Editor's Note: Regular Connect-Bridgeport correspondent Trina Runner, an educator at Bridgeport High School, submitted a guest blog this week.

When I first met T.J. Werdebaugh, I heard him long before I saw him.  For those who knew him, it was undeniable that his voice was distinctive, his gestures animated and his laughter was ridiculously contagious. He stopped by my classroom to tell me he liked my hair. Although he wasn’t in any of my classes that semester, he became a constant presence in my room, visiting during lunches, arriving prior to school and often staying after school just to talk. In a world where “all lives matter,” T.J. taught me that more importantly, each life matters.

Like many students I have had the privilege to know, he was eager to tell his story. When I asked if he had any siblings, he jumped up and drew an elaborate family tree with many branches, explaining to me how he had more family than most, but that was because he had so many people who loved him. He highlighted the quirks of many, but saw them in a light that was refreshing, noting their laughter, their faith, and their resilience through difficult transitions.

For the next two years, T.J. took nearly every class I offered.  He joined DECA, the marketing club and was hungry to display his leadership skills. In DECA, he found his home at BHS. He would prop his bare feet up and I would give him hand sanitizer after he touched them. He would start a sassy story and I would interject proper grammar to throw off his momentum so he could focus on the lessons of the situation instead of the drama. In what seemed like an odd pairing, T.J. and I grew to talk and trust and laugh. Oh, how we laughed. 

As a DECA officer, he loved brainstorming for ideas and was such a creative and enthusiastic helper. He never hesitated to dive in fully on a project, noting how even the most outrageous ideas were possible.  I remember when he volunteered to host a 5K glow–in-the-dark fundraiser to raise money to send students to national competition, he was determined that people would be able to see the props from space. He spent hours making a balloon arch filled with glow sticks and he made sure to greet each and every runner as they arrived.

When he graduated, I wrote him a letter telling him how much I would miss him, his sweaty feet, his loud inappropriate conversations that I had to remind him to edit, and his kind, generous, optimistic ways.  I reminded him of his strength, of how capable he was of influencing others and creating change.  

He always wanted to start a kindness movement, to celebrate his growing truth that people are doing the best they can and that serving others is the best way to get out of your own head. His struggles were real, but his circle of friends and family were determined to help him conquer his fears, make him laugh, and steer him in his faith.

Stores are stocked with wooden apple plaques that tout cliché’s about how teachers change lives. What they don’t say is how students do.  We have the privilege to get to know students far beyond what state content standards dictate. It seems God trusts us with these unforgettable lives, each with their own story, and we have the opportunity to know them in the framework of only the present. Unlike their friends and family, we often don’t know them prior to when they enter the class and sometimes, don’t see them again. 

So, during that often-awkward time of searching during the teen years, we are put into their lives to allow God to work through us. In return, they are vessels of blessings to us as well.  Although sometimes exhausted at the end of the day, I can honestly say that every conversation in the hall, every interaction at the bathroom sink, every greeting on the way into the building and every silent assessment of moods sticks with me as I prepare dinner for my family. On the first day of school each year, I pray that I can be a good influence on my students and that I will be open to what I can learn from them.  

With T.J., I was able to visit that lesson regularly as I learned how eager he was to give to others.  He could see pain in people that were smiling on the outside, he could relate to issues I had never encountered at his age.  He had a way of peeling the layers away and showing people how it was safe to be vulnerable, how it could even be fun to be different.  

Always a social butterfly, he would hug and wave to friends as they entered classrooms, treating the school like his personal welcome center.  Sometimes, he would cry or vent or get mad, only to search for answers and end up seeing the intent behind the actions.  

It was clear to him as he grew, that he was loved.  As I read through Facebook, so many of those closest to him reminisced about how crazy he was. It seems fitting that one of his final posts was “Purple hair, don’t care.” He had inspirational tattoos visible in some of the pictures, a couple of piercings, many hair color changes and his ever-present flip flops on display. The one constant, however, was his smile.  It is more than one-dimensional, bringing with it the sound of his laughter in every single posting. 

His kindness revolution came to fruition. Life after life was peppered with blessings of encouragement he had given to others, late nights talking and crying, long weekends laughing and eating.  In the last year, he embraced his family like never before, crediting God for them and realizing how deep their love had been all along.

At 20 years old, I hadn’t lived half the life that T.J. had. Having just turned that pivotal age in July, he had already experienced so much joy, pain, empathy, and compassion.  It was undeniable that he appreciated the people in his life. It was evident that he was loved and that he loved them back, hard.  

Never one to shy away from self-deprecation, T.J. wrote me a few months ago to let me know he no longer saw himself as damaged in any way.  He finally saw what the rest of us saw all along: A smart, capable, wonderful man who entered our lives with the sole purpose of spreading happiness.  That, quite simply, is why I am so thankful to be a teacher, to get to see students during that transitional time. 

As teachers, we get to guide them during a time when they don’t want guidance, we get to wake them up when they want to sleep, and we get to use our life experience to help them avoid some pain as they grow. In addition to the content we teach, we try to start a ripple effect of positivity that will impact students long after they leave our classes. We are happy to remove our egos from the equation and to make eye contact with each student, silently assessing their needs. We happily share our food, our time, our resources and our experiences in the hopes that one day, like T.J., they will grow up to realize their power.  

So, T.J., please know that your life mattered.  That you are loved and that your absence leaves a huge hole in so many lives. Also, know that we will continue your kindness revolution, serving others in your memory, knowing we will see that smile again one day.

Editor's Note:  Friends and family will be received at Burnside Funeral Home, 607 S. Virginia Avenue, Bridgeport, on Friday, September 2, 2016, from 3 p.m. to 7 p.m., where a Celebration of TJ’s Life will be held at 7 p.m. with Pastor Bill Natalzia presiding.  Read his obituary send condolences to the family HERE at the Burnside Funeral Home Web site.