Most of us have a favorite teacher. That one teacher when we think back at our childhood. . .

You know the one.

The one who lit a fire in you for a certain subject.

The one who believed in you when no one else did.

The one who made learning come alive.

The one who seemed to make the world just right with a smile.

For whatever reason, that teacher just sticks out in your mind.

I had lots of teachers I liked. Lots that poured their hearts into their jobs. I am thankful for all of them.

But one sticks out.

Mrs. Burgoyne. Fourth grade. Weatherly Elementary.

She inspired me.

Not long ago on a Sojourn night, I talked about how she had made me believe that I could do things that I had not thought possible. She even let me teach her class a math lesson. Three days later after I had formed small groups, made little pockets with math problems inside for the kids to discover and a multitude of other stuff, she gently let me know that I had to give her class back. She had inspired me to reach beyond my feelings of insecurity to dream of what could be. That summer I opened a preschool in my garage. I recruited from the neighborhood and every Tuesday from 9 until 11 am, preschoolers showed up. I hired an assistant and at the end of the summer had a graduation ceremony with parents invited. The local news came too. Seemed a 10 year old running a summer preschool in her garage was a human interest story.

I was thrilled recently when I found Mrs. Burgoyne on Facebook. She remembered me. I was for a moment transported back to the 70’s. Memories flooded as I remembered my teacher making Charlotte and Wilbur jump to life while reading Charlotte’s Web. I remember not knowing the answer to a question on a test and her telling me the answer. I still remember today that Switzerland is known for clocks and cheese. I remember going to her house to work on the Taj Mahal project that my friends and I had created. It was headed to the city fair and she wanted to help us perfect a few things. She gave us kool-aid and cookies. The kool-aid was red. I thought I was the coolest kid in the whole world. Mrs. Burgoyne changed my life.

Thank a teacher today. If you can find your favorite teacher, thank him/her.

Gift boxes full of vintage inspired Bible study items were handed out as women walked into the room. As they untied the twine and opened the box, they found a typewritten prayer from scripture on top.

My favorite moment of the night was Michelle telling me how warm that typewritten verse on yellowed paper made her feel.  How unusual in this day for someone to take the time to type. How it made her feel loved and valued.

It made me think of life. A life full of word processors and send buttons and instant messaging and email and texts and tweets and. . . well. . . a life full of impersonal moments of connection.

The typewriter.  A few stored away in dusty attics or musty basements. A few found in antique stores here and there. A few found on desks of old newspaper offices, pastor’s studies and other hold outs. . . clinging to the past.

I want a typewriter. I want to take some moments to feel the hardness of the keys under my fingers. I want to hear the sound of the keys hitting the paper and the roller. I want to reach up and rip the page out instead of hitting a send button. I want it to be personal.

Sometimes we need to stop and connect in a personal way. Sometimes we need to have typewriter days. I want more typewriter days. . .