Violin Lesson

 

And the servant of the Lord

must not strive;

but be gentle unto all men,

apt to teach, patient. . . .

— 2 Timothy 2:24

             

            Some people can sew. Some can design bridges. Some can keep a hula hoop going.

 

            I can't do any of that. But by golly, I can spell. Spelling is my life; I'm only half-kidding about that. When I run into a misspelling by someone who should know better, it's like getting slugged in the stomach:

 

            "Recieve." BIFF!!!

 

            "You're turn." BAM!!!

 

            "Best of it's kind." POW!!!

 

            But with parent-teacher conferences coming up, I need to share a tale of what NOT to do if you find yourself in a Spelling Situation, as I did years ago.

 

            One of our kids had a teacher who was a rilly pore spailer. She sent home a weekly note to parents with a misspelled word or grammar howler in nearly every sentence. Several times, she circled words on my child's paper as being spelled wrong, when they were spelled right. This teacher's spelling skills were below the grade level at which she was teaching.

 

            Moreover, the spelling words she gave each week were ridiculously easy. A wise friend explained that if most of the kids got 100% on the tests, the teacher could use those scores to offset the poor scores of the handful of struggling students, and make herself "look good on paper."

 

            She refused to let the advanced kids out of the regular curriculum. She refused offers from parent volunteers to come in to class and work with kids on more challenging spelling words.

 

            Because I'm so spelling sensitive, each incident felt like a judo chop. My distress grew.

 

            Finally, came time for our parent-teacher conference. She bragged that, because she was our school's union representative, she was being sent to a weeklong writing conference in a faraway state.

 

            Ironically, I had brought her a copy of the famous writing manual, The Elements of Style by Strunk & White. I said it had only cost $4.99, but she would get more good out of it than the thousands of dollars her writing conference would cost taxpayers.

 

            Her face got beet red.

 

            Whoops! Better justify myself. Speaking rapidly, I told her about the misspelled words on her letters home, the words on my daughter's papers that were mistakenly "corrected," the artificially high class grade average that exposed the too-easy curriculum . . .

 

            . . . and now she was mad.

 

            She sputtered that her own dad habitually misspelled her own first name, and that she was the first person in her family to go to college, much less gain a respected job like teaching. She'd been teaching for over 20 years. She was single; her job was important to her. She was doing the best she could. Was I saying she wasn't a good teacher?

 

            I finally understood. I might have been right . . . but I sure wasn't being kind.

 

            I hurriedly apologized, and rushed into the rainy October night to start my car. Inexplicably, classical music blared out of the car radio -- at three times normal speed and volume.

 

            DADADAHHHHHHH!!! DADADADAAAAHHHHHH!!!! DADADADADADADADAHHHHHHHH!!!!!

           

            It was so fast and so loud! It was painful!

 

            It felt like the violin bows were jabbing out of the radio and stabbing me in the eye!

 

            I punched at the buttons wildly. Finally, it fell silent.

 

            I sat in the dark car, with the windshield wipers beating a gentle rhythm. I sank my head onto my clenched hands on the steering wheel, and cried.

 

            How that music had sounded to me, I had sounded to her.

 

            I hadn't helped. I had hurt.

 

            And God was showing me what a lousy teacher I'd been . . . for her.

 

            I cried for being mean and prideful, and for not using my most important communication skill - not spelling, but THINKING. With empathy, I would have helped get better spelling in place. Instead, I'd made a mess.

 

            That was years ago. Since then, I've been strictly Mrs. Positive with teachers. When I see an academic shortcoming, I quietly supplement at home, and voila! Problem solved. Teachers' feelings spared.

 

            That's the kind of lesson you learn when you let the Lord Jesus hold the violin of your life. He'll let you run the bow over the strings, back and forth, not too hard, not too soft, helping you get into the right relationship rhythms and patterns so you can make beautiful music with other people.

 

There's no misspelling in music . . . or love. †