“Morah gives us a booklet of questions and answers to help us review for tests. Will you?”

You blink, because preparing the test took two nights already, and to create sample test material will take five times as long, and can’t they just use their notes like you did when you were their age?

You push it off with a vague suggestion for them to try without, but they’re persistent. They like how Morah lets them review in class, how Morah assigns chavrusas, how nothing on the test is a surprise if they’ve mastered every question on the sample test review guide.

“We just want to do well,” they tell you, all wide eyes and endearing smiles. You want them to do well, too, but you’re confused about whether you should give in or not, maybe it’s even detrimental.

They’re going to be in high school soon. Maybe it isn’t a favor to spoon-feed them like this. But Morah’s done it till now, and she’s going to keep doing it when she comes back, and what difference is your little attempt at chinuch going to make, anyway?

And you’re so unsure if giving in is weakness or kindness; if standing firm is education or inflexibility; if it’s part of your job to accommodate and let the bigger picture slide; or if a substitute teacher still has the responsibility to look out for her students’ growth even if things don’t stay status quo until Morah comes back.

You make a decision and you’re still unsure of it, but no one can tell.

You keep teaching and the students keep learning. You keep calm, keep smiling, and remember that you’re just a small slice of their learning experience this year. And whether you decide to give your students the comfort of stability, doing things just as Morah always did, or push them a tad further out of their comfort zone — you might be right, you might be wrong, or a confusing combination of both.

But you’re doing your best to fill shoes a few sizes too big, and you hobble around the classroom hoping desperately you don’t trip out of those oversized heels, because you’re trying.

You’re trying to make snap judgments but not condemnations, you’re trying to serve up that comforting familiarity when you’ve never tasted Morah’s lessons yourself. You’re bridging a gap and making the best of things and doing it with a smile and head held high. You’re a substitute superhero, but a superhero nonetheless.

And although your students would never guess it, you’ll be the happiest to see Morah back.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 713)