Lily
Christmas
Day was near. Some of the small faces showed excitement and some was climbing their
way up above the clouds. I have decided to give my class a little twist of fun
in their class activities. I passed a paper to each of them. Today’s class, I
decided for them to draw a picture of something for which they were thankful
and expecting whether they are celebrating or not.
It had been only a year of my service
and since I got posted into a rural school. Most of the class might be
considered economically disadvantaged, but still many would celebrate the
holiday with wonderful cuisines and other traditional goodies of the season.
These, what I thought, would be the subjects of most of my student’s art. And
they were. But Lily made a different kind of picture.
Lily had always been a different kind
of girl. If I could define the young girl through words, she was the true child
of misery, frail and unhappy. As other children played at recess, Lily was
likely to stand close by my side. One could only guess at what kind of pain
Lily felt behind those sad eyes. Yes, her picture was different. When I asked
to draw a picture of something for which she was thankful, she drew a hand and
nothing else. Just an empty hand — pale
and raw.
Her abstract art captured the
imagination of the other peers. Whose hand could it be? One child guessed, “It’s
the hand of Santa Claus, because Mr. Claus is famous during Christmas Day!”.
Another suggested “A friend’s! Because we will miss each other during the long break”.
Still others guessed it was the hand of God, for God feeds us. And so the
discussion went. Until it almost pass my mind who the young artist herself.
When the other children continued on
to other class activities, I paused at Lily’s desk, bent down, and asked her
whose hand it was. The little girl looked away and muttered, “It’s yours,
teacher”. A sudden struck of realization hits me, I recalled the times I had
taken her hand and walked with her here or there, as I had with the other
students. How often had I said, “Take my hand, Lily, we’ll go outside” or, “Let
me show you how to hold your pencil”. Or, “Let’s do this together”. Lily was
most thankful of my hand. Brushing aside a tear, I patted her head, turned
around and walk to the other desk.
My old, wrinkly hand reaches for the
mug as I sip the hot tea whilst looking out my glass window. I closed my eyes
and a tear rolls down my cheek. The warmth of it feels the same as that day. The
name Lily is still vivid in my memory as she was the one who has taught me of
the meaning of thankfulness for how grateful I am of the route I have chosen in
life. Living as a teacher. Our students might not always say thanks. But they
will remember the hand that reaches out.
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