This afternoon I spent several hours in the church with a friend.

At least, that’s how I think of him now.

A lifetime ago he was my student.

Don had agreed to help me experiment with the church sound system. We wanted to see if we could improve the quality and clarity of the sound during worship. What followed was several hours of running wires, connecting amplifiers, adjusting microphones, moving speakers, and twisting knobs whose purpose I only partly understood.

Electronic equipment covered tables, chairs, and sections of the floor. Every time I thought we had found the perfect setting, Don would make another adjustment and somehow the sound would improve yet again.

I quickly discovered who the expert was in the room.

I stand to learn much from him.

As we worked, I found myself remembering another room more than sixty years ago.

It was 1965.

I was a brand-new teacher facing my first Grade 5 class. Thirty-seven eager young students sat before me waiting for me to teach them something about the world. Don was one of those students.

I remember him well because, even then, he reminded me a little of myself.

Back then, the roles were clearly defined. I was the teacher. He was the student.

Or so I thought.

As the afternoon progressed, I found myself reflecting on how life quietly rearranges our roles. At what point do our children become our caregivers? When do they begin teaching us things we never knew? When do former students become mentors and guides?

The answer, I suspect, is that it happens so gradually we hardly notice until one day it suddenly becomes obvious.

Today was one of those days.

The lesson began with sound systems and microphones, but it didn’t end there.

As we searched for material to test the speakers, Don introduced me to the work of poet Shane Koyczan. Through his choice of poetry, I learned something more important than how to adjust an amplifier. I learned something about the person Don has become during all the years since he sat in that Grade 5 classroom.

I discovered a thoughtful man of depth and insight. A man who finds meaning, peace, and solace in language and poetry.

By the time I arrived home, I was eager to share what I had learned with Joy.

And that’s the funny thing about teaching.

When I entered the classroom in 1965, I thought teaching was largely about passing knowledge from one person to another. The older I become, the more I realize that learning is seldom that simple.

Learning moves in circles.

Sometimes the teacher teaches the student.

Sometimes the student teaches the teacher.

And sometimes, if we are fortunate, both leave having learned something important.

I went to the church today hoping to improve a sound system.

Instead, I was reminded that some of life’s best lessons arrive from unexpected teachers.