THE HAND
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 students' 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."
He 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 hugged Douglas and 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.
From India, Coimbatore
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746Thanksgiving 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 students' 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."
He 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 hugged Douglas and 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.
From India, Coimbatore
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Having had the privilege of teaching music to school children and having brought up three wonderful kids, I have experienced the unique privilege of understanding the importance of a teacher/parent in a child's life. My students still keep in touch with me. We should be grateful for children as they serve as a constant source of renewal and teach us to see everyday ordinary things in a different light. Children are, if I may say, veritable factories of positive energy! :-)
From India, Hyderabad
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From India, Hyderabad
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Hi,
Thank you for such a nice post. It reminded me of my time as a teacher for a few days. It was a really nice and touching experience. For students, teachers are the best friends with whom they can share everything with trust. It's truly amazing when tiny hands hold your hand and look at you with enthusiasm.
Regards,
Swati
From India, Nasik
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Thank you for such a nice post. It reminded me of my time as a teacher for a few days. It was a really nice and touching experience. For students, teachers are the best friends with whom they can share everything with trust. It's truly amazing when tiny hands hold your hand and look at you with enthusiasm.
Regards,
Swati
From India, Nasik
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