Saturday, August 13, 2011


If you read my blog, thank you!  I have been very busy and therefore have been lax in posting.  My daughter is pregnant with our first grandchild and there was a baby shower to give.  I began leading my own Weight Watchers group and school will start on Monday so I have been getting my room ready and attending too many meetings.  I am not a teacher, I am a school nurse.

I work with amazing people who have chosen or rather been chosen to teach elementary school children.  I stand in awe of them.  My thoughts of late have all come back to them and so this blog is for them.  Thank you for doing what you do.  My children have been blessed to have wonderful teachers who were passionate about their jobs and it showed.  They are the products you molded and developed and they are remarkable.  I came across the following piece just the other day and it has gone round and round in my head.  I dedicate it to each of you. 

His Teacher's Hand

At first it sounded like a thanksgiving story, but the more I reflected on it, the more appropriate it seemed for any time of the year. The way I heard it, the story went like this:

Thanksgiving Day was near. The first grade teacher gave her class a fun assignment—to draw a picture of something for which they were thankful.  Most of the class might be considered economically disadvantaged, but still many would celebrate the holiday with turkey and other traditional goodies of the season. These, the teacher thought, would be the subjects of most of her student's art. And they were.  But Douglas made a different kind of picture. Douglas was a different kind of boy. He was the teacher's true child of misery, frail and unhappy. As other children played at recess, Douglas was likely to stand close by her side. One could only guess at the pain Douglas felt behind those sad eyes.  Yes, his picture was different. When asked to draw a picture of something for which he was thankful, he drew a hand. Nothing else. Just an empty hand.  His abstract image captured the imagination of his peers. Whose hand could it be? One child guessed it was the hand of a farmer, because farmers raise turkeys. Another suggested a police officer, because the police protect and care for people. Still others guessed it was the hand of God, for God feeds us. And so the discussion went—until the teacher almost forgot the young artist himself.  When the children had gone on to other assignments, she paused at Douglas' desk, bent down, and asked him whose hand it was. The little boy looked away and murmured, "It's yours, teacher."

She recalled the times she had taken his hand and walked with him here or there, as she had the other students. How often had she said, "Take my hand, Douglas, we'll go outside." Or, "Let me show you how to hold your pencil." Or, "Let's do this together." Douglas was most thankful for his teacher's hand.  Brushing aside a tear, she went on with her work.

The story speaks of more than thankfulness. It says something about teachers teaching and parents parenting and friends showing friendship, and how much it means to the Douglases of the world. They might not always say thanks. But they'll remember the hand that reaches out.
© 2001 Steve Goodier

Don't EVER doubt the difference you make!  I am thankful and blessed to work with each of you!  I pray you have a rewarding and fulfilling year.

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