I'm his mother. What makes you think you know better for him than I do? I who pray and fast for him. Do you do that for each of your 25 students? 25 fasts? Of course not.

Then listen!

Don't sit me in the desk beside him. Don't fifth grade me. Oh, I'm willing (I'm not insulted) but that won't help him. I need plenty of fifth grade, first as well. But this time, this time I can teach.

So listen.

I had it worked out with God. It took me nights of prayer, towels of tears. He told me! Our error as well as the child's. Yet it really wasn't his problem but ours. You were included, but

You didn't listen.

"Well, yes, but . . . ."  "We still have to . . . ."  "The expert says . . . ."
Forgive me, but this time I don't care what the expert says.
God said. And I overheard.

You don't listen.

I could have paddled you. You were too interested in your solving it and adding it to your triumphs. You didn't recognize it solved before your eyes. And frankly you didn't contribute to it.

Too late to listen.

I saw it melt away as God said it would. I saw the miracle. After all was said and done we didn't need you. He let me be enough.

You see, I listened.

You may not have needed to hear for my child's sake.
But you did need to for all the other little ones.

Oh, next time, listen.

Copyright © 2001 Martha Kilpatrick