Thank You, Mr. Wallenberg

Last Tuesday, curled up in fleece blankets on our couch with a messy cold, I logged into Facebook, which suggested that I may know Steve Wallenberg. A huge grin came over me as I clicked to his page – hell yeah, I know Mr. Wallenberg - and I added him as my friend. Mr. Wallenberg was one of my favorite teachers at Edison Junior High and Lincoln High Schools in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

I don’t remember many details from junior high, but one assignment has always stood out in my memory. During a 7th grade Language Arts assignment in April, Mr. Wallenberg told us that we could write anything about our lives and ourselves to him. He assured us that anything we wrote would remain confidential; so he became the first person I told about my parents’ recent separation. The week before the assignment, I came home after school on a Friday afternoon to learn that my mother had packed my dad’s clothes after we left for school in the morning and had the police issue a restraining order to my father later that day.

I had never felt so much pain: neither my brother nor I had seen it coming. We left for school that Friday morning in early Spring thinking everything in our lives was okay, only to come home that afternoon to find out our family, as we knew it, had forever changed. I hadn’t been able to confide to anyone that my world had come crashing down - not to my friends, my relatives, other teachers or adults. But I trusted Mr. Wallenberg, and the timing of his assignment couldn’t have been more perfect.

Fortunately, when I transitioned to Lincoln High School in the 9th grade, Mr. Wallenberg also shifted to Lincoln where he became my “Ad Room” (aka home room) teacher for four years and my 9th grade English teacher. Every day he took attendance and encouraged us for the first ten minutes of our school days. He had a good sense of humor and an even better perspective on surviving high school.

While I remember much more about my high school days, one salient memory still inspires me. During a 9th grade English class, Mr. Wallenberg asked us if we would like to hear something he had written. He said that he had been working on a story about his own life. If we agreed to treat him with respect, he would agree to read a chapter from his own life story. I totally agreed, as did the rest of the class, so he read to us that Friday afternoon.

As Mr. Wallenberg read aloud about his life and the confusing thoughts and feelings he had as a young teenager, I remember thinking that he was one of the bravest people I had ever known. At the time, writing was becoming an outlet for me, but I could never imagine sharing my writing with anyone, let alone reading it aloud in front of an audience. Writing allowed me to express all the fears and feelings that I didn’t dare share with others. Writing became a safe haven where I could entertain all my dark or dreamy thoughts on paper. It let me write really bad, self-indulgent poetry. The kind of poetry that gets you through high school and the first two years of college, though crushes and confusion and conflict.

Three weeks ago, I read a book that urged us to go thank all the people that inspired us because one day it will be too late. I immediately thought of Mr. Wallenberg. So last Tuesday when I found him on Facebook, I was over the moon, anticipating the thank you note that I would write to him. What I received in response to my friend request was,

“I am so sorry to pass along that Mr. Wallenberg died on April 23, 2010. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a month after he retired. He lived for 10 months through chemo and radiation. He passed peacefully and painlessly with all of us by his side. We miss his daily and dearly. He and I maintained a caring bridge website under his name stevewallenberg (no spaces) if you want to read his story. He or I wrote every day. It was a labor of love and therapy for both of us. Take care. Mrs. Wallenberg…”

Of course, I read through the 100+ pages of his Caring Bridge site and, of course, I heard his voice and the voice of his dedicated wife, also a teacher at Lincoln High School. My heart ached for his family and I agonized over not thanking him sooner.

My Aunt Barb also passed away recently and had communicated her last months of life though a Caring Bridge web site. Reading it, I wished I would have known her better and had been closer to her and her family. I feel like I missed my chance with her, too. So, lately, I’ve been trying to think about what death has to teach us about life and how to connect with the people we love and who inspire us. Over the weekend I listened about a wild love for the world and the great secret of death on my favorite radio show, Speaking of Faith. Joanna Macy read an English translation of a passage written by the Bohemian-Austrian poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, in 1924:

The great secret of death, and perhaps its deepest connection with us, is this: that, in taking from us a being we have loved and venerated, death does not wound us without, at the same time, lifting us toward a more perfect understanding of this being and of ourselves.

This passage brings me joy. Like my Aunt Barb’s family, I want to dedicate this beautiful passage to Mr. Wallenberg and his family, too. His Caring Bridge journal gave me an unguarded glimpse into his life and the brave vulnerability that he brought to his last year. Perhaps on a more selfish level, though, he gave the gift of writing to a knotted up 13-year-old girl, and later a 15-year-old freshman, so that she could develop a better understanding of herself and her world. And for that, Mr. Wallenberg, I thank you.