“And He has put in his heart the ability to teach, in him and Aholiab the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan. He has filled them with skill to do all manner of work of the engraver and the designer and the tapestry maker, in blue, purple, and scarlet thread, and fine linen, and of the weaver—those who do every work and those who design artistic works” (Exodus 35:34,35).
My Mother Was Right by Marcia Lee Laycock
I should have listened to her.
“You’d be a good teacher,” she’d say, as I pondered what to do with my life after high school. But I wanted to write, not teach.
Then I had to decide between the creative writing program at UBC in Vancouver and the Journalism program at Carleton U. in Ottawa.
“Can you make a living writing poetry in Canada?” My ever-practical dad kept asking that question. I listened to him and have often wondered if I made the right choice, though my years studying journalism at Carleton have often proven their worth.
I remembered both my parents’ words one day when I walked into a classroom full of students (mostly boys) in grades 7 to 9. It was literacy week at that Christian school and they had asked me to come and talk about poetry. The small room was packed, several grade nine boys leaning against the back wall with their arms crossed over their chests, slight smirks on their faces. My first thought was, oh-oh, I’m in trouble! They were prepared to be bored, prepared to tune me out. So I prayed a familiar prayer - “Lord, I’m going to need some help here!”
I had decided to tell stories as I talked about creating poetry that day, and had planned to end with a story about Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit who nudged me to tell that story first. It is an inspiring story. When Mr. Solzhenitsyn was released from a Russian prison, some of his friends threw a party. Thousands of people showed up. They asked him to recite some of his work. He chose a poem about the freedom of a man’s spirit and his connection to God. Overcome with emotion, he was unable to continue. So the entire audience – an audience of over 3,000 people – recited the rest of the poem for him, in a whisper. They couldn’t do it out loud for fear of being discovered and arrested.
Even possessing a copy of that poem could have meant jail time for those people. But they knew the words by heart. Mr. Solzhenitsyn’s words, which had been smuggled out of the prison at great risk, were precious to them, worth risking their freedom, worth suffering for.
I proposed to those young boys that words can change lives; poetry can give us hope and strength and even a measure of faith. I talked about the fact that creating such art is vital to our civilization, and to our very lives.
And those boys dropped their arms and leaned forward, caught by the story. Many of them created some fine poetry that afternoon. So yes, my mother was right. I thank God that he often gives me opportunity to teach. I thank Him too, for giving me the Holy Spirit, who guides and directs me, especially at times when I’m faced with a group of grade nine boys who don’t think they want to know what I’ve come to teach them.
God has indeed filled us “with skill to do all manner of work,” not just for our own delight, but for the delight and benefit of others, that they might know and see and believe in the goodness of our God.
