Being a Good Teacher.

Yesterday I received an email from a student. I remembered him very well, not only because his name was the same as my sons, but because of the relationship we had as teacher and student. He was having difficulties with learning, also with his body shape, being overweight. He and I hit it off, because I was aware of him and not his weight. Before I left teaching he was a great student and he worked out regularly and was always very popular with the girls in the school. He has never forgotten me and every year at this time he sends me an email telling me how he is doing and every year I have to go and sit on my own and dry my eyes.
When I started teaching I had found a story that touched my heart deeply. I am not sure if it changed my way of teaching, having been a minister I was always aware of people and not just what they looked like. Nevertheless the story is worthy of reading again, so I share today knowing some of you will have read it or heard it before. I apologise it is a long story but ask you please to take time to read even if you have heard it before.

Jean Thompson stood in front of her fifth-grade class on the very first day of school in the fall and told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her pupils and said that she loved them all the same, that she would treat them all alike. And that was impossible because there in front of her, slumped in his seat on the third row, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed he didn't play well with the other children, that his clothes were unkempt and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy was unpleasant.

It got to the point during the first few months that she would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then marking the F at the top of the paper biggest of all. Because Teddy was a sullen little boy, no one else seemed to enjoy him, either.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's records and put Teddy's off until last. When she opened his file, she was in for a surprise. His first-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright, inquisitive child with a ready laugh." "He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around."

His second-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."

His third-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy continues to work hard but his mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class. He is tardy and could become a problem."

By now Mrs. Thompson realized the problem, but Christmas was coming fast. It was all she could do, with the school play and all, until the day before the holidays began and she was suddenly forced to focus on Teddy Stoddard.

Her children brought her presents, all in beautiful ribbon and bright paper, except for Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper of a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents.

Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of cologne. She stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume behind the other wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed behind just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to."

After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing, and speaking. Instead, she began to teach children. Jean Thompson paid particular attention to one they all called "Teddy."

As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. On days where there would be an important test, Mrs. Thompson would remember that cologne. By the end of the year he had become one of the smartest children in the class and...well, he had also become the "pet" of the teacher who had once vowed to love all of her children exactly the same.

A year later she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that of all the teachers he'd had in elementary school, she was his favourite. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy.

He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still his favourite teacher of all time.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would graduate from college with the highest of honours. He assured Mrs. Thompson she was still his favourite teacher.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still his favourite teacher, but that now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.

The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that Spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering...well, if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the pew usually reserved for the mother of the groom. And guess what, she wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And I bet on that special day, Jean Thompson smelled just like...well, just like the way Teddy remembered his mother smelling on their last Christmas together

You never can tell what type of impact you may make on another's life by your actions or lack of action.


I will leave my other blog for another day except I will change the artwork and speak of it.

 A Moment of Togetherness

Buy One Get The Rest Free.

This snow is certainly bringing together a community in the street where I live. The ongoing battle to try and keep the hilly road to our homes open is binding us together. Small acts of kindness and a sense of one for all. A neighbour trying to go to the shop for vegetables to discover the shop had none, cheered by what I was able to give her from the produce of my plot. Yesterday I went to visit my old father in law taking with me what provisions we could get. While at the store I bought a haggis. As I left the store a representative of the company gave me a heated sample of the product and because I had purchased one gave me another free. My neighbour said it was delicious.

Today I awoke stiff and sore all over muscles aching. I opened the curtains to what? More snow covering the road and still falling fast. Seems we are not yet through this. My heart was heavy as I watched it fall.

It did though bring back to mind this story.

Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together they travelled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet, and many others adorned the walls of their family estate. The widowed elderly man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world. As winter approached, war engulfed their nation, and the young man left to serve his country.

After only a few short weeks, the elderly man received a telegram that his beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic. Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season-a season that he and his son had so looked forward to in the past-would visit his house no longer. On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man.

As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. He opened the door and was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand.



The soldier introduced himself to the old man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you." As the two began to talk, the soldier told of how the man's son had told every one of his-and his father's-love of fine art work. "I'm also an artist," said the soldier, "and I want to give you this." As the old man began to unwrap the package, paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son.



Though the world would never consider it a work of genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail. Overcome with emotion, the old man thanked the soldier, promising to

hang the portrait above the fireplace. A few hours later, after the

soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of paintings. And then the old man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given. During the days and weeks that followed, the man learned that his son

had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stilled his

caring heart. As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach

him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease his grief, as he

realized that, although his son was no longer with him, the boy's life

would live on because of those he had touched.

The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the priceless pieces for which museums around the world clamoured. He told his neighbours it was the greatest gift he had ever received. The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation, since, with the old man's passing, and his only son dead, those paintings would be sold at an auction. According to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on Christmas Day, the way he had received his greatest gift.



The day finally arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings.

Dreams could be fulfilled this day; greatness could be achieved as some could say," I have the greatest collection." The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum list... It was the painting of the old man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid, but the room was silent.



"Who will open the bidding with £100?" he asked. Moments passed as no one spoke. From the back of the room came, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son. Let's forget it and get on to the good ones." More voices echoed in agreement. "No, we have to sell this one-first," replied the auctioneer. "Now who will take the son?"



Finally, a friend of the old man spoke. "Will you take £10 for the

painting? That's all I have. "Will anyone go higher?" called the

auctioneer.

After more silence he said, "Going once, going twice...Gone!" The gavel fell. Cheers filled the room and someone shouted; "Now we can get on with it and bid on these treasures!"



The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced that the auction was over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Then someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean it's over? We didn't come here for a portrait of some old man's son! What about all of the other paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art work here.

We demand an explanation!"



The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son...gets it all."

Leaving my other blog for one more day. I Remember (No More)

It Comes From Hardship

One of the strange things about this terrible weather we are having, well terrible for some, is the sense of togetherness it seems to engender. I actually love the snow, no matter how long it lasts. I enjoy running in it, and I enjoy the walks I have in it. Yesterday as I ran , more people than normal spoke to me, making comments about how ambitious I was being etc. Even when out walking more people speak, there is almost a sense of, “we are all in this together.”




This reminded me of the true story of some years ago.

It happened late at night, at 11:30 pm, an older African-American woman was

standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing

rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride.

Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car.

A young white man stopped to help her - generally unheard of in those conflict-filled

1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and

put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote

down his address, thanked him and drove away.

Seven or so days later there was a knock at the young mans door. Standing there when he answered was a delivery man, he had a giant colour television and music player addressed to him. Also attached was a letter addressed to him, it read:

Dear Mr. James

Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came along, and because of you I was able to make it to my dying husbands bedside just before he passed away. God Bless you for helping me so unselfishly.

Yours Sincerely

Mrs. Nat King Cole.

Yes ,I am aware that there are many who in the present climate are acting selfishly, but there are more than normal those who are becoming aware that we are indeed, “all in this together.”

I have left yesterdays other blog for a bit longer after the emails I recieved. I Remember (No More)

The Pristine Snow

This morning I was determined not to allow the heavy snow to keep me from running. I was determined that today no matter how slow I was I was going to run. When I arrived at the woods I stood at the edge of them feeling that maybe I should go another route. The snow lay before me with not a sign of a foot print. My footfall would spoil the pristine beauty of it all. I ventured forth. How glad I was that I did. Silent beauty and the deer usually well hidden I could see clearly. I saw some birds I rarely see seeking berries on the trees and bushes.

I left the forest behind and headed for the coastal path. There I saw snow on the beach and rocks. I managed to run 7 miles taking longer than normal but I saw such beauty. I arrived home feeling as if I had just had Christmas early and I had been given everything I could have asked for.

I hope my footprints encourage others to make the journey rather than spoil it.

As I ran I remembered the beautiful story of the two pots.

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream.

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot's side?

That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them.

For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."

Each of us has our own unique flaws. We're all cracked pots. But that does not mean that we cannot make the best of what we are.

In the great scheme of Chi nothing ever is wasted.

This blog is linked to my other. I Remember ( No More)

The Rules of Ownership.

I am snowed in today. Overnight we had another massive fall of snow. As I look out the window it is obvious that putting on running shoes would be an utter waste of time. Walking would be possible but it would be silly to try anything of any distance. So I am trying another watercolour, difficult because I am not alone in the house, I am not the only one snowed in.

Yesterday I walked for almost three hours, completing a walk that would normally have taken just over two hours. The snow was deep and the path I was walking had many obstacles caused by branches broken with the weight of the snow.

In the village the order of the day was snow clearing. Now I remember when I was younger it was the pavements that people cleared, throwing the snow to the edge of the road, leaving the central area for any cars that might be moving. Now the main aim of everybody is to get the car moving and the road clear. Snow was being piled high on pavements forcing anybody at all trying to walk to venture onto the road and take the risk of being hit by a skidding car. I even noticed some people throwing snow onto the pavements of older people who have no car, and may well want to get out for bread or milk. Then maybe I am being cynical but I suspect nobody has noticed that they might need out. Or maybe once they get the car moving they will go get the bread and milk. Now why do I not believe this?

I just could not help feeling that somewhere we have lost the whole meaning and purpose of life. I keep getting told that I am wrong and that it is just my age. Maybe they are correct, but I have a real deep nagging thought that it is more than that. I suspect that the rules of childhood ownership now carry on well into later years, if ever to be let go of at all. What do I mean?

If I like it, it's mine.

If it's in my hand, Its mine.

If I can take it from you, it's mine.

If I had it a little while ago, It's mine.

If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.

If I am doing or building something, all the pieces are mine.

If it looks like mine, it is mine.

If I saw it first, it's mine.

If you are playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes mine.

If it's broken, it's yours.



Ah well I better get back to this watercolour I am trying to do. I hope nobody has seen my paints and think they belong to them.

Pictures above are of my walk yesterday and the view from my study window this morning.


Have a great day.

I have another blog at Cold Mornings.