What I Learned Working at a Preschool

For almost a year now, my job has required me to work at a preschool, among four and five year olds. It’s been for the most part, a safe passage into their universe; I was welcomed by a familiar scent of innocence. On one of the first days, I was greeted by a little girl and asked if I would make her a crown, referring to a paper machete headdress that a friend of hers wore in a different province on the other side of the playground. I declined the offer, assuring her not to take it personal, as I had just refused to make a paper airplane for another friend of hers across the way, and that my paper engineering skills were severely below par.

The experience of working at this preschool, at the risk of using an overused phrase that has become synonymous with “significance”, has for better words, changed my life. Or at least, changed a perspective, a core understanding of the world as one way, which in turn has changed who I am.

I call children “little hands and feet” cause that’s what they really are. They don’t have faces; they are literally just little hands and feet. Touching things and feeling things, and kicking, and grabbing and tossing things that are suppose to be stationery, and holding things that are suppose to be moved. They are both delightful and exhausting. Depending on your day, they can be a moment’s little inconvenience or the messengers in those moments to teach you not to take yourself so seriously. They shed cuteness twice a week like Irish terriers, but can be deceptively cunning if you let your guard down when it comes to a contest of wits. Their bluntness packs a wallop, it’s usually a statement smothered in honesty rather than mean-spirit: “Mr. Sheridan you’re so black, Mr. Sheridan you’re kind of boring like my dad, Mr. Sheridan you’re old.” Trust me, I’ve learned this all too well.

One of the characteristics of a child that you will often first recognize is that a child is unequivocally free, in almost every sense of the word. They are boldly themselves because they haven’t learned how to be anything else yet. Children are far less concerned with how you present yourself, what you do, or where you come from, rather, way more concerned on your potential relationship to them, and your willingness to play. In their world, imagination is the mandate, not so much perceived status. As a twenty-something who struggles with comparison, and the inevitable stress to quickly mobilize my career upward, these children have taught me rather to slow down, and enjoy the fluttering monarchs.

Within the first two months of working there, I learned that in order to truly connect with these preschoolers, I would have to take myself less seriously. Also, that in order to really dive in their reality, I needed to be present with them, be myself and sometimes run, fast. They taught me to stop making the statement: "I don't know what I'm doing with my life" but rather ask the question: "What is life doing with me?" The latter I've learned is a far better question. I learned to take stock of what was occurring in the season that God had me in and reflect on what He might be showing me, teaching me, equipping me for? I learned that God was using this experience to humble me, not as a process to take my dignity, but to give me new insight, to free me. He needed to bring new freedom to the parts of myself that felt like I was failing, because of midday Instagram scrolls, or comparing my recent accomplishments with the news of a better promotion from a peer.

One day I observed that a child’s presentation of “show and tell” is not unlike what we do everyday. We live our lives constantly seeking validation in the things that we have either accomplished or acquired to seek some kind of approval. We stand on our tippy-toes and “show” the false self that we believe will give us the most acceptance. We shrink in the shadows behind our careers, our accomplishments, our possessions, convinced that who we are, when brought into the light, could never be enough. Or we believe the lie that our peer’s career journey, life journey, whatever it may be, “tells” us that we are not good enough. The funny part though, is that when a child presents their new action figure, they could care less about who is listening, rather they are delighted to present something because it is an extension of what they love, which is an extension of who they are. They’re excited when presenting their toys not as something warranting a validation, but more of an invitation for others to play with them sharing something that they love. I once asked myself, what if I approached life in community the same way: Appreciating who I am, content with where God has me in life, recognizing the same with others, and sharing in the play of those good things, rather than coveting them.

The preschoolers never measured each other’s worth by what each of them “brought to the table” but rather, how fun it would be to collaborate to build Legos on said table.

The preschool acted as almost a rehabilitation clinic for pride. There were no stages to speak on, no one to lead, no one to compare to, absolutely nothing to brag about. Only hours and hours to play, to learn, to sit, to wait, all while wading in a pool of ambiguity about what God has next for me. And all of those things ended up coming to me in the form of Jesus nursery rhymes (which to this day, still puts a smile on my face) and hand-crafted masterpieces that were stain-glassed windows, created by their handprints, hanging on their walls like protectors, insulating their fevered dreams. To me, their innocence, that room with its colors, and the fluid wisp of innocence that drafted through it, was a sanctuary.

The biggest irony of this whole experience was that this small preschool was down the street from a university where I held maintaining my reputation and status as a high priority, sometimes at the expense of a few relationships. Sometimes I would sit there, among other four year olds tugging at my jacket, shuddering at the thought that I might have "peaked" in my college experience, when God would abruptly respond: No, but instead enjoy the "slide". He meant this both as a figurative and literal action.

Maybe every time I knelt down to tie a shoe, God was once again reminding me of a posture to surrender to Him. Perhaps, every time I chased a beetle with a somewhat elated, but also terrified group of children, God was teaching me to play, to enjoy His presence, even in the smallest wonders. What if, every time I helped pick a tomato in the preschool garden, maybe He was foreshadowing the good fruit that all these experiences would bear. This season of my life gave what Jesus says in Matthew a whole new meaning when he beckoned: “Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these”. For in this season I learned, that means I come too.