On the second floor of the main building at Hemet High School in the late ’90s was a corner classroom with beige walls and low-pile brown carpet. It was a small room, crowded with desks and a small table in the front center where Mr. Bob Vieten sat, usually with his feet up and a bag of microwave popcorn in front of him.

Mr. Vieten taught English and humanities. He wore thick glasses and had a goofy smile and a bit of a lisp. He called us things like, “My little chimichangas,” and threw popcorn at us if we weren’t paying attention or started dozing off.

In one corner of the room stood a tall cabinet with a record player on top. On Fridays Mr. Vieten stacked the desks in a corner and turned off the florescent overhead lights. He scattered cushions on the floor for us to sit or lay down so he could share his favorite classical records with us. If we dozed off on Fridays, we didn’t have to worry about popcorn hitting us in the head.

His classroom was a safe haven in an otherwise anxiety-inducing place. Like many teens, my self-doubt and loathing was at its peak in high school. But Mr. Vieten made everyone feel valued and important. He was great at listening. He was a favorite teacher for many of my peers. I eagerly read any book or poem he assigned.

Even This Shall Pass Away

One day in class he read a poem aloud. I told him I liked it very much and he gave me his only copy. The poem is “The King’s Ring” or “Even This Shall Pass Away,” by Theodore Tilton. Robert Plant even put the poem to music. There was a handwritten note in the corner of the poem Mr. Vieten handed me: “Dad – This poem provides great contrast to Ozymandias – A paragraph comparing Ozy & The Persian King. Whatever!” Wow. A gift from his son?

“Even this shall pass away” became my favorite words of comfort, because of the message itself, but also the giver: my favorite teacher.

Those words were at the front of my mind as I held the hands of my five-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son at the memorial service for my uncle in-law, who lived for 94 glorious years.

One of the speakers at the memorial talked about seeing one another as “gifts” and enjoying every moment we have together. What a gift to have sat in Mr. Vieten’s classroom. To have been given these words of comfort. What a gift to be part of my husband’s family and have joined his aunt and uncle on so many wonderful occasions. And what a gift to be mother to two wonderful children (that’s a subject for another post).

I still have that copy of the poem and I still think of the theme often. I hope you read it and think about those words in good times and bad and find comfort in them, as I have.