Sermon : On Helping Youth Despite Their Problems

Children’s advocacy is not just the work of men and women with children of their own, but for all of us.

The following story is from Marian Wright Edelman, president of the Children’s Defense Fund. It best illustrates how important each of us can be to children around us.

“From the first day he stepped into my class,” wrote a new teacher, “I disliked Teddy. He was dirty. He knew I didn’t like him, but he didn’t know why. Nor did I know--then or now--why I felt such an intense dislike of him. All I know is that he was a little boy no one cared about, and I made no effort on his behalf.

As Christmas approached, I knew that Teddy would never catch up in time to be promoted. To justify myself, I went to his cumulative folder.

First grade: “Teddy shows promise by work and attitude, but has a poor home situation.”

Second grade: “Teddy could do better. Mother terminally ill. He receives little help at home.”

Third grade: “Teddy is a pleasant boy. Helpful but too serious. Slow learner. Mother passed away end of the year.”

Fourth grade: “Very slow but well behaved. Father shows no interest.”

Well, they passed him four times, but he will certainly repeat fifth grade! Do him good! I said to myself.

Teachers get gifts from students at Christmas. Teddy’s gift was wrapped in a brown paper bag and he had colored Christmas trees and red balls all over it. It was stuck together with masking tape. I felt conspicuous as the group stood watching me unwrap the gift. Two items fell to my desk: a gaudy rhinestone bracelet with several stones missing and a small bottle of dime-store cologne--half empty.

I could hear the snickers and whispers. “Isn’t this lovely?” I asked, placing the bracelet on my wrist. “Teddy, would you help me fasten it?” He smiled shyly and fixed the clasp and I held up my wrist for all to admire. There were a few oohs and aahs but as I dabbed the cologne behind my ears, all the girls lined up for a dab too.

“You smell just like Mom,” Teddy said softly. “Her bracelet looks real pretty on you too. I’m glad you liked it.”

He left quickly and I locked the door, sat down at my desk and wept, resolving to make up to Teddy what I had deliberately deprived him of--a teacher who cared.

Slowly but surely he caught up with the rest of the class. Gradually there was an upward curve in his grades. He did not repeat fifth grade. In fact, his final averages were among the highest in the class.

I did not hear from Teddy until seven years later: “Dear Miss Thompson: I just wanted you to be the first to know. I will be graduating second in my class next month. Very truly yours, Teddy Stallard.”

Four years later, Teddy’s second letter came: “Dear Miss Thompson: I was just informed that I’ll be graduating first in my class. The university has not been easy, but I liked it. Very truly yours, Teddy Stallard.”

And today, Teddy’s third letter: “Dear Miss Thompson: As of today I am Theodore J. Stallard, M.D. How about that? I’m going to be married in July, the 27th, to be exact. I wanted to ask you if you could come and sit where Mom would sit if she were here. I’ll have no family there as Dad died last year. Very truly yours, Ted Stallard.”

I’m not sure what kind of gift one sends to a doctor on completion of medical school and state boards. Maybe I’ll just wait and take a wedding gift, but my note can’t wait. “Dear Ted, Congratulations! You made it and you did it yourself! In spite of those like me and not because of us, this day has come for you. God bless you. I’ll be at the wedding with bells on!”

There are millions of Teddy Stallards--children we have forgotten, given up on, left behind. How many Teddys of the world will never become doctors, lawyers, teachers, or police officers because there was no Miss Thompson? Or no you? How many of us would never be where we are today without that special teacher, or coach, or youth leader, or relative who believed in us and helped us do our best?

Any one of us can be a Miss Thompson and everyone of us must--in our own way--if we are to heal our children’s pain.