When I read The Five People Your Meet in Heaven, I approached it with the same apathetic and disinterested attitude I had when I consumed three and a half (Yes, that’s correct: I couldn’t stomach the second half of the fourth book) of the total Twilight series, a text to this day I still cannot see as something alluring. I presumed to find in Albom’s work, like some argue with the appeal of Bella and Edward, that there was some mystifying characterization, plot, or action that, as they say, allowed a reader to forget reality, at least temporarily, in order to dwell on said “greener pastures” of distraction and seemingly attainable escape.
What I found with the New York Times (multi-million) best-seller instead was a pull of curiosity that, in its own unique and surprising way, still continually influences my own decision making and analysis of self and action.
As a person not altogether religious (spiritual, to some degree, perhaps) and more uncertain about organized religion of any kind, I can say that the book delivers one clear message: The decisions you make and the people you meet may, directly or indirectly, effect and affect the recipient of said actions and impressions in ways a person can never understand. And now, some near-twenty years after that book’s release, I still find myself wondering, with every new person I meet an every interaction I have—What if I am “one of their five”?
I like to think that I have lived my life devoted to treating all respectfully and with tolerance and unequivocal fairness: after all, as the Memes and inspirational quotes implore, “You never know what the other person is going through”.
As a teacher, you can wonder what sorts of impact you have had on your students. There have been a handful, sure, who have reconnected in some way, thanking me for taking interest in them, for understanding, so on and so forth. There are also those you taught that are now long buried—I think at this point in my 12 years that I am up to four lives I’ve seen “cut too short”, but I like to hope my memory fails me: four is four too many.
Unfortunately, I’ve a feeling the number is higher than I recall.
Last week, I attended a ceremony for three students’ loss of their mother.
The youngest I had had only an opportunity to loosely connect with, teaching her for a year when I was, I must admit, not at my best, as the grade level was new to me and I was less than certain of my expertise—my year with her was a personal struggle to “survive” in the world of teaching.
The middle, the lone boy of the group, I had had the privilege of advising for four years and teaching for one: I had grown to love that “special ‘PEP’ group” of mostly outcasted boys (there were two girls in the group, but that was it), and had, for the happiness of all, helped all of them graduate (or at least had gotten them back on track on more than one occasion).
The oldest, I had “coached”, in a way, in the worlds of pageantry, poise, performance, confidence, and speaking, and had continued to keep contact with her after she graduated (at one point I wondered if I may be “one of her five”, as she called me late one night to thank me for everything I had done for her—to speak words of appreciation and respect she had for me because of my ability to boost her confidence, to see her through what others’ saw, and to genuinely help her evolve into the astounding young lady she is today.
I give you this snapshot of each of them to mirror the mindset of how I felt when I arrived at that viewing: I felt a need to protect the youngest, to comfort the middle child, and to help the oldest keep her strength for her younger siblings.
When you prepare to attend a viewing, or a memorial, or a funeral, you rehearse: you expect that that individual’s loved ones will not remember you, and there is nothing wrong with that: they are, after all, living through what is, at that time, perhaps the most difficult thing they have ever endeavored.
So, as I waited in line to pay my respects, I had my speech planned: “Mr. P, Mrs. Healy. I taught each of your wonderful children when they were in high school. If you need—if they need, anything at all, I am always their teacher—” it went on. It was a good one.
But, much like Albom’s plotline reads, sometimes the characters you intercept along the way have other plans.
“Miss-ezzz Healy,” Mr. P said. He had lengthened my name, adding pause for emphasis.
It was a tone I hadn’t anticipated to hear on my receiving end.
It was appreciative, admiring, respectful, relieved, sad, and tired all at once.
“You’ve no idea how proud you made my daughter when you decided to do that pageant. She was so excited. So happy.”
But I knew what that meant—it meant what I had done for her and for all of his kids.
This man was grateful I had attended his wife’s funeral. Not for him, but for his children.
The speech went to fan. I was mute. Dumbfounded.
I wasn’t anyone special. I was a high school teacher who happened to teach his children. Who happened to help the oldest build some confidence. Who happened to help the middle in check when needed. Who happened to work with the youngest for a little while, no matter how brief—
And then it dawned on me: I had made more of an impact on each of his children’s lives than I had ever imagined.
I looked at the oldest daughter, the youngest, the middle—each of their expressions said the same: “Thank you. You are important. It matters that you are here.”
And so I made my way to each of them—I told Mr. P, me stuttering, I’m sure, that he had three wonderful children and that if he needed anything at all he could reach out.
I told the youngest daughter how much I loved seeing her updates from her Miss Teen High School USA pageant, and how I-just-couldn’t-believe-how-that-blue-dress-looked-on-her, and told her I couldn’t wait to see what else she could do.
I told the oldest it would be okay and that she could always call me after midnight—again. Anytime. Always.
And when the middle son came up to me, told me how happy he was that I was there, and when I told him that he could always come to me for anything—
When I gave each of the kids—because they are kids—a hug that said “This too shall pass. It will be okay. It will get better”, without saying a word, the epiphany exploded.
My presence here, and in each of their lives, even in their father’s, had more impact than I could ever measure.
But it didn’t stop there.
You see, I had left that school a few months before. A rather complex series of choices (that’s an observation for another time), but as I made my way out of the parlor—parents upon parents, kids upon kids, other teachers—were there saying “We miss you.”
I left the funeral home, dizzy and unsure of things. Reciting paraphrased lines from The Five People You Meet in Heaven.
Trying to clear the clouds.
And I went home and wrote.
The decisions I make and the people I meet effect and affect everyone around me, leaving impressions I can never understand.
You leave influences that do not fade—they deepen.
You generate change that isn’t just a blip, but life-altering.
You are the catalyst to someone’s life.
Remember you are 1 of the 5.
-W.B. Healy, July 12, 2022