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TriTorch's avatar

We don't always know how the good things we do echoes about bounces around us. Here is a story about just that: 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: 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 provides for us. And so the discussion went — until the teacher almost forgot the quiet 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 muttered, It’s yours, teacher.

She then 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.

Keep reaching out because you may unknowingly pull someone out of the darkness and guide them into the light.

Source (there are more stories like this here): https://alltimeshortstories.com/the-teachers-hand

Anne Clifton, ^ that was for you.

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CindyArizona's avatar

I was a police officer for 25-years and spent my last 15 years working with juveniles. I dealt with the toughest, meanest, most lost young folks around. Some were genuinely evil. Young Jeffrey Dahmers. Frightening children. But most were simply angry, lost souls. And I came to really love them.

Ten years after retirement, I’m hiking in Bandelier National Forest in New Mexico and I hear a woman calling me by name. What the heck? I’m literally in the middle of nowhere. A young woman, a National Park Service ranger runs up to me, throws her arms around me and I recognize her as one of my “girls” who I worked with years before. I tell her how proud I am to see her squared way and in a good profession. Her words struck me to my heart. She told me that I was the reason she was a park ranger because I was tough on her as a teenager but she knew I loved her. And that I was always fair. She knew about my love of the outdoors and thought being a ranger would be a good way to honor me. Even knowing I might never know about it. What are the odds that we’d meet up, ten years later and 2500 miles from home, in the middle of nowhere? God works in wonderful ways.

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