My heart skipped a beat. Sudden tears pricked my eyelids. What was coming next? What didn’t I know?

Dear Student,

They didn’t tell me you lost your brother. They didn’t tell me he was your older brother. Your wiser brother. Your strong, protector, savior brother. The one you looked up to, respected and loved. They didn’t tell me you lost him.

They didn’t tell me you lost anyone or anything.

They briefed me on the “issues” in the class: ADHD, ASD, dyslexia, anxiety. But you — you were a well-adjusted child. Caring, loving. Hardworking. There was no need to mention you.

After all, it happened six years ago. Six years ago, he left in the morning, and never came home. Six years ago, at the age of five, your youth was stolen.

But I didn’t know.

Because you were so youthful, so young, energetic, fun, I was none the wiser.

Until the speaking assignment: Someone I respect. Someone I can learn from.

As sixth-grade students tend to do, they asked for their parents’ help in writing their speech. I heard kids talk about their grandmothers who’d survived the war and rebuilt. Mothers who were always there for their children. Grandfathers who set up chesed organizations. All beautiful and, well, cutely, said. 6th graders don’t understand the depth of the words their mothers have written.

Until you stood up, determination and focus in your eyes. You said: “Someone I respect and always will respect. Someone I miss and always will miss.”

My heart skipped a beat. Sudden tears pricked my eyelids. What was coming next? What didn’t I know?

“My big brother, Moishy, who was killed six years ago in an accident on the way to yeshivah.”

There, you said it. Clearly, confidently, articulated with the simplicity of an 11-year-old.

“He was my only big brother, and I will never physically have a big brother in my life again.”

Right then and there, I wanted to run forward and hug you. I wanted to pull you in close, wrap my arms around you tight and promise you this world is beautiful and Hashem is loving and caring and though we don’t understand, it will be wonderful.

But I heard in your words that you understand this. That you already know this.

I don’t.

I wanted to holler, “Hashem, why?” Why take young children? Why take young adults? Why?

Instead, I stayed quiet. I had nothing to respond.

You told some stories, mentioned specifics, and spoke with lots of love.

My heart was breaking.

You finished, and I simply said, “Thank you. That was beautiful.”

You’re only 11. I’m only 24. To you, I’m an adult, your teacher. To me, I’m still little, groping along in the darkness of This World. I didn’t have the words, or perhaps the courage, to say anything else in the moment. I attempted to articulate something on the piece of paper on which I gave you a grade, but I ended up writing something lame, “Beautiful. Heartwarming. Inspiring.”

And that’s the end of the story.

Except it’s not really.

I see how strong your love and trust are, despite having been shaken and so challenged. I respect you. I look up to you. We all suffer losses in life, but loss of life is something I can’t fathom. When I hope for different outcomes in my life, your smile flashes at me. You’ve suffered one of the greatest losses, and you’re still smiling.

I want to tell you that Hashem chooses the strongest people to test. I want to tell me: Hashem chooses His strongest people to test.

From then on, you seemed to find comfort in mentioning Moishy in your writing. You sneaked him into every assignment. Perhaps it’s cathartic for you. I asked other teachers. You didn’t mention him in their classes. It made me wonder: Are you asking me specifically to respond? To care? To ask?

I want you to know that I care. I don’t always have the words to respond. When I say, “Beautiful. Heartwarming. Inspiring,” I mean so much more. I mean the tears in my eyes. I mean the love in my heart.

I want to hug you; I want to pull you in close, wrap my arms around you tight and promise you this world is beautiful and Hashem is loving and caring and though we don’t understand, it will be wonderful. I want to tell you, that you, and your smile, are my youngest, greatest, loving teacher.

With love,

Your teacher who is also your student

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 911)