Often, I feel like every parent or pedagogue, that I am like a tilled field, and that my duty is to take in with mercy and love the fragile little seed. Then, to quietly to nurture, so that it will sprout and take root, clutching to me while growing, blossoming, and bearing fruit. My only desire is to see as it multiplies a hundredfold, the ear that sways in the wind, from that little seed because of rain, warm sunshine, and me, the black soil.
As the years and faces flit by, I am aware that not every grain yielded such a crop, in spite of the fact that so many times we tried talking to them, or tearfully washed their feet. Even so, I could not name a child for whom the effort was not worth making. In every flickering ember the Lord of Life comes amongst us. So, I am filled with pride and joy that we did not extinguish a single flickering wick, but instead, however imperfectly, cared for them lovingly.
translated by dr k.e.