. It reminds me what I say and how I say it can make a difference. It reminds me how God used me that sad January day-and that He wants to use me each and every day.

Martha Hartwig is Features Editor of Lutheran Woman's Quarterly. She lives in central Iowa with husband, Jim, and teaches high school math.