Hello everyone. I hope you all had a wonderful and spooky Halloween. I always remember it as one of my favorite holidays, both as a kid and as an adult. Hopefully it brought a little bit of the "kid" out of all the adults out there.
We have no new subscribers this month. Let's make it a point to try to get a friend or family member to check us out here at the Metro. I would like to add to our rolls of subscribers, so all you Metro carriers, let's get some new starts.
I would like to thank everyone who submitted articles for this month. It really takes a lot of the burden off me when I have lots of people sending me things.
With Thanksgiving right around the corner, I wanted to make this month's final thought about giving thanks to the things that are really important in life. Not cars, homes, or money, but to God, and our fellow man. At first, this may sound like a Thanksgiving story, but the more you reflect on it, the more appropriate it seems for any time of the year.
Thanksgiving Day was near. The first grade teacher, Mrs. Goode, 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.
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. When asked to draw a picture of something for which he was thankful, 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 feeds us. And so the discussion went -- until the teacher almost forgot the young 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 murmured, "It's yours, Mrs. Goode."
She 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.
The story speaks of more than thankfulness. It says something about teachers teaching and parents parenting and friends showing friendship, and how much it means to the Douglases of the world. They might not always say thanks. But they'll remember the hand that reaches out.