When I was called to teach the five-year-olds in Primary, I wondered, Why me? I was a busy newlywed and a full-time student about to begin student teaching 170 eighth-graders. Nevertheless, the following Sunday I showed up with my manual and accomplished my first day. I shared the lesson material with 12 fidgety but attentive children. We talked about people who loved them, and at the end of the lesson I felt I should say I loved them even though I hardly knew them. Yet as I spoke, I sensed that perhaps they didn’t believe me yet.
As the Sundays came and went, however, we learned more about each other. The children would wave at me during sacrament meeting and compete to sit by me during sharing time. It wasn’t long before I looked forward to Primary. I came more prepared, and the relationship I had with my class was refreshing.
One Sunday afternoon I opened my door and found Rebecca, one of the children I taught in Primary, standing there with her brother. She gave me a hug and handed me an envelope. I pulled out a pink, slightly crinkled slip of paper and read the purple-crayoned words “I love you, Sister Libby.” I felt tears begin to form, and I knew then that our lesson on love was finally complete.