My Teacher

Sometimes I feel like I am in an epic classroom.

I sit on the very front row, which is really very surprising, as my hair looks like a rat’s nest, my pencils are all chewed and broken, and I got to class maybe about 15 minutes late (okay, maybe it was 45).  What few crayons I’ve kept track of lie like rainbow droppings around my sockless sneakers, one lace untied and the other in hopeless knots.  Oh, and there are a few more crayons in my desk, I think, behind all the crumpled papers I am behind on.

I’m attempting to write with a bit of yellow crayon I found, glancing nervously ‘round to check how everyone else is making their letters.  Somehow, their crisp pencil lines look different from my crayon scrawls.  I wonder if I should perhaps ask the Teacher if once again I can borrow a pencil, or if that might be one time too many.  Would the Teacher turn me down?  Would He send me out of the room and lock the classroom door against me forever?  It is too great a risk.  I’ll just have to use the yellow crayon stub and hope He doesn’t notice the difference.

How is it that everyone else is able to sit so straight and how is it that everyone else knows how to get the buttons and buttonholes on their shirt to match? And how do they always remember to hang their coats on the hook while I always forget and have to stuff mine in my desk?  (I am very good at hiding stuff in my desk.  I am sure the Teacher does not notice.)

My arm is always aching, because it is always up in the air.  My classmates roll their eyes as I say the same things over and over,

“I didn’t understand that.”

“What did you say, Teacher?  I was trying to tie my shoes.”

“Teacher!  That kid laughed at me because I fell out of my chair again when I was kinda doing that thing you told me not to do where I rock the chair off the floor, but that’s really neat, don’t you think, when I get the front two legs completely off the floor?  I bet you never had a student who could do that before, did you Teacher?”

But I know who I really am.  And I try, desperately, to overcome my loserness by pointing out my successes.

“Teacher? Teacher? Did you notice that I remembered to write my name on my paper after only the fifth time you reminded me?  That was good wasn’t it, Teacher?  Wasn’t it, Teacher?  Last time it took eleven times, but this was only five, and that’s a difference of like eight, isn’t it, Teacher, isn’t it?”

“Teacher, did you see how when I got that answer wrong, I used the nail polish in my desk (that I’m not really supposed to have but I can’t find any erasers, so you don’t really mind do you, Teacher? Teacher?) and I marked out the whole bad answer very neatly, yes, very neatly.  Did you see that, Teacher?  Did you?”

“Teacher, did you notice I’m not asking you as many questions today as I did yesterday?  Did you notice, teacher?  Did you?”

“Teacher, did you see that when I couldn’t do that math test you gave me, I wrote “I LOVE YOU” in really big words on my desk with that Sharpie you took away from me last week but that I borrowed from your desk this morning?  Do you like it, Teacher?  Do you like it?”

.          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .

If you’ve ever felt like you didn’t deserve to go to the school of God, or if you’ve ever felt like you flunked a semester . . .

Take heart when you see the Teacher on His knees, emptying my desk for me, smoothing out important papers that have become wads, throwing away the dried out glue stick, banana peel, pencil shavings, and that half a candy bar that even I have to admit probably isn’t any good anymore.

Have hope when you see the Teacher unknotting my shoelaces at recess and tying the bedraggled strings into neat bows so I can go play.

And be encouraged when you’ve got the hall pass and (sometime long after the bell has rung) you see me wandering helplessly from room to room, crying in spurts, lost for only the millionth time . . . and the Teacher coming out once more, calling my name, offering me two fingers that I may clutch with my whole fist as He leads me back to Christianity 1 . . . never to expel me, always to retain me in His grace.

I love my Teacher.

O Lord, you are so good, so ready to forgive, so full of unfailing love for all who ask for your help. (Psalm 86:5, NLT)

The LORD of Heaven’s Armies is a wonderful teacher (Isaiah 28:29a, NLT)


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Photograph by E-magic (Eric), profile on

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Published in: on September 3, 2011 at 10:12 pm  Leave a Comment  
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