The Learning Bee

   I remember it like it was yesterday.  My little girl strolled into the sanctuary at her private Lutheran school with bright eyes, curly hair flowing, and cute as a button in her school uniform. She wore a long-sleeve pink polo under a navy blue jumper. It was roughly 8:45 am. I sat there silently and anxiously awaiting her first semi-public spelling bee.  I brimmed with pride either way.  I never made it to such a stage, though I viewed myself as a historically-excellent speller, my talents were never put on display like this.  I was impressed as the kid rattled off correct spellings of words at each trip to the microphone.  I hadn't prepared myself for a positive or negative outcome - I just wanted to be there; to be a cheerleader, win or lose. A relatively shy kid, she had never been in this position. Her mom and I agreed that someone should be there, and I was glad to be the one.
   It seemed like a dramatic last second-shot.  Swish! She spelled the qualifying word correctly and won the Second Grade spelling bee!  She smiled wide. She even got a medal. She was so happy to run over and show me once she realized I had been there to see.  I'll never forget that hug. Life at that moment was absolutely perfect.  My beautiful, tall, intelligent, seven-year-old daughter was on top of the world.  She would get her picture in the newspaper, and lots of phone calls from proud grandparents, aunts and uncles.
   One year later, things are different.  Her mother and I have divorced, and alternate weekends with our daughter.  Instead of getting to wish her luck in the bee before school, I would receive a reminder text message from her mother asking if I was going.
   I slipped into the sanctuary a few minutes before the start and took a seat in the back.  I sat quietly and sipped my coffee as I waited for the third-graders' turn. After the practice round, it was Faith's turn to spell her first word.  I remember thinking to myself as the proctor used the word in a sentence, "You got this, kid. This word is easy for you."  I overheard the judges deem it a correct spelling, and Faith happily bounced back to her seat waiting for her next turn.
   Today, her hair was pulled back in a french braid neatly and tightly.  Taller and prettier than the last time we were here, but I was just as proud and anxious. She also wore a pink, long-sleeve polo but this time, tucked into khaki pants.  Her face was bright and optimistic.
   As she stood for her next turn, that same confidence washed over me. "Fourth," said the proctor.  "Next year, you will be in the fourth grade. Fourth."  Another easy one. As Faith stated the word, and spelled it out, I felt it. I knew what happened.  When she heard the word, her eager little brain began working instead of listening to the tense and context of the proctor's use in a sentence. "Forth. F-O-R-T-H. Forth."
  She didn't react.  She simply left the stage, and sat with the members of her class that hadn't been in the competition.  I was a little sad for her.  I knew that she had high expectations of herself based on last year's win.  I also believe that she felt others had those same expectations.  And just like that, she was back to being a normal kid.  No longer the spelling bee champ.  She seemed okay as she sat quietly. It would be another half an hour or so before all of the grades had determined their winners.
  I knew that she was unaware that I was there.  There had been no eye contact, and she always waves when she knows I'm there.  As the students were dismissed to their classrooms, I caught her attention.  I hadn't seen her for a couple of days, and I wanted a hug and to offer a kind word for the rest of her day and make sure she wasn't too upset.
   Instead of a smile, her sweet face began to frown and sob as she detoured right into my lap.  I squeezed her tightly when she dove into my arms.  She buried her face into my shoulder, soaking the fleece with tears.  I said "It's ok, Faith. Don't cry. You did great to even qualify as a finalist."  She continued to cry softly.  I rubbed her back.
   I adjusted her so I could see her face, and assured her that I was still proud of her, that her mother would still be proud of her.  I wiped her tears and searched my soul for the right thing to say as the sobbing continued. Nothing tugs at my heart more than tears in my daughter's eyes. Her sadness mixed with humiliation as she responded, "I didn't even want to be in it. I wanted to fake sick and miss school today."
   Right then I knew that we were at a very critical moment. Many of us recognize these moments as "teachable moments," instances where a character is either built or neglected. I took her little wet face in my hands and told her "Faith, God has blessed you with a gift. You're way to smart to not participate. It is wrong to not use it. You can't keep it to yourself."  I could tell that she understood what I was saying. She quieted down, and became a bit ashamed of her reaction.  With her head down and shoulders slouched, I could tell that she was still embarrassed for missing the word. She was reluctant to come out of her funk right away.
   At that, a quote popped into my head.  I believe college basketball coach Rick Pitino said, "Lose the game, but don't lose the lesson."  So I tried to frame my next words into encouragement and consolation. I explained to Faith that she spelled the word correctly, but it was the wrong word, and that next time she needed to listen to the sentence, be patient and take her time instead of "pre-spelling" the wrong word in her head while the word was still being given.  She hugged me. She didn't want me to leave. Neither did I. I could've sat in that pew, holding her until I knew for sure that she wasn't sad or disappointed anymore.
  I knew the initial sadness and frustration she felt was going away. We stood up, and I escorted her out of the sanctuary.  I knew that this was one of those "necessary losses."  Like an undefeated team losing a game they have no business losing, I felt us both grow and learn something.  Who knew that a misspelled word could teach so much?
  I learned that despite a new address, I'm still her dad. I'm not a part-time playmate, baby-sitter or shopping buddy.  I learned that not being able to make her breakfast and pack her lunch everyday doesn't mean I'm less important.
  On a day that my bank account was an absolute mess, and had a ton of work waiting for me at my office, a missing "U" totally shook my world. One missing letter not only shaped my day, but left me closer to my child and more confident in our relationship. A true teachable moment.