The Sheep I Keep.

His chin quivered. He sat on the edge of the desk, his cowboy boots dangling and his black Stetson set aside. He had come for me, early in the morning, and I wasn't to be found. Now, he was granted permission to stay and be havened in my room.

His eyes fought back tears. Red glistened behind lashes, voice low and solemn. Letter from his girlfriend he unfolded for me, picture of his truck, stories of his heart.

But his words couldn't contain his brokeness. His defeat. His heartbreak. Moving. Kicked out. Boxes packed. Shipped off to dad, hours away because of a fight with mom. Homeless, unwanted, lost. His form held defeat and I watched him crumble.

My students come in every day with stories. The girl sleeping on a gym floor because her family walked out. The child mourning the loss that broke her family three years before. The two juniors scared yesterday, after feeling deep, spiritual conviction about their seance with a Ouija board. Their scripts remind me of the human behind the faces.

The football player stands at my desk, fighting back fear as liquid wells in his eyes, the fear of the grade going home to mom. The tall man in gray raises his hands, his immigrant story of Russia, English still not spoken at home. The darling in the middle row, notes handing in, regarding her cancer years before. A child out with mono, the brother dead of disease, the question regarding heaven, these are the least of these.

Their humanness beckons me. Their brokeness seeking my strength. These are the souls of those in my classroom. These are the sheep I keep.