The hand

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Thanksgiving Day was near. The first grade teacher 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 tasty foods and fruits 
of the season. All the pupils drew beautiful pictures.

But Douglas made a different kind of picture. Douglas was a different 
kind of boy. He was the teacher's true child. 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 paddy. 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, teacher."
He 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 will go outside." Or, "Let me show you how to hold your pencil." Or, "Let's do this together."

Douglas said "In my life, Im always thankful to you, teacher."

Wiping her tears, she hugged Douglas.