The Twinkie From Chicken Soup for the Soul Amen I say to you, unless you become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. ~Matthew 18:3 It was my seventh year teaching first grade. I was teaching at the parochial school I had attended, associated with the church I went to my whole life. One little girl from that class, Abby, had immigrated recently from Greece with her parents and grandparents. Abby was the only one in the family who could speak English, and she had to translate everything for her parents, including school notes, bills, and report cards. All this responsibility was obvious on Abby’s shoulders and face, leaving her little time just to be a kid. She hardly smiled or laughed. Usually, no one wanted to play with her. She didn’t know the rules of the games, how to be a friend, or how to engage others. She was alone in a crowd of happy people, standing on the sidelines, watching the world with her ice-blue eyes. I worked with Abby beyond the standard curriculum. I focused on social skills, trust, and friendship. I taught her how to play, beam a friendly smile, how to be a child. Slowly, Abby learned to trust, smile, and play. She had turned the corner that spring and was happy, instead of hunched over like a turtle ready to climb into her shell. Her schoolwork skyrocketed and she was passing every test. She even volunteered to answer questions. One mid-March day, many exciting activities were going on at school. It was pizza day in the cafeteria, and the junior high was putting on a carnival for the younger grades. Extra recess was planned just to celebrate the warm sun. Before the tardy bell rang, Abby stuck her cold lunch in her desk. But then something terrible happened, at least on a child’s level — the kind of thing that could poison one against taking chances, trust, and friendship — someone stole the Twinkie out of Abby’s desk. I was infuriated! I was not going to allow anyone to victimize her and disrupt her progress. I stopped all morning work and had the class put away their crayons, markers, and blocks. The students’ heads were down on their desks, cradled in their arms. Without letting them know how angry I was, I asked who took the Twinkie, and demanded its return. There would be no punishment if this was done right away. No Twinkie appeared. A few students indicated they saw Peter take it, but I felt it was up to the thief to confess. We sat in silence for fifteen minutes. No one came clean. There would be a new plan for the day: school work would be sent home as homework. No recess; we would stay inside with heads down on desks. We would eat lunch inside in silence. And we would not be going to the carnival until the Twinkie was returned. Their little faces showed such disappointment. It broke my heart. But there were two lessons to be learned: own your mistakes with the truth, and don’t pick on others. It was a teaching moment not written about in textbooks, a lesson that would be used for the rest of their lives. Reading was supposed to start, but the class still sat with their heads down, thinking and listening to me lecture on the importance of honesty and being responsible for your mistakes. I was really sweating it out. Was I being detrimental? Overreacting? No, my heart told me. All we needed was the truth. The clock ticked off the seconds, minutes, and startlingly, hours. It was almost time for the carnival. I tried another lecture, but no one flinched. My afternoon aide arrived. A mother of four, she volunteered to take the kids one by one into the hall for questioning. I figured they might confide in someone they saw as a motherly figure rather than an authority figure. However, since there hadn’t been a confession in more than four hours, I thought chances weren’t good. When the time came for Peter to be questioned, it was over within a minute. He came back into the classroom, tears welling in his eyes, hands shaking. He stood in the doorway, hanging onto it as if he’d collapse if he let go. He took deep breaths, trying not to cry. “I took the Twinkie. I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice. Then he covered his face with his hands in shame. I was livid. We had been lied to for more than five hours, with nothing accomplished. I wanted to lay into him, take out my anger through a verbal throttle. But the class had already heard my thoughts. So, I pulled a “Daniel” and threw Peter to the “lions,” waiting for the attack. Let the ones who suffered throw the first stone. “Does anyone have anything they’d like to say to Peter?” I asked. There was silence for at least a minute. I knew the kids were measuring their words, choosing their fights, remembering missed recesses. I waited. Then, one little girl raised her hand. Maybe she’d open the kids’ “anger floodgates.” She pushed in her chair, stood straight and proud and said in a strong voice, “We forgive you, Peter.” The words echoed through our heads. Forgiveness... one of the last things Jesus taught us as he was dying on the cross. Forgiveness. Suddenly, all twenty-eight kids raced to Peter and surrounded him with hugs and pats on his back, cheers, and laughter. It was like the prodigal son had returned home. I had forgotten that God saved Daniel from the lions, and God saved little Peter. But He also saved me from a life of anger. I learned that day how forgiveness heals. How good it feels to say, “I forgive you,” and how relieving it is to hear that you are forgiven. And the contraband Twinkie? Abby never did eat it. She gave it back to Peter with a warm hug and smile. ~Holly Engel-Smothers
Posted on: Wed, 06 Aug 2014 18:52:00 +0000
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