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To fatten their bones

RuthAnn M. Robbins

WHY “Why Is the Pie In the Sky Mine When Others Need it to Fatten their Bones?”

I wrote that poem after teaching remedial math and reading to inner-city third graders in a summer missions program in Pasadena, California. It summarizes my feelings about life quite succinctly. Not that I have ever been rich – in fact, the summer the poem was written I was living on Kool-Aid and macaroni and cheese. Even so, I’ve always had more than enough love and hope in my life.

One little boy stands out from that summer. His name was Ryan. He had a face made for mischief – big dark brown eyes, a grin with a chipped tooth that seemed to hide a thousand pranks, and dark brown curls that begged to be ruffled. He wasn’t very tall for an eight-year-old, and he had an answer for everything. He was the smartest kid in the class – and he was my troublemaker. His mouth seemed to never stop moving, and neither did his hands – they were constantly punching and hitting his neighbours or grabbing a pencil that didn’t belong to him and holding it out of reach. I think he spent more time in the “time-out chair” than in the reading circle. When he did a breakdance spin in the middle of one of my lessons, I had had enough. I handed my class over to another teacher and marched him to the principal’s office.

“I can’t have this boy disrupting my class,” I said.

The principal nodded, talked to Ryan for a few minutes and then sent him back to class. She motioned for me to take the chair where Ryan had been sitting.

“What do you know about Ryan’s family?”

I admitted that I knew nothing.

“His father is in jail, and his mother’s a junkie who dumped him at his grandmother’s so she could party with her new boyfriend.”

I stared at her, not speaking. I hadn’t thought that his grin could hide a thousand hurts.

‘’Be gentle with him. His grandmother’s a good woman, but she’s not well.”

I nodded. My thoughts wandered back to my eighth birthday. I spent that birthday at boarding school with my parents far away, but at least I knew they loved me and I knew my Heavenly Father was always with me. Compared to Ryan’s, my life’s pie was full and rich. I resolved to give him at least a taste of the “pie in the sky” that had been given to me.

The next day, Tuesday, I invited my class to bake cookies at my house on Friday. I handed out permission slips at the end of class and then went shopping for snickerdoodle ingredients.

On Friday, we walked to my house after school. To most of the kids, the backyard looked more interesting than the kitchen, but I herded them inside. While the others looked longingly at the backyard and sunshine, Ryan watched as I measured the flour and other ingredients. I had the kids take turns counting spoonfuls, pouring ingredients and mixing. Their interest quickly drifted to the butterflies dancing on the flowers and the deep green grass. I released them to go and play.

Ryan stayed and stared at the cookie dough.

“Do you want to help me finish?”

He nodded.

“The trick is to put a little oil on your hands so the dough doesn’t stick,” I said as I rolled a bit of dough into a ball. We soon had a stack of miniature dough balls sitting on the cutting board. It was time for the sugar coating.

“Pretend your fingers are feet, and kick the ball around the bowl until it has cinnamon sugar all over it,” I said.

We didn’t talk much as we worked, but there was a connection beyond words.

I called the other kids in when we had all the balls of dough lined up on the cookie sheets like children waiting at the classroom door for recess. I handed each kid a glass. I told them to push the balls flat with the bottom of the glass. I carried the first cookie sheets of smashed dough balls to the oven. Since I didn’t have a timer, I told the kids to watch through the glass of the oven door until the cookies became crinkled on top.

I turned to the counter and sink full of dirty measuring cups, bowls, spoons and glasses. With a sigh, I started in on the cleanup. When I looked toward the oven again, I saw that most of the kids had drifted to other parts of the house, but Ryan sat staring through the glass of the oven door.

“I think they’re crinkly. Is that crinkly enough?”

I walked over to see and pulled the sheet of freshly baked cookies out of the oven. I slid them onto the waiting cooling racks.

“Have you ever made cookies before, Ryan?” I asked.

He shook his head. I handed him a cookie.

I bit into my own cookie and looked him in the eyes. “Well, you made these, and I think they’re good.”

He smiled a small crooked smile with crumbs in his teeth. It was a proud and happy smile, not angry or smart-alecky like so many of the other expressions I had seen on his face.

Ryan and I still had our troubles in the classroom, but I understood a little better. I think he realized that I wasn’t out to get him when I disciplined him for his behaviour.

I haven’t seen Ryan since that summer 13 years ago. His grandmother died, and he went to live with his aunt in another part of the city. I have prayed that life would be better for him and that somehow the hurts would be healed. I hope the afternoon of the snickerdoodles fed some of the starving bones of his soul. Whenever I start to think how little I have or what troubles I have, I remember Ryan and many others I’ve met along life’s road, and I realize that my pie is big and full of chocolate cream, and I want to share a little to fatten their bones.


RuthAnn M. Robbins lives in Los Angeles, Calif.

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Last modified July 16, 2000.

© 2000 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
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