It seemed to me that I had communicated that to kids of all ages most of my life. But now I was faced with the challenge of an untapped mission field——retarded children. How could I share Christ with them? I hunted for special materials, but so many seemed inappropriate.
Six months before Melmark was a living breathing reality, I decided to get some practical experience in the field,. I presented myself and my big red-flannel board to a nearby school for brain-damaged and aphasic children. Cautiously, I offered my services as a Bible story teller.
Have you ever taught aphasic children?” they asked me. I hesitated. I wasn’t even sure what the word meant.
“No, but I’m sure I will be able to do it.”
They assigned me three classes which met once a week after school. I was scheduled to begin the following Wednesday.
I rushed to my dictionary the moment I burst into the home.
“Aphasia——loss or impairment of the power to use words, usually resulting from a brain lesion.”
That was enough for me. I would keep my approach quite simple. Eight flannelgraph lessons starting with the creation of the world ought to cover the basics. Included were: Adam and Eve in the garden and the first sin: the sacrifices of Cain and Abel; the judgment of the world at the time of the flood; the birth of baby Jesus, God’s Son’ some of Jesus’ miracles; the crucifixion, and ending with the resurrection of the Lord Jesus.
And then, when I reached the last lesson, I would start all over again. A compact picture of God’s redemption of sinful man—-I hoped!”
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When I was introduced to my first class of eight boys and girls, I noticed that most of them wore hearing aids. Maybe that accounted for the way their eyes followed my every movement. Few had any language development, but they seemed to understand what I was saying to them. I relied heavily on pantomime and writing a few key words in script. That seemed to make the difference.
When Lesson No. 7 was reached, I had fallen in love with each one of them. As I prepared for the story of the crucifixion of Jesus, I prayed that they would really understand. I place the three crosses on the flannel board, arranged the groups of soldiers and women at the foot of the cross, and then stood helplessly to one side looking at them. Where to begin? I was silent for so long a time that, one by one, they slipped out of their seats and gathered around the picture, scrutinizing it closely. I did not stop them.
One small blonde-headed girl reached up and touched the picture of Jesus. She frowned and mouthed the work “hurt….hurt.” Then, with one of her fingers she patted His arm sadly. Two boys stood watching her and pointed their fingers in shame at the soldiers. “Bad, BAD! I was speechless.
And, to this day I have no idea of their depth of perception as to why Jesus died like that.
Approaching my next class with a feeling of complete and utter failure, I prayed quickly, “God, help me!”
This class, although brain-damaged, was of much higher intellectual level. Some were emotionally disturbed. Most were exceedingly verbal. One boy in particular, a Jewish lad named David, was won't to be hyperactive. He had to be cajoled, coaxed and threatened to sit still during the lesson.
Today was no exception.
I told the story of the crucifixion very carefully in simple words. When I was all finished, they continued to sit there very quietly.
“Who can tell me why Jesus died on the cross?” I looked around for a likely prospect.
And David raised his hand.
“OK, David you tell me why.”
David spoke without hesitation.
“Jesus died on the cross to open the gates of heaven that Adam and Eve closed.”
I could not believe my ears.
“David,” I found myself whispering, “That was beautiful! Now, can you tell me how Adam and Eve closed the gates of heaven?”
“Because they sinned!”
And I knew that one child at least knew the reason why!
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It seldom ever happened the way I planned it, even at Melmark.
One Sunday afternoon I decided to teach the miracle of Jesus feeding the five thousand.
“Who knows what a miracle is?”
They frowned at me and waited for me to answer. Some of them could barely pronounce the word. We said it over together a few times.
“I know,” Margaret volunteered. “It’s something only Jesus can do.”
“Great!” I enthused.
“Does Jesus do any miracles now?” I asked them.
“Nooooooooo! They were in complete accord.
“Now , wait just one minute, what about all the money He provided so we could buy Melmark? Wasn’t that a miracle?”
“Yessssss!”
“Who can tell me about another miracle——-not a long-ago kind—-but a today kind?
Patty stood to her feet heavily and spoke haltingly.
“One time—-about two years ago, I think——I went to the hospital and had an operation!” She paused dramatically. “On both my knees!” She looked around at her audience, “But it didn’t help. I could hardly walk. Then, one day I fell down and hit my knees on a big stone. And now they’re all better. I can walk real good. And that was a miracle!”
“It certainly was!” I exulted.
Then I told them the story of the miracle of Jesus multiplying the bread to feed the five thousand. They were fascinated by the “magic” of it all. but, I was pretty certain that they knew what a miracle was.
Ten-year-old Amy helped me carry my story book and flannel board up to the third floor with Melissa. Paul was reading the Sunday paper on the coach.
“Tell Pop-Pop what story we had in Sunday school today!”
Miracle!” she sang out triumphantly. “yes!” I said. “ And what did Jesus do?”
“Jesus fell down and broke His knee!”
Amy’s silky blonde hair fell over her face, covering her big smile.
I had a difficult time convincing Paul I was a good Sunday school teacher.
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We decided to have a Christmas program just for the kids and their parents. We chose the beautiful story by Helen Frazee-Bower called “God’s Tree.” It would adapt beautifully. I set about scheduling rehearsals and enlisting Nancy’s help in the scenery department and costuming problems.
Six-foot trees were cut from paperboard, and the children happily swabbed green paint on them. With a few deft strokes, Nancy indicated the down-sweep of the branches, cut round holes for their excited faces to peer through, and that about wrapped up the scenery.
The parents arrived early that Friday evening. The chateau had never looked more lovely. A lavishly trimmed artificial tree dominated the center hall with its heaping mound of gaily wrapped presents spreading out toward the mirror. Red-flannel stockings adorned the circular stairway, and the children all through the house were in a high pitch of excitement.
It was crowded and growing oppressive in our big playroom. Soon there were no more seats left. Parents stood huddled in doorways, clumped in corners, and spilling over into the hallway.
The lights went out and there was a hushed “ahhh” as we drew back the “diaper-pinned bed-sheet curtains” to reveal the outline of three little cardboard fir trees which had been stapled to the backs of three small baby seats. Two round-faced mongoloid babies and one pig-tailed Lisa leaned back and gazed around unconcernedly as I began to read the script.
“Once upon a time and long, long ago, there were three little fir trees out in the forest. One day they began to talk together about what they would like to be when they grew up.”
“One tree wanted to be made into a cradle so that he could hold a little baby in his arms. The second tree wished that he could be part of a great ship so that he could travel the seven seas. The third little tree just wanted to stand on the hillside and point to God.”
And Jimmy and Rodney, dressed as woodcutter, walked through the audience and approached our step-high stage. They attacked their one-line speeches with great gusto. Paper saws and cardboard axes were wielded enthusiastically.
“And the first little tree was cut down and nailed together to form a crude manger. They shoved it into a dark barn to hold hay and straw for the animals to eat. The first little tree was so sad.”
“But that very night, baby Jesus was place in his arms. Why, he was part of a miracle!”
And then the Orange Room toddlers walked on stage, dressed as angels; haloes askew, and pulling at their gilded wings. Blonde-haired Amy held a large white cardboard birthday cake with one candle in the very center. They hopped, they slid, they shuffled over to the nativity scene, joined hands, and sang a fairly recognizable “Happy Birthday” to Jesus. Then they knelt, folded their hands and bowed their heads as they sang, “Praise Him, Praise Him, all ye little children.” For a moment they forgot all the big people behind them and looked with wide-eyed wonder at the “baby” wrapped in blankets and lying in a manger.
The second little tree was made into a crude fishing boat. The man that owned him, Peter, was not even a good fisherman. But God said, “Wait, I will show you something.’ And He did!
“For one day” and the bed-sheet curtain drew apart again to reveal four of our intermediate boys dressed as disciples , sitting in a two-dimensional cardboard rowboat casting out their fishing nets and hoisting them up again——empty
Then the “voice “ of Jesus told them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. They did.
“Soon their nets were full and spilling over with fish. Why, the second little tree had become part of a miracle!
“The third little tree that had just want ed to stand on the hillside and point to God was soon cut down. He was nailed into the form of a crude cross.
‘Oh,” he said, this is terrible, They are going to hang someone on me.’
But it was for Jesus, the Son of God who died on the tree, that he had become a cross. What better way for the little tree to point the way to god?”
And the curtain closed together for the last time. The sound of handkerchiefs being stuffed into purses mingled with the warm applause. Our first Christmas program had been a huge success. but the, we could hardly lose with such a sympathetic audience.
Later, at refreshment time, a grandmother of one of our Jewish boys, who had been one of the fishermen, drew me aside.
“I never expected to see my grandson grow up to be a disciple of Jesus,” she confided with a gleam in her eyes.
