The Twenty-Minute Lesson

This essay was originally published in the 2017 Chicken Soup for the Soul book, Inspiration for Teachers, although it was written several years earlier. It remains an impactful memory. For me, it exemplified Micah 6:8: He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

I woke with a racing heart and fluttering stomach. Today would be my first parent-teacher conference. Like everything else during that first year of teaching, I expected I’d learn a lot. What I didn’t expect was a twenty-minute conference would change my perspective forever.  

Akif was a happy, good-natured boy. His thick, black glasses only magnified his smiling eyes. He was a bit immature—as middle school boys are—but kindly thought of others and didn’t misbehave. His assignments, however, were chronically late. He struggled to keep pace with the class, even when he assured me he understood the assignment. I gave him effort grades when I could. Yet the problem was getting worse. By November, despite messages left in voice mail, it was time for a live conference. 

At my middle school, we collaborated for conferences. Akif’s work was incomplete in most subjects, so other teachers joined the meeting. I was grateful we’d be a team. My colleagues could show me how they resolved issues with parents. I needed to learn, and I really wanted Akif to succeed. 

Akif’s Father entered the classroom uncertainly. His blue acrylic sweater, oversized and misshapen, hung on his thin frame. The old Mobil gas station logo—with the flying red horse—covered the left chest. I realized he carried no coat on this cold November morning. Yet despite his disheveled clothes, his graying beard was neatly groomed and his hair was covered with a white crocheted cloth. Its intricate weave looked handmade. He walked in nervously, quickly sitting in one of the empty desks we’d circled for the conference.   

We welcomed him and began introductions when his thin hand went into the air to stop us. In a shaky voice, he asked to speak first. I was surprised, but could sense his anguish. 

He poured out his story. Akif was his youngest child. Recent immigrants from India, he worked two full-time jobs to support his family. He shook his head ruefully and explained his wife and children also worked. Everyone pitched in how they could.

As he spoke, his head remained bent. His eyes focused on his lap.

In India, he continued, he devoted much time to his children. But here, with all of the demands, he hardly saw them. He wasn’t able to guide or help them anymore.

“All of God’s creations need attention,” he stated. “Whether it is a tree, or a deer, or a child, they all need nurturing. I’ve not been able to give Akif what I gave my older children. I can’t give him the attention he deserves. I keep telling him he must ask his teachers for help with his schoolwork. Surely they will understand. That is their job.”

Then he stopped. His bent lower as he covered his face with his hands. With a grief-filled gasp, he began to weep. I finally understood. He blamed himself for Akif’s struggles. He felt he’d failed his son.

He covered his face with his hands…. He began to weep.

No one in the room moved. I heard the clock tick its seconds, but felt suspended in time. I was overcome by this man’s humility. In that moment, I felt the presence of something far greater than myself. This man embodied selfless, unconditional love. His burden overwhelmed him, and through his shame he begged for mercy and help from complete strangers.

 “I would be forever grateful if you can give Akif help,” he said as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

We sat in shocked silence. I forgot all about being a first-year teacher. I silently prayed for the right words and spoke from my heart, reassuring Akif’s father that we would support his son however we could. For the first time, he raised his head and his eyes relaxed with relief. Then he bowed his head again and thanked us deeply.

I know we created an action plan for Akif. I vaguely remember lunch meetings and before school study sessions. As a teaching team, we probably focused on study skills and homework strategies. But the details elude me. Akif moved on to high school and I lost track of him. Yet that parent-teacher meeting changed me in powerful ways. It impacted me as a teacher, but also as a person and eventually as a parent myself.

That twenty minutes taught me about selflessness, humility, and love. I witnessed the powerful sacrifice of a parent, and the burden created when even our best isn’t enough.

I learned people can surprise me, and not to assume I know everything before hearing someone’s story. I witnessed the beauty of vulnerability and the importance of asking for help. 

It was one of the most important lessons of my life…all in twenty minutes.