In 1963, I was an eighth grade student at Whitehall Junior High School, a part of the Baldwin - Whitehall School District in the South Hills of Pittsburgh. I don’t know if this is true in today’s schools, but back then the curriculum included some instruction in what I refer to as “hands on” subjects. These subjects were Home Economics, Wood Shop, and Metal Shop. I guess the thinking at the time was that a well-rounded education included some basic skills regarding cooking, sewing, and making stuff out of wood or metal.
Eighth grade was the year for Metal Shop, and that meant coming face to face with the dreaded “Reagan” – the Metal Shop teacher. Mr. Reagan was probably “forty-something” years old. He had a flat-top hair cut and carried himself with the demeanor of an ex-marine. Mr. Reagan was a “my way or the highway” type of guy, and his highway led straight to his office, where he was well known for swatting misbehaving students on the backside with a wooden paddle. (Yes, there was a time “back in the day” when teachers and administrators actually disciplined students with a paddle.)
Mr. Reagan’s shop was always clean and well organized, and every student entering his domain was introduced to a strict set of rules. As you would expect, there were no desks and chairs – only eight wooden work benches. Each bench was about waist high, and large enough to accommodate four students working on small projects involving metal.
At the start of each class, all students were seated on the work benches while Mr. Reagan explained the day’s activities, with a heavy emphasis on safety issues. Some of his rules actually addressed how we were to sit on the work benches. We were required to sit with our backs straight – no slouching allowed. Heads had to be up with all eyes on the teacher. And, since Mr. Reagan would walk among the benches as he talked, we were not permitted to swing our legs as we sat there. (The benches were high enough that when we sat on them, our feet did not reach the floor.)
This highly structured environment was just not a “good fit” for me back in 1963. I was a sullen, hot-tempered, rebellious 13 year old, and I did not like Mr. Reagan or his rules, and I didn’t make much of an attempt at hiding my feelings.
One day at the start of class, I sat on the work bench, head down, in a slouching position with my legs swinging ever so slightly. Reagan’s gruff voice barked at me “Sit up, Ryce!” I ignored him.
Eighth grade was the year for Metal Shop, and that meant coming face to face with the dreaded “Reagan” – the Metal Shop teacher. Mr. Reagan was probably “forty-something” years old. He had a flat-top hair cut and carried himself with the demeanor of an ex-marine. Mr. Reagan was a “my way or the highway” type of guy, and his highway led straight to his office, where he was well known for swatting misbehaving students on the backside with a wooden paddle. (Yes, there was a time “back in the day” when teachers and administrators actually disciplined students with a paddle.)
Mr. Reagan’s shop was always clean and well organized, and every student entering his domain was introduced to a strict set of rules. As you would expect, there were no desks and chairs – only eight wooden work benches. Each bench was about waist high, and large enough to accommodate four students working on small projects involving metal.
At the start of each class, all students were seated on the work benches while Mr. Reagan explained the day’s activities, with a heavy emphasis on safety issues. Some of his rules actually addressed how we were to sit on the work benches. We were required to sit with our backs straight – no slouching allowed. Heads had to be up with all eyes on the teacher. And, since Mr. Reagan would walk among the benches as he talked, we were not permitted to swing our legs as we sat there. (The benches were high enough that when we sat on them, our feet did not reach the floor.)
This highly structured environment was just not a “good fit” for me back in 1963. I was a sullen, hot-tempered, rebellious 13 year old, and I did not like Mr. Reagan or his rules, and I didn’t make much of an attempt at hiding my feelings.
One day at the start of class, I sat on the work bench, head down, in a slouching position with my legs swinging ever so slightly. Reagan’s gruff voice barked at me “Sit up, Ryce!” I ignored him.
I could almost feel the tension rise in the room as I sat there on my work bench – still slouched, head still down, legs still swinging.
In fairness to Mr. Reagan, not only were his rules were clearly communicated, but so were the consequences of violating the rules. Everyone knew that the consequence included a trip to his office for a few painful swats of the paddle. I was - how should I say this – stupid – and I chose to ignore his command.
“Ryce! Did you hear me?” he growled. I continued to ignore Mr. Reagan, who I found could move surprisingly fast. Suddenly, I was snatched off the work bench and dragged into his office, where the door slammed with a mighty bang. Mr. Reagan threw me into his desk chair, and before I came to rest, I spotted the paddle. The dreaded instrument of discipline was hung on the wall in the same manner in which some people display their firearms. Looking back, I realize that it was about the size of a cricket bat, but at the time it seemed more like a boat oar. Expecting that I was about to have a close encounter with the paddle, I was no longer ignoring Mr. Reagan.
Our “conversation” started with a simple question- “What’s your problem, Ryce?”
With downcast eyes and quivering voice, I answered “I don’t like all these rules.”
To my surprise, Mr. Reagan’s demeanor softened as he asked “Why do you suppose I have all these rules?” I simply shrugged in reply. He then proceeded to explain to me the necessity of “running a tight ship” in a shop area where the “tools of the trade” – (hammers, anvils, blow torches, soldering irons, saws…) could otherwise be very dangerous – especially with a bunch of goofy 13 year old boys. I really couldn’t dispute his logic.
“But why do we have to sit up straight? Why is that so important?” I asked.
“It’s a ‘small discipline’. If you can’t be disciplined in the small stuff, you’re not very likely to be disciplined in the big stuff.” That didn’t make much sense to me at the time, but years later I realized the wisdom of his words.
“Listen, Ryce. Just follow the rules and things will go well for you. You might even find that you can use your talent in here – actually enjoy this class.” (Somehow he knew that I had some artistic talent for drawing and painting.)
I had nothing to say. I glanced at the paddle, hanging ominously on the wall. Seeing this, Mr. Reagan said “Not this time”, and sent me back out to join the rest of my classmates.
Although I didn’t think in these terms at the time, I realize now that Mr. Reagan was merciful to me. His rules were clear. The consequences of violating his rules were clear. Anyone violating the rules deserved the consequences. But he didn’t give me what I deserved. He was merciful.
Metal Shop was different for me after my visit to Mr. Reagan’s office. I suppose I realized that he could have made me pay the penalty for my insolence. I knew that it would have been very painful. Somehow, the fact that he didn’t give me what I deserved changed my attitude about Metal Shop and Mr. Reagan. I now wanted to do well in his class, and I think it was because I had some sense of the extent of his mercy.
Don’t ask me why a memory from over 45 years ago came back to mind. I have no idea – other than the obvious (to me) similarity to my Christian walk. When I remember the extent of God’s mercy, it changes my attitude, and I want to do well – living a life worthy of the calling I have received.
Daniel 9:9
The Lord our God is merciful and forgiving, even though we have rebelled against him;
May we always remember His mercies.
In Christ –
John
Soli Deo Gloria