It was not a school where she felt she felt she wholly belonged. She was not Roman Catholic and she was one of the few East Indians in the school.
One of her classes was Art and she loved it so very much as she had always loved drawing and some people said she was good too.
Her teacher was Syrian and in this little girl's eyes, looked so soft and beautiful.
Whenever there was homework or in-class artwork, the teacher chose the best and put them on display on the bulletin board at the front of the class.
Well, this girl's work was usually there, although she never heard a word of praise or encouragement from her teacher.
One day, the teacher gave a homework assignment to do a drawing inspired by a poem.
This little girl chose The Vagabond as that poem had somehow captured her imagination.
And that night, she drew and coloured and touched up that picture many times to her heart's delight.
She loved her creation and could not wait to show her teacher.
The next day, the teacher took the artwork and said not a word to this little girl, but put in on the board for display.
At recess time, this little girl could not help but go stand in front of that board and smile. Wow. She had put her heart and soul in it.
Suddenly she heard voices behind her. Her art teacher was showing her colleague the art. They stood behind her as they looked at her drawing.
The colleague remarked, "That is quite good."
Her art teacher responded, "Oh, she got help."
These words sunk in slowly as she turned to look at her teacher. The eyes that met hers revealed a hostility that this girl could not comprehend.
It suddenly occurred to her. My teacher does not like me.
Those words cut deep and revealed a couple of things: her teacher assumed she lied and lacked integrity; and secondly, her drawing must have been quite good, because her teacher thought someone helped her.
Years later, a middle-aged woman wondered what would have happened if she had been recognized and encouraged in her passion and talent for art. She's often wanted to pursue her childhood passion but in later years never had funds to get any training.
But something brought this incident back to her mind recently and she decided to go back, read that poem again and try to reproduce the drawing from so many years ago.
She found she could not. She remembered that face of the vagabond, the bright colours, the details, the blotches on his cheerful face. How she wished she had saved this. In her mind, it was and always will be the best of her artistic creations. And so she grieves.
But perhaps, this is a new beginning borne out of going back.
That girl was me.
And here is the poem and a new drawing.
The Vagabond
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river -
There's the life for a man like me,
There's the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field -
Warm the fireside haven -
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.
This time the guest of honour is not my art teacher who disliked me, but it is Jesus and I choose to give His words the weight it deserves.
And so now, He stands behind me, looks over my shoulder, and says, "My child, that is a masterpiece. You put your all into this, glorifying me. Well done."
The words I have waited over 40 years to hear and these words actually count.
And yeah, He likes me.
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