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Dear brothers and sisters in our Lord Jesus, part of the growing repentance remnant, cleansing as His Bride, getting ready for His soon return as our Bridegroom-----
We often carry a huge burden that the LORD wishes us to release to Him. That's repentance. Here's a report of a very caring teacher and her 'backpack' exercise:
…..This week I started my 18th year of teaching 7th grade English, and I thought I’d seen just about everything a classroom could emotionally throw at me.
I was wrong.
Three days ago, I tried something new — something I’d been holding onto since summer, when I stumbled across an old article about helping kids process emotional weight. I almost talked myself out of doing it. Middle schoolers can be dramatic, but they can also be closed-off, sarcastic, and guarded. I worried they’d shrug it off, roll their eyes, or worse — turn it into a joke.
Instead, they changed my entire outlook on what it means to teach.
Here’s what happened.
We’d barely started the semester. Students were still learning where to sit, still pretending they weren’t nervous, still sizing each other up like kids always do in August — deciding who’s cool, who’s odd, who’s loud, who’s invisible.
That morning, I walked in with an empty backpack slung over my shoulder and set it gently on the desk in the front of the room.
I didn’t say anything about it at first. I just began class like normal.
After attendance, I finally looked up and said:
“Who here knows what emotional baggage is?”
Hands shot up — kids were eager to answer, eager to be clever, eager to impress.
“It’s when you’re depressed because nobody likes you.”
“It’s when you think about sad stuff all the time.”
“It’s bad memories you can’t forget.”
“Baggage makes you feel heavy.”
One boy in the back said softly, “It’s like stuff you’re not allowed to talk about.”
That one hit me hard.
I nodded and said, “Exactly.”
Then I held up the backpack.
“And this is what a lot of us look like on the outside. Normal. Functional. Present. But you have no idea what's inside unless you open it up.”
I didn’t sugarcoat it. I didn’t do the teacher voice.
I just said, “Today we’re going to unpack what we carry… and you don't have to do it alone.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop.
I passed out blank cards. No names. No identifying details. Just space. I told them:
“Write down what feels heavy. It could be something serious. It could be something small. It could be something no one knows about. Don’t worry about spelling. Don’t worry about sounding dramatic. Just write.”
It took a while.
Some kids scribbled instantly, barely looking up. Others stared at the page, frozen. A few stared at me with panic in their eyes, and I just nodded — silently telling them, it’s okay, take your time.
When they were done, I had them fold the papers and drop them — one by one — into the empty backpack.
Then I shook it gently and placed it in the center of the room.
“This is us,” I said. “This is our class right now. Some of us are smiling today. Some of us are not. But every single one of us is carrying something — whether we say it out loud or not.”
Then I asked for volunteers.
One by one, students came to the front, reached into the bag, pulled out a fold of paper, and read it out loud. First without looking at the writer. Then, if the writer chose to speak — with the writer’s voice added in.
And then the floodgates opened.
I won’t betray their privacy by repeating everything, but here’s a glimpse of what came out of that backpack:
“I don’t want to live anymore but nobody knows because I always smile.”
“I miss my mom. She died on Thanksgiving but everyone acts happy during holidays and I pretend to be too.”
“My dad is in jail. I hate when people talk about their dads.”
“I want to talk to people but I’m afraid I’ll sound stupid every time.”
“My sister is sick and I don’t know how to help and it makes me feel useless.”
“My parents fight all the time and I can’t sleep.”
“I feel like the weird kid in every room and I’m tired of trying.”
“I feel invisible in this school.”
A few were lighter and even earned a soft laugh, like:
“My hamster exploded in the microwave. RIP Marshmallow.”
But most were heavy. Raw. Unfiltered.
Some students could barely get through reading one without crying. Some stood there trembling. Others stared in disbelief because they had no idea the quiet kid in the corner had been carrying something so big.
And every time a student shared, something changed in the room.
The faces softened.
The arms unfolded.
The walls got lower.
Kids weren’t judging anymore.
They were listening.
Really listening.
When we were done reading all 30 slips, the room was quiet — but not in a bad way. Not in a scared way.
In a “we’re not alone anymore” way.
I held up the bag again.
“This is what we’re leaving at the door,” I said. “You don’t have to forget it. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t exist. But you don’t carry it alone in here.”
I hung the bag on a hook at the entrance.
I didn’t expect what happened next.
As each student walked out of class that day, they touched the bag — some with a pat, some with a tap of the fingers, one girl just rested her forehead against it for a full second.
Like they were saying, “This is mine, but it doesn’t have to stay heavy.”
That night I sat at home, staring at my ceiling, thinking about 12-year-old kids carrying weight most adults would collapse under. And how just one hour of safe space — one hour of honesty — helped them breathe a little easier.
I showed up the next day tired, but ready.
As they walked into class, some students whispered, “Thank you for yesterday.”
One put a sticky note on my desk that said:
“I didn’t know I could feel safe anywhere. Thank you.”
Another left a chocolate bar with a note:
“I’m still scared but at least I feel seen now.”
I’ve taught for 18 years. I’ve graded thousands of essays. I’ve planned hundreds of lessons. I’ve spent more nights frustrated than I care to admit.
But nothing — not one single test score — has ever mattered more than what those kids did in that room.
Love a little louder.
Judge a little less.
Forgive faster.
And for the love of God, check on your kids — even the ones who look fine.
Some of them are carrying more than you can imagine.
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God bless you,
Pastor Jeff
Pastor Jeffrey Daly
National Day of Repentance
www.globalrepent.com
pastorjeff@repentday.com
Box 246 Middletown CA USA. 95461
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