The Teacher's Hand

Bruce Howell

A SCHOOL TEACHER asked her first graders to draw a picture of something they were thankful for. She thought of how little these children from poor neighborhoods actually had to be thankful for. She reasoned that most of them would no doubt draw pictures of turkeys on tables with lots of other food.

She was surprised with the picture that Douglas handed in. It was the picture of a human hand, poorly drawn. But whose hand? The other children tried to guess. One said it was the hand of God because He brings the food to us. Another said it was the hand of a farmer because he raises and grows the food.

Finally, when the others were back at their work, the teacher bent over Douglas’ desk and asked whose hand it was. "Why, its your hand, teacher," he mumbled.

My Favorite Teacher

"Watch out if you get Miss Linder," said a boy in fifth grade. "She's the meanest teacher in the school." I was in third grade then and didn't worry about Miss Irma Linder. But when I entered fifth grade, I was assigned to her class. 

She was tough. Mean. Demanding. She had eyes that saw everything we did, even with her back to us. But despite it all, Miss Linder was my favorite teacher in grade school. I learned more from her than any of the others. She had a way of making me want to learn. When I did less than my best, I had the feeling that I had let her down as much as I had let myself down. 

Since then, I've had other teachers I've loved or admired. But there's no question about my all-time, lifelong favorite teacher. His name is Jesus. Even his enemies called him "teacher" (rabbi) and recognized his great skill of communicating truth to his hearers. 

When I talk to my Favorite Teacher, I hear myself begin sentence after sentence with, "Teach me...." Those are sincere words and express my heart's desire. I want to learn and I believe my Favorite Teacher wants me to learn.