It Only Takes One

My father was a career military officer and his work required him to transfer every two or three years to a different Air Force base. When I was 3-years-old we moved to Udine, Italy, where I spent my early childhood and started school. I began my formal education in the first grade because there weren’t enough teachers for a kindergarten class. The first and second grades met in one classroom and were taught by one teacher. Needless to say my elementary school years were more about crowd control than learning my ABCs.

During my sixth grade year my Dad was transferred to Columbus, Mississippi, where I attended a school off base. There were only 20 or so kids in my class and for the first time my educational weaknesses were exposed. After just a few weeks my teacher, Blanche Ergle, called my mom and explained to her that I was severely behind the other students.

Like most educators Mrs. Ergle loved her students and offered to help me if I would spend an hour after school with her three days a week. When she told me of her plan I was embarrassed and insulted and defiantly refused her offer. While I stewed over a long weekend, I finally bowed to pressure when my parents told me they would not allow me to play sports unless I agreed to my teacher’s proposal.

For the next six or seven months this amazing woman prepared extra lessons to help me catch up. After school she would often go to the cafeteria and pop some popcorn and bring it back to our classroom, where we would munch on popcorn and visit. She asked me about myself and got to know my interests and hobbies, and told me stories about her children and grandchildren. She became more than a teacher, she became my friend.

But catching up with my sixth grade classmates was labor intensive, and almost every night I took books home with additional homework beyond our normal sixth grade assignments. When I looked at the book covers and discovered I was studying 3rd and 4th grade material, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Mrs. Ergle continued to encourage me, though, with her kind and patient ways. After several months I began to feel a little more confident in my classwork. Instead of Ds on my grade report, now there were Cs and even a few Bs. But, even more important, I began to enjoy learning and looked forward to school and even the afternoon sessions I spent with my teacher.

I didn’t finish the year with all As, but I made significant progress and that improvement prepared me for high school and college. Under her guidance she nurtured within me a love for learning that continues to this day. Blanche Ergle changed my life.

When in the 1990s I looked her up and found she still resided in Columbus, Mississippi, I wrote her a letter and shared with her the influence she had on my life. I was delighted when a few weeks later I received a hand written letter from Mrs. Ergle. She was now in her late 80s and her health was fragile, but her letter was warm and appreciative. Unfortunately, she didn’t remember me. At first I was disappointed but after some reflection, it made perfect sense. Mrs. Ergle spent her life helping kids like me. She must have taken under her wing countless girls and boys and helped them to get up to speed in the classroom. I was just one of the fortunate many whose life she impacted.

A few years later her daughter sent me a letter to let me know that her mom had passed away. Along with the letter was Mrs. Ergle’s obituary. The death notice listed her family members, noted that she had spent her career in the public school system, and even mentioned that she had taught a Sunday School class of children at the First Baptist Church.

There were no statues erected in Mrs. Ergle’s honor or parades or celebrations in recognition of her achievements. No famous politicians attended her funeral service and the national media made no mention of her in their nightly news broadcasts, but I can’t think of a more noble life. To change the life of just one person for the better, let alone hundreds, is one of life’s greatest achievements.

I stand in awe of people who are driven, not by the lust for wealth or power, but by the desire to lift other people up. In our competitive culture we are often so busy striving to climb the next rung on the ladder, we overlook the ones struggling below us. We sometimes think for us to win, others must lose, and, unfortunately, the higher on the ladder we climb, the more we lose touch with those below us. And when we begin to think that our success has elevated us above others, well, then we have lost touch with God.

The late Fred Craddock, professor of homiletics, tells the story of having lunch in a restaurant with his wife while on vacation in Tennessee when a stranger sat down at the table with them. They were shocked and even annoyed that someone they didn’t even know would take such liberties.

Almost immediately the elderly man launched into a story about a boy born illegitimately in the hills of Tennessee at the turn of the 20th century. In those days a child born out of wedlock had to deal with insults and name calling every single day. His life was a nightmare of daily humiliation.

As the boy grew older, for some strange reason, he enjoyed attending a local church in town. He would arrive late and sit on the back pew and slip out early, so he wouldn’t be confronted by people who could sometimes be cruel with their demeaning comments.

One Sunday, just as the service was about to conclude, the preacher slipped out and hurried to the back of the church. The preacher had noticed the boy, but before he could meet him, the boy always disappeared. As the boy hurried to leave the church, the preacher caught up with him and looked squarely into his eyes. Then the preacher said, “Boy, you remind me of a child of. . .”

The boy flinched. He could barely endure what he had heard so often from classmates and people in town, words that stung and made him feel small and insignificant and dirty. And now to hear the preacher say them, well, that was just too much. He braced himself and faced the preacher stoically, prepared for another crude remark, determined never to enter church again.

Then the preacher finished his sentence. “Yes, sir, boy, you remind me of . . . in fact, you are the spitting image of . . . a child of God! Now go out and claim your inheritance.”

Ben Hooper - Two Term Tennessee Governor, 1911 to 1915.

Fred Craddock was deeply touched by the story and asked for the man’s name. The gray-haired gentleman replied, “Ben Hooper.” Fred thought for moment and then slowly drawled, “You know, my father told me about an illegitimate child, raised here in these mountains, who was twice elected governor of Tennessee. I believe his name was Ben Hooper.”

The old man’s lips formed just a hint of a smile, and then he stood from his chair to leave the table but not before a final parting comment. He bent toward Fred and said softly, “I was born that day.”

One person can change another person’s life—forever! A school teacher, a minister, a priest, a rabbi, a parent, a physician or someone in business, anyone who takes the time to care, to speak an encouraging word, to help another human being envision a more promising future can make all the difference.

Maybe that person can be you!