Educator Tim Speck made the world a better place

There is a song by Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston from my adolescence that has been running through my head as I continue to come to terms with Mr. Tim Speck’s diagnosis and passing. In the song “When You Believe,” the chorus goes, “There can be miracles / when you believe / though hope is frail, it’s hard to kill.” Tim’s life gave those of us who knew him an abundance of hope. The hope that he and his family carried throughout his journey was far from frail. It was unfaltering to the point that it seemed as though it were the stuff of stories of ages past. Our community was truly blessed with his life and the undeniable example that he was of all that hope can do.

When I think of Tim, there are a few things that will always resonate in my mind. He had an absolutely outstanding sense of humor. As alumni, we had many of the same teachers, and I loved swapping stories with him. His wit was always a challenge to match, and he had an infectious laugh, really more of a giggle at times, that I can still hear echoing in the hall outside my classroom. I will miss the pure joy that Tim had just being in the building. It was his home away from home, an attitude that rubbed off on all of us, making our jobs as educators less of a job and more of a joint effort toward both student success and our own personal growth as educators.

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Especially in my early years as a teacher, his office was a sanctuary of wisdom and his sense of calm was legendary. It was always a fantastic balance to my personality that tends to lean to the side of excitable and anxious energy. I can still see myself going into his office, mildly hyperventilating, asking for his advice. I cannot say that he was always excited for these moments — who would be? — but I would always leave feeling less like a first year teacher, and more like the teacher I have the potential to be. I am, and will always be, in awe of his patience and willingness to listen without judgment.

One of my favorite memories of Tim happened when I was expecting my second son. It had snowed the night before and though they had plowed the parking lot, the students who were able to park in the upper lot had to park in such a way that I couldn’t move my car for my appointment with my doctor that afternoon. In a panic, I waddled as quickly as I could back to the office, full of hormones and almost in tears, where he asked, “Can you drive a truck?” Through the tears welling in my eyes, I replied, “I learned how to drive in my dad’s Ford F-150 super cab with an extended bed.” He took his keys out of his pocket and handed them over to me without a second thought. I made it to my appointment on time, in his beloved black pickup truck, relieved to hear my baby’s heartbeat. That was who Tim was. He looked out for everyone, often when we didn’t even know it.

We are back in school for the first time knowing with certainty that he won’t be coming back in the building, his nameplate above his now-empty office a stark reminder of a presence no longer here. It is an impossible concept for my mind to grasp. My heart aches for all the students who will never know his compassion as an administrator, and my heart breaks for the beautiful family he leaves behind.

I know that I will think of Tim and his family every day. I also hope that I can make him proud by doing my best to come to school every day with that same feeling he gave me as I’d leave his office in search of advice: full of potential and ready to do the best that I can. I know that I will certainly do my best to keep laughing for him too. Without a doubt, he left this world better than he found it, especially as a result of the way that he led by example. So thank you, Tim. The example has been set: We must merely follow it.

Kara Girsch is a teacher at Peoria Notre Dame High School. She lives in Peoria.