My first two teachers in school in Pine Bluff, Arkansas were "old maids." That's what grown up women who had never married were called in those days. Of course, I never called them that; to me they were Miss Weedo and Miss Watts. I've already told you about Miss Weedo teaching us the concept of zero. (See http://normajeanthomas.blogspot.com/2011/05/readin-ritin-rithmetic.html.) That was in the first grade.
I must have learned everything there was to know about reading, writing, and arithmetic in the first grade, because I don't remember learning any more basic academic concepts in second grade. It was there I began to learn social behaviors, or rather I began to try to unlearn social behaviors I had developed. I was never quite successful in some of those lessons. For instance, I never learned not to talk too much. (I'm smiling.) Although Miss Watts tried to help me with that problem, there was just so much I had to say that I couldn't seem to hold it in until the appropriate time. Well, the real problem was that there was never an appropriate time for some of the things I said.
I've always struggled with talking too much, and so many times my abundant words have gotten me in Big Trouble. I still deal with that problem today.
There was a little boy in my second grade class named Sammy Tyler. He was quiet, never in trouble, clean cut, polite, and... the only other thing I can remember about him was that his daddy was a pastor, although I never knew of what kind of church. Sammy had pale, creamy skin, blue eyes and wispy black hair. To me he was neither friend nor enemy, just a boy in my class.
The second grade classroom was oblong, with Miss Watts' desk in the center of the long side with windows, so there were childrens' tables both in front of her and filling all the end of the room to her right. The other end of the room to her left was for story time and other activities. My spot was in front of Miss Watts' desk pretty close to her. I think she was trying to keep tabs on me.
One day while everyone was putting away work and cleaning their desks, Miss Watts held up a small white box and glancing around the room, said quietly, "Did someone leave this box for me?" I heard her, and glanced around the room to see who would respond. Everyone kept working on finishing projects or cleaning up their area. Some kids' backs were turned, so they may not have heard her.
I watched her open the box and take out a beautiful purple handkerchief with a tiny white border. I immediately raised my hand and she saw me. She said, "Jean, is this for me?"
I. Wanted. That. Handkerchief!
The temptation was instant and instantly acted upon. I arose and went up to her desk. I told her I had brought it just to show it to her, but that it was for my mother... Wasn't it pretty? Blah, blah, blah, words, words, words, lies, lies, lies... Whether she believed me or not, I don't know, but she gave me the box and didn't make a fuss about it. I took it home and gave it to Mama, told her it was a present I had "won" for her. Mama seemed to believe me and didn't question me closely about the details. Mama used handkerchiefs all the time. The only tissue we bought in those days was toilet tissue. There wasn't enough money for throw-away nose rags; that's what handkerchiefs were for.
My temptation to have that purple handkerchief was only a temporary desire. I didn't really use handkerchiefs myself. I just wiped my nose on my sleeve. I gave it to Mama, thinking it would please her, which it seemed to do. She never seemed to suspect I wasn't telling the truth. So I thought I had gotten away with it, and just put it out of my mind. That is... until...
Until Sammy Tyler a couple of days later walked up to Miss Watts' desk and quietly asked her if she liked the purple handkerchief he had given her for a present. Oh? That's when the handkerchief hit the fan, so to speak.
After questioning me thoroughly, Miss Watts couldn't get me to budge from my story. She relayed this conflict of stories to Miss Franklin, the Principal, a heavy-set older lady with white braids wrapped around her head. I spent probably the most of an hour in conference with Miss Franklin. I have never to this day figured out how that old lady didn't "win" that discussion, and make me confess I had lied. I don't even remember what my story was to her as to how I had obtained that handkerchief. She did threaten to talk with my mother, but for some reason never did. Maybe she thought my conscience would win in the end. She certainly must have known I was lying. She couldn't have thought Sammy Tyler was lying.
The matter was dropped. I don't know what they said to Sammy Tyler. I don't remember ever having a conversation with him after that. It seemed to become a non-issue. Except... in my heart there was the blackness of that sin. I kept pushing it down, down, out of sight, out of hearing, but not out of conscience. I was only seven years old, but it was that time, that particular lying sin that made me aware I was a sinner.
Two years later, when I was nine and spending the summer at Aunt Tot's little farm near Kosciusko, Mississippi, I repented of my sins and received Christ in my heart. But it took me several years to muster up the courage to confess about the origin of the purple handkerchief to Mama.
We lived on Cecil Avenue in Delano when I finally told her about it. I wanted to write to Miss Franklin and Miss Watts and send the handkerchief back to them. Mama agreed I should write to them, but she wisely counseled that it wouldn't be a good idea to send a used handkerchief. What good would that do? I received from Miss Franklin a very kind and encouraging reply to my letters. She told me she had retired and Miss Watts had moved away. She was glad to hear I had received Christ and was doing well in school. She never mentioned why she had not talked with Mama about that handkerchief incident all those years ago.
I know that Jesus has thrown my sins into the sea of His forgetfulness. I am so thankful that He doesn't remember it against me. I tell you this story today because among all Grannie's memories, this is one from which I learned a very great life lesson: "In the multitude of words, there [is no lack of] sin."
No comments:
Post a Comment