Cookies, Coffee, and the Kid Who Needed a Lifeline

My first year as an elementary school principal was a rollercoaster of excitement, anxiety, and a whole lot of pretending I knew what I was doing. It was an awesome experience, and every now and then, memories pop up from the filing cabinets in my brain, giving me a good laugh, an occasional cry, and overall sense of fulfillment.

 One memory that surfaced recently involves one of my 5th grade students, Allen. This scrawny, blond-haired, energetic, gifted kid was a bit of a celebrity at school – but not in the most positive way. Over the years, he had developed a reputation for being mischievous, and though he was brilliant, he kept his teachers on edge by not working to realize his full potential.

 One day, school had just started. The bell rang, and students and teachers began their daily routines. Our school’s secretary walked into my office and said, “You have a customer waiting to see you!” I knew that meant someone had been sent to the office, and not for a good reason.

 I looked up and saw it was Allen. He tended to be a frequent flyer. I motioned him to come into my office. He shuffled in and plopped down on a chair, slouching so far down that he was practically horizontal. I said, “Hey, what’s going on?” No response. I continued, “So, did you just drop by to wish me a good day?” Marilyn, the secretary, then walked in with a note from his teacher, Mrs. Thomas. The short version of her lengthy epistle, which read like a therapeutic journal entry, was that Allen had walked into the classroom and shoved his desk up against the wall. She then pointed at the door and said to go to the office.

 I put the paper down and sat back in my chair. Silence. Then, I said, “Come along, Allen. We’re going for a walk.” I headed out and hoped he was following me. As I approached the front door, I could hear his steps behind me.

 We walked down the sidewalk, and he finally spoke. “Where are we going?” I responded, “I thought maybe getting you out in some fresh air might help.” He then shared, “Well, did you know that if we walk to the bank, they have free coffee and cookies in the lobby?” I tried to hold back my smile and replied, “Well, let’s go check it out.” We walked to the bank, and sure enough, there was a table set up with coffee and cookies. I suggested we indulge in a little snack. I poured my black coffee, and Allen poured a cup, stirred in four packets of sugar, and filled the rest of the cup to the rim with cream. We each grabbed some cookies and sat down in the lobby. At this point, we were getting some rather strange looks.

 I then asked, “So, what’s going on that caused you to shove your desk this morning? Seems like something must have happened before school?” Allen looked down as if examining his untied tennis shoes. I waited. I took a drink of my coffee. I continued, “Well?” Then, I saw tears flowing from his eyes. Silence. I said, “I can tell you are hurting. What’s going on?” He said, “It’s kind of private, and I’m just having a bad day.” But he continued, “My dad left our family this morning, and one of the reasons he is leaving us is because I am such a bad person. And he doesn’t love my mom or me anymore.” I put my arm on his shoulder. He sobbed, and we just sat there for several minutes.

 I don’t remember the actual words I said to him, as it is a bit of a blur all these years later. But we talked. I mainly listened. At one point, he said, “I shouldn’t have done what I did in class.” I agreed with him and said that it was certainly understandable that he had reason to be upset, but he needed to be able to handle it in a different manner. We talked about some options, like stopping by the office to see me or letting the counselor know he needed some time with her. We talked about how he was going to go back to class, and he said he would wait until Mrs. Thomas wasn’t teaching and quietly go to her and apologize. I said I’d send a note to get him back to class. His last words to me were, “Please don’t tell anyone what I told you. Can you just let her know I’m having some family problems, and you know I’m going to do better?” I nodded.

 We got back to school, and Allen went back to class along with my note. I stated that I’d check in with Mrs. Thomas later in the day. I knew her planning period was about to start, and that it would be a good time to stop by her classroom to debrief. Well, before I even had a chance to answer a few phone calls, my secretary rushed into my office and said, “Mrs. Thomas is out here to see you, and she seems angry.”

 I called her in, and before I could open my mouth, she blurted, “You took Allen out for coffee and cookies after he practically destroyed my classroom?” I motioned for her to have a seat and then shut the door. My secretary wasn’t exactly my ally, and I could see her disapprovingly shaking her head based on what Mrs. Thomas had blurted so loudly in the office. I let her rant for a few minutes and learned all about how soft I was on discipline and didn’t understand the challenges of teaching a classroom of 5th grade students (although I had taught 5th grade for years in South Texas). Once she took a breath, I asked if it was OK for me to take a turn in the conversation. She nodded. I gave her a tissue because she was starting to cry.

 I explained how things had transpired. Yes, we did go to the bank. Yes, we did have coffee and cookies. No, what Allen did was totally unacceptable. And this kid is having some serious challenges at home that no kid should have to shoulder. She wanted details, and I told her that I couldn’t say anything more than Allen knows what he did was not the way to address his struggles. She said he had apologized, and she made him apologize to the class for causing trouble. I secretly thought to myself, “Great! The class already dislikes this kid and probably loved having the teacher fuel their resentment.” I told Mrs. Thomas I would have a daily check-in with Allen. She said, “Is he going to be suspended? What message does this send to the rest of the class?” At this point, I got a bit defensive and said, “Look! The rest of the class doesn’t know his story. They know he has apologized to you and to them. He shoved a desk. He didn’t hurt anyone. He didn’t destroy property. It’s over. Allen also needs as much love and support as we can muster up to give him right now. He is struggling.” She hesitated and then replied, “I understand. Thank you for your time.” My thoughts, “Oh, sure. And you are still pissed.”

 I checked in with Allen each day. He would stop by the office, or I would see him outside the school in the morning when I was greeting kids, parents, and teachers. The counselor worked with him and helped his mom find counseling for the two of them together. Mrs. Thomas reflected a bit on her own practice and started giving Allen some extra positive attention. He soaked it in like a sponge and even became a bit more engaged in his learning.

Looking back, that walk to the bank wasn’t just about coffee and cookies—it was about cracking the ice around a hurting heart. Allen didn’t need punishment. He needed presence. And while the world often demands swift consequences and tidy resolutions, empathy rarely moves in straight lines. It melts slowly, reshaping what’s possible.

Empathy on Ice isn’t about being soft. It’s about being steady when the world feels brittle. It’s about showing up with warmth when someone’s story is frozen beneath the surface. That day, Allen reminded me that sometimes the most radical thing we can do is sit quietly beside someone who’s unraveling—and offer them a cookie, a tissue, and a way forward.

I don’t know where Allen is today. But I hope he remembers that someone saw him—not just the behavior, but the boy behind it. And I hope he’s proud of the person he’s becoming. I know I’m proud of the lesson he gave me: that empathy, even when served with cream and sugar, is never wasted.