The idea of “family business”in this uniquely Martinsville story carries a warmer meaning than profit or payroll. For Emily and Paul Penrod, it’s the work of helping young people discover what they’re capable of — the long, steady labor of shaping confidence, perseverance, and the courage to take the next step. It’s also the story of two educators whose paths began in completely different directions, only to wind their way to the same rural district, the same shared calling, and the same sense of purpose.

Emily grew up in Greenville, Illinois, next door to her grandmother — a woman who had taught school back in the 1940s. That presence, that gentle model of a life spent helping others, was the first influence. “I admired her,” Emily said. But unlike people who fight their way toward education or who wake up one morning knowing they’re meant for it, Emily took the third path — the one that feels more like gravity than decision.

Her first twenty years were spent teaching students with visual impairments, a specialty so niche that most people never meet someone who does it. She learned orientation and mobility through her master’s program at Northern Illinois University — how to help students who are blind learn to navigate the world safely and independently. The work was demanding, delicate, personal. And the spark that lit that path came years earlier, through a woman at her home church who was blind, who lived independently but without many of the skills that would have made that independence easier. “I don’t know,” Emily said quietly, “a fascination with blindness, and feeling like I could help.”

Over two decades, her job often required covering an enormous region — eight counties and 28 school districts — through the Eastern Illinois Area of Special Education. Some days she’d teach in Martinsville and then drive all the way to Lovington. “That’s a drive,” she said with the understatement educators sometimes use when describing herculean tasks. COVID only intensified the workload, and eventually she felt the burnout creeping in. She began taking classes for her Learning Behavior Specialist certification because, frankly, she had the time. “I honestly didn’t think I’d ever make this jump,” she admitted. But the door opened, and she walked through.

Today she works K–6 in Martinsville’s elementary school, where her classroom blends a wide range of learners and needs — from resource support to self-contained instruction to life skills. No two days look the same. When the interview call came and she had to rush over to the high school, she darted around the room making sure aides knew exactly what was needed so the day wouldn’t fall apart in her absence. “Pretty much improv,” she laughed. But it’s the kind of improvisation that only comes from deep preparation — and deep care.

Paul’s road to education couldn’t be more different. His Plan A was Hollywood. Specifically: becoming a special effects artist. Teaching was his backup plan — a reasonable fallback considering his mother was a second-grade teacher. But along the way, he discovered something surprising: that he loved teaching. And even more surprising — that teaching loved him back enough to keep him from ever leaving.

He grew up in Kansas, Illinois, just a short drive from Martinsville. He started college at Lake Land, graduated from Eastern Illinois University, and — with a nudge from both practicality and his sister’s private-college student loans — managed to finish debt-free. His first job, however, was a crash course in reality. He was a brand-new industrial arts graduate teaching in a large district where experience and classroom ownership mattered more than theory. After finishing that school year, he walked away from teaching entirely and headed to seminary.

He planned to work overseas, hoping to serve in places far from the cornfields of Illinois. But in the early 2000s, the stock market crashed and the mission board’s funding dried up. “Hang out for a year or two,” they told him. A detour became a turning point. While waiting, Paul worked in a special ed program in Kansas, Illinois — and that’s where he fell in love with education all over again. “Someone’s going to run that classroom,” he said. “And if it’s not you, you’re going to go home tired from being walked on.” That lesson — a blend of grit, backbone, and compassion — anchored him.

Martinsville hired him more than 20 years ago, and he’s been there ever since. Over the years he’s added math, speech, computer-aided design, applied math for the trades, and a suite of dual-credit options through Lake Land College. He is, in many ways, a one-man academic ecosystem. Not because the district expects it of him, but because he sees what skills young people need and finds ways to put those skills within reach.

Ask him why he teaches speech and he’ll tell you: because people deserve to communicate confidently. Because high-school seniors should give better valedictorian speeches. Because someday they’ll be a best man or a maid of honor, and someone needs to help them do it well.

In their home life, teaching is stitched into the fabric. Their daughters — Grace and Hannah — are now ninth and seventh graders. Emily vividly remembers the moment she asked them how they’d feel if Mom worked at their school. “It was a resounding yes,” she said. And sometimes that proximity is exactly what a child needs — like the day Hannah flew off a swing and Mom was only a hallway away.

The Penrods talk about their students at home, but not in ways that overlap. They work in separate galaxies of the same universe — K–6 special education on one side of the district and upper-level math, speech, and CAD on the other. Their conversations are bridges, not echoes. Paul asks Emily for strategies. Emily hears stories about teenagers wrestling with geometry and finding their voices in speech class. They share a life but not a classroom, and that keeps things refreshing.

Martinsville has become their adopted home — the place where their children grow, where their work matters, where teachers step up to fill gaps not because it’s easy, but because it’s needed. If a bus needs driving, Paul drives. If a student needs support, Emily shows up, improvising with precision.

It’s the family business — not just theirs, but Martinsville’s. A district where people work hard for kids not because someone tells them to, but because they care.

And in both of their classrooms, you can see that care every day.