Teaching four- and five-year-olds can be very enlightening. Most times I learned a whole lot more than they did. Here are some tips in case you find yourself in a room full of these marvelous children:
Always have a box of tissues handy. Snacks and treats are a must if you have them for longer than an hour, but easy on the sugar and only water to drink. Sit or squat so that you can be at their eye level. Listen. Ask questions. They will tell you anything you want to know and can be very entertaining. Visit them in their homes if you can. Get to know their pets. Spend time in their rooms. You can learn a lot and save yourself a lot of grief.
Zachary walked into the classroom, but didn’t sit down. He had his right hand in his pants pocket and didn’t take it out. He walked around in circles, not talking.
“Hi, Zachary! “
No response.
“So what’s in your pocket?”
“You don’t know?” he answered.
“Nope. Did you bring something to share this morning?”
“It’s a skull,” he said.
“Oh, a skull,” I repeated. “That’s nice.”
He never did show us the skull. I suspect it was imaginary, but it was real to him. He was obsessed with skulls. I understood more about his fixation after a home visit.
His father, a brain surgeon, had a human skull on his desk in his home office. When Zachary spent time with his dad, the skull was always there. Wanting to be like his dad, he needed a skull, too. He was processing some heavy questions about skulls and the reality that skulls were a natural part his everyday life and that he had better come to terms with them. Carrying a pretend skull in his pocket was a brave start for a four-year-old. Neat kid.
Hannah was one of my best students. When she started first grade, she begged her mother to let her stay in the kindergarten Sunday School class. I agreed. She stayed for second grade, too. By then her younger sister was also in the class. Since Hannah was well acquainted with the material, she became my teaching assistant.
I tell people that I am not crafty. And I’m not. Crafts are beyond me. I’m not good at crafts. I don’t enjoy them. I have my limits. Hannah was good at crafts. When I couldn’t figure out how all the parts went together, I was no longer frustrated. I had Hannah.
“Children, just watch Hannah. She will show us how the King can raise his scepter to grant permission to Queen Esther.”
“See all these popsicle sticks? Hannah is going to teach us how to make an ark.”
“Cut out your flowers and paste them in the garden. Hannah will demonstrate how easy it is.”
I needed Hannah. I wanted her to stay in my class forever. After second grade she decided she was ready to be promoted. She had taught me everything she knew. It was time for me to fly solo.
Then there was the boy who never wanted to come into my class. Every Sunday his parents would walk him to the door. Every Sunday he would grab the door handle, dig in his heels and refuse to budge. He didn’t cry or yell. He just wouldn’t come into the classroom.
I decided not to pressure him, and that seemed to work best. I let him do his thing; he let me do mine. He didn’t disrupt or make a scene. He just stood at the door. I guess so he could make a quick getaway if he needed to. Occasionally he would accept my invitation to come in and sit down, but mostly not.
When I visited his home, he was very pleasant and accepting. He and his younger brother gave me a tour of the house and showed me their favorite toys. But come Sunday, for some still unknown reason, that kid just didn’t want to be in that Sunday School room.
They were only at our church for a couple of years before they moved out west. A few years later they made a trip back to Tennessee for a visit. His mother, a real gem and a very caring person, stopped by the church to see me. “You know, he still talks about you. He tells everyone you are his very favorite teacher!”
Go figure.
Brittany and Bethany were twins. I had a very difficult time telling them apart, and I think they were a little sensitive about it. Their mother tried to help me by using different colored hair ribbons each Sunday.
“Brittany has yellow. Bethany’s is green,” she would whisper.
“OK. Thanks.”
Almost immediately I would forget. So I decided to invent a few helps of my own. The one which seemed to work best was to ask a question while my back was turned to the class. I would point to the bulletin board and ask, “Bethany, tell me what you see in this picture.”
As I turned around, Bethany would answer. I would make a mental note of where she was sitting and try very hard to remember … at least until class was over. I’m not sure if they every tried to trick me. I don’t think they did.
I taught them again in a Wednesday night girls’ class when they were in middle school. Being a little older, they were developing individualized styles. Finally I could tell them apart. God is good.
Sometimes we entered into deep theological discussions. Usually it was the boys.
“The answer is Jesus,” one would assert.
“No, it’s God,” the other one would argue.
“Jesus.”
“God”
“Jesus.”
“God.”
Finally Todd would remember, “Jesus is God.”
That’s when I would thoroughly upset their applecarts by reminding them, “And then, of course, there is the Holy Spirit. He’s God, too.”
That usually ended the debate. You’ve got to be on your toes with these little ones.
And then there was Joshi. Our church went through a spell of having very few kindergartners, so most Sundays I taught him one-on-one. I was grateful for the opportunity. This kid was smart, creative, talented and nice. He was a genuine delight. But I knew I was in for a challenge after just one Sunday. His questions were penetrating and required scholarly consideration.
After class I thanked his mother for bringing him to Sunday School and told her how much I had enjoyed his participation.
“Really?” she seemed surprised. “Has he explained his end-time philosophy to you yet?”
“Why, no,” I replied.
“Just wait,” she said with a knowing smile.
One of the most interesting parts of Sunday School was prayer time. I never knew what to expect. There was the boy who wanted us to pray for his pinball machine.
“Pinball machine! Pinball machine!” his five-year-old friend exclaimed.
Then he slapped his hand to his forehead and fell backwards against the wall as if to say, ”Do you really think God has time to listen to you about your pinball machine? Are you insane?”
How many equally insane prayers have I prayed to God about equally insane things? So, of course, we prayed about his pinball machine.
For a short while two sisters graced our class. Their parents were in ministry, so these girls knew how to pray. The older one began.
“And God bless Mommy. And God bless Daddy. And God bless my sister who is standing right here. And God bless my Nana. And please tell Grandpa to stop smoking because it smells really bad. And God bless my dolls and my puppy Butterscotch. And, God, please bless our dear Sunday School teacher … what’s your name?”
Immediately her sister gave her a whack on the arm and screamed, “You stole my prayer! You stole my prayer!”
Yeah, and bruised my ego a bit, too! Class dismissed.
“Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD.” — Psalm 127:3
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