She has warm hands

Although my back-to-school moments with children have long passed, I remember them clearly. My daughter, the only girl, was a Velcro child. She stuck so close to me that we moved as one unit.

I decided she needed to go to pre-school a few mornings a week to ease her into the world beyond my pant legs. Like a hound on a foxhunt, I searched out every program for miles around. I sat in show-and-tell circles, noted any potential five-year-old bullies, and examined lesson plans. Finally, I found the perfect program, made especially so because of the teacher.

Although it was held in a church that we were not members of, and the classes were rapidly filling, the director assured me my daughter would be placed in that particular teacher's class. That first day finally arrived. My daughter donned her backpack, and I donned my brave, happy face. I rolled up her sleeve and planted a lipstick kiss on her arm, so she could look at it if she felt insecure.

As we approached the classroom, the director intercepted me, pointed to another room, and said that would be my daughter's."Oh,no," I protested. "I specifically chose that other teacher. She's the only reason we are here."

 Unmoved, the director said Mrs.First-Choice Teacher's room was full, but that Mrs. X was also a wonderful teacher. Not wanting to throw a parental fit in front of all the nervous little children, I handed my daughter over to Mrs. X and hurried to my car where I promptly burst into tears.

All morning, sure my daughter was in duress, I paced, and cried, and ranted, and raved. "Why, Lord? I spent weeks looking for the perfect place for her and at the last minute it all changed."

Finally, in between my complaints, I realized the story of Joseph was playing in the background of my mind. As I paused to pay attention, I remembered the lesson from Joseph's life. In spite of all the bad that happened to him, things he had no control over and that seemed so unfair, God intended it all for good.

The morning passed. Calmed enough to meet her at her classroom door, I expected to find her anxious and in tears. Instead, a happy child laden with crayon drawings greeted me. "How was it?" I asked.

"Good." she said. "I like my teacher. She has warm hands."