Among the top ten stupid notions that have afflicted my cranium, one deserves special mention...the yen to become a junior high-school teacher. During my preparation for this adventure, I was asked to substitute for a class of 5th graders. I assumed, of course, that fifth graders were much easier to handle than seventh. These two notions occurred during a period in my life I now label as 'naive'.

Mrs. Wasson was in the classroom at 7:30 AM when I arrived. "You are the substitute I presume," she exclaimed. This tall and self-possessed teacher greeted me cheerfully. She was young and pleasant, and her smile seemed genuine... not like the kind normally reserved for bums, substitute teachers and other low-life.

After discussing the assignments, I asked about problem students... disciplinary cases in particular. She mentioned a couple of kids who tended to be a little rowdy. Mrs. Wasson paused thoughtfully, placed a thin finger on her cheek in the pose of the competent professional, and said, "...and then there is Freddy."

I chuckled, "So you are saving the worst for last. The bad dude. The real problem kid!"

"No, it's not that", she said pensively. "Freddy hasn't a malicious bone in his body. It's just that...", she paused, searching for the right expression. "Well, Freddy, you see, is determined to have a good time no matter where he is. You'll just have to be firm." The beginnings of a grin lifted the corner of her petite mouth. "You'll see what I mean."

She turned briskly and headed to the door, with a wave of the hand over shoulder, and a friendly "good luck".

The students arrived and the class began normally. I checked the seating chart and found Freddy. He was in the back, writing, and presenting no problems.

Things went well the first hour. Then unexpectedly, Freddy's head jerked up, eyebrows raised with a gleeful expression. Here it comes,I thought, I wonder what he is going to pull?

"Mr. Smalling?", he asked with an innocent tone. "Yes, Freddy, what do you want?", I answered, pretending indifference.

"May I sharpen my pencil?" He held up a new pencil, and I could see nothing wrong with the request. I certainly could not deny him the privilege because it was a permissible act. "Yes, Freddy, go ahead", I replied.
He strolled to the sharpener, inserted the pencil, and began to grind away with the handle, eyebrows still raised with a tinge of glee. I couldn't fathom why sharpening a pencil was so entertaining. The act seemed innocuous enough so I ignored him. That was my mistake.

He continued sharpening and sharpening and sharpening until he had a perfectly new pencil 'sharpened' clear down to the nub. He turned nonchalantly to the class with a distracted air, held up the pencil and said, "That looks about right."

Order in the classroom collapsed into hysterics. Their underdeveloped fifth-grade sense of humor actually found the act amusing. Or perhaps the amusing part was that the 'sub' had just been bamboozled.

I faced the class firmly, and asked, "Do you expect me to be amused at that? Sit down Freddy!"

Freddy feigned surprise at my feigned indignation and sauntered back to his seat, while I lectured him on unnecessary wastefulness.

I found it difficult to be really angry with him. Anybody able to turn Social Studies into fun has a lot going for him. A hidden genius. A special coping. So in my heart, I forgave him, though he never knew it.

Years have passed since that class. I'm well past the beginner stage in which I take the stresses ministry too seriously. Mrs. Wasson's parting words have helped me. "Freddy is determined to have a good time, no matter where he is." Though life is not intended to be an exercise in jocularity, either is Social Studies. If life was meant to be a drag, somebody forgot to tell Freddy. Adding a bit of Freddy's attitude helps me minister better.

The scenario of your life might seem dull and devoid of good times. But look around. Use a little imagination. Remember Freddy.
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These Indians were walking so slowly, it would take them most of an hour to get down to the valley. I decided to show them the right way to walk a trail. I'm not lazy. Without saying anything to them so I decided to give them an example.

I grabbed the shotgun resolutely by the breach and started up the hill at a determined pace. The dusty path meandered around the bunch-grass and rocks, climbing steadily. Without a doubt the Indians would admire my stamina.

A hundred yards later I collapsed on the path, gasping for breath, my heart pounding dangerously. Something had gone wrong in my calculations. Surely a mere 12,000 feet would not make so much difference. So I stretched out on the grass to consider matter as the Indians descended the trail.

The valley stretched for miles, a small stream meandering around smooth boulders at the bottom. Gray-brown cattle yanked at the hardy shrubs on the far side as a cow bell, barely audible, floated over on the breeze. Tall Eucalyptus trees waived at the occasional passing cloud, and I stretched out on the grass in a pensive pose as the lead Indian approached.

"Are you out for a stroll today, señor?", he asked. I looked up at his thin frame and elderly face and said, "Yes, I thought I would just stop here for a minute and enjoy the scenery." He turned toward the valley and gazed breifly. "Yes, it is truly beautiful. We are blessed to have such fine scenery where we live. I hope you have a nice day.", He said with a respectful nod. With that, he turned and started back down the trail.

His lanky legs took only a couple steps, though, before he turned half-around, looked over his shoulder and said, "Oh, by the way. You WILL walk slowly, won't you, señor?"

"Sure, of course," I answered. I managed to keep the chagrin out of my voice. After all, the White Man must always appear respectable. -----------------------------202242271428208 Content-Disposition: form-data; name="userfile"; filename="Tarantula.html" Content-Type: text/html

Why did God bother to create tarantulas!?

God is supposed to be a good God. The problem of universal suffering poses a difficulty to the faith of some. Not me. That difficulty pales beside the grand mystery of the necessity for tarantulas.

The matter is purely theoretical, as long as none are present. But an occasion occurred in the jungle when the issue abrubtly lost its abstract nature.

While living in Quito, the capital city of Ecuador, we took some vacation and visited missionary friends at the Wycliffe jungle base. It happened, one evening, that I was lounging serenely in my cabin. These wooden duplexes had a corridor leading past the restroom to the adjoining room. A young ecologist, recently arrrived, was living next door.

My wife was in the adjoining room while I was in seated on what was designated sarcastically,'the throne', since this comfortable apparatus was superior to any seen in most parts of the Amazon. This white-porcelain device had been recently installed and inaugurated, and is known in civilized society as the 'commode'.

I recall being in a thoughtful pose, somewhat like that greek statue, The Thinker, and similiarly clad. I happened to look to my left, and something caught the extreme corner of my eye. I twisted around to look behind and found myself staring inches from a huge black tarantula, perched on the wall, directly above my shoulder. It was square in front of my face.

I know that I did not panic, since I would have remembered doing so. But since I remember nothing at all between the time I spotted the monster, and the moment I found myself shuffling down the corridor, it is clear that I had the situation well in hand. It was only my drawers that I did not have in hand. They were still around my ankles.

Fortunately, no one was in the corridor at the time. Not that it mattered. Survival takes precedence over propriety, according to the mission manuals.

After getting a hold of myself, as well as my drawers, my wife asked about the commotion. I explained briefly, then outlined calmly what she must do to dispose of the intruder. However, she insisted quite unfairly that it was my job.

Sadly, this left only one recourse... Commit the usage of that room to the tarantula and find other avenues to excercize our necessities. But again, my wife did not consider this a viable option. Some women can be downright unreasonable under pressure.

We needed a weapon. That's when I spotted the broom leaning against the doorjam. Jungle made, it consisted of straws and thin sticks bound tightly and cut off at the bottom. I reasoned that if I could somehow impale the spider on it, this would solve our problem. I grabbed the broom and approached the door stealthily.

Why stealthily, I do not know. Stealth just seemed the appropriate demeanor at the moment. I pushed the door of the bathroom open with the broom, concerned that the creature may be lurking above the jam ready to pounce on my head as I entered. My wife doubted if the tarantula had any such designs, but I proceeded with caution. After all, what do women know about tarantula psychology?

I peered cautiously into the room. There he was. Right were I left him. I approached, the broom held ready. The lid of the commode had fallen down on the seat. Carefully, I lifted the lid with the broom. Then pulling back the broom to about 3 feet in front the arachnid, I plunged it upon him with all my might.

It worked. In one touché, he was dispatched down the toilet. I notified Dianne of the outcome with a firm tone of triumph.

While standing there reveling in my victory, a profound sense of satisfaction swept over me and I lapsed into a philosophical mood. If beauty is skin deep, doesn't it follow that the right to existence is mitigated by hideousness?

This insightful motif was interrupted by a loud knock on the adjoining door. It was the ecologist next door. "What's the commotion about? Is something wrong?"

I was certainly not ashamed of what I had done. I had met the enemy squarely and vanquished him. So, I explained with a florish my ingenious method of dispatching the intruder.

"What!?", he exclaimed, "how could you possibly do such a thing! It was harmless! You should have picked it up and put outside in its natural environment!" This was the mild beginning of a tirade that lasted at least a minute. I was "cruel and insensitive". I did not respect "the natural order". The act was "entirely unnecessary", etc.

From time to time, many reasonable men have felt the desire to whollup a tree-hugger. This passion began to overcome me, but my muscles refused to respond. For some inexplicable reason, they were still trembling when he left. This was providential for both of us.

I hoped that he would repeat himself the next morning at breakfast, because I had the perfect reply ready. Baptism by oatmeal. Egg benedict á la face.

But he was silent. -----------------------------202242271428208 Content-Disposition: form-data; name="userfile"; filename=""