Miss Ida Weismuller began her teaching career in our fifth grade classroom, a classroom with west windows and wooden chairs populated by 10-year-old boys who collectively had the IQ of a birchbark canoe.
I was asked to sit at the front of the class that year, right under her nose. I wish I could tell you I straightened up thereafter; that I sat with folded hands, admiring her hairdo and learning about fractions. But by February, I had earned myself quite a reputation, one I am not proud of today. One day I brought a safety pin to class for research purposes and discovered that I could cause fellow students to rise again. And again. I tried it in music class with the same results. It was not the first time our instructor had taken notice of me, but this time she threw up her baton and sent me back to see Miss Weismuller.
I was frightened as I stood before her that day. She towered above me like a cat, waiting to pounce.
“And what,” she asked in a voice that would have sent Napoleon scurrying from Italy, “is the punishment for being kicked out of music class three times in a row, Philip?”
Unable to force the word through my quivering lips, I picked up a pencil and wrote “s-t-r-a-p” in very small letters. Now, I don’t know if the school you attended allowed such things, but believe me, it was allowed in those days. In my case, it was even encouraged. I must admit that there were certain positive aspects to the whole experience. For one thing, you were a celebrity for an entire afternoon. Classmates would line the halls to ask what it felt like.
“Did it hurt?” they asked.
“Naw,” I lied.
I’m surprised they didn’t say, “Well, while you were in there did you happen to see who was doing all that screaming?”
Instead they would ask, “What did you get it for?”
“I cut off one of Beth Freeman’s pigtails,” I said, trying to hide my pride.
“Wow,” they said, and I strutted down the hall, leaving them standing in small circles of respectful conversation.
I was unable to ride my bike home later that day. But as I walked home with Steve Porr, I said, “Every time I get sent to the office I look down and I have these same green pants on.“
He stopped throwing dirt clods and looked at me. “She doesn’t like your pants?”
“I don’t know.”
Steven thought about it for a moment, then said, “I know. Let’s burn 'em.”
“That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve heard this week,” I said. “So let’s do it!”
And so, that June afternoon, we found ourselves basking in the warm glow of a bonfire. Yes—believe it or not—we burned my green cotton pants in our brick backyard fireplace.
“Do you suppose a little demon might run out?” Steve asked, ever eager to discuss the supernatural.
“I don’t know. Let’s watch.” And we did. But we saw nothing unusual. Neighbours did. But not us.
Although that was many years ago I must admit that when we first sent our children off to school, I was just as scared as the day I stood before Miss Weismuller and wrote s-t-r-a-p on a small slip of paper.
You see I knew “by heart” a lot of Scripture verses, including the one about the sins of the fathers visiting the children. So as I weighed these thoughts, I found myself asking the same question that Galileo and like-minded individuals undoubtedly pondered throughout written history, “Is there any hope at all for my offspring?”
The obvious answer is “No!” Except for two things.
The first is God’s grace. You see, we easily remember the verse about the sins of the fathers, but keep reading. Exodus 20:6 promises that God will “show love to a thousand generations of those who love [Him] and keep [His] commandments.”
The second reason for hope is found in the lives of parents like mine, who preached the Gospel all the time and occasionally used words. Mom and Dad prayed for me. They talked about me more on their knees than anywhere else. If it weren’t for those prayers, I’m convinced I’d be walking the same wide path that too many of my friends are. We all must choose. And so I pray almost every day that the same God who loved a mischievous little troublemaker enough to turn his life around will do as much for his children.
My wife is in full agreement. I remember the late August day when she returned from a shopping spree after managing to snag a great little outfit for my son to wear to school. It was a white pullover with the number 32 on the front, and—would you believe it?—a pair of green cotton pants.
