Compassion benefits bullies

Raymond's success

Soon we were meeting for reading sessions twice a week and Raymond began to blossom. He soaked up my praise and attention like a parched plant.

Some days I would reward him with his favourite treats for doing well. Other days I could see he was exhausted and having trouble coping; there were many nights when he went to bed later than I did. Those were the times I read to him while he put his head down on the desk and just listened. Sometimes his leg would rest against mine.

Raymond seemed determined not to let anyone get close to him, but sometimes he would suddenly open up. I tried to be understanding when he told me he'd seen his father throw his mother down the stairs before they divorced, but I admit to being lost for words when he boasted about setting fire to his uncle's garage. Countless times I prayed for wisdom.

Astonishing the school staff, Raymond quickly worked his way up through several reading levels. As word got out, a teacher or the principal would often tiptoe in and out of the room, apparently to drop off papers or look for something. I knew that, really, they wanted to see how the two of us were getting along.

I was congratulated on Raymond's remarkable progress. The principal said that Raymond's success in reading was spilling over into his other schoolwork and dramatically improving it. Nonplussed, the teachers shook their heads and said that whatever I was doing, it was working.

The news spread beyond the school. One morning an educational consultant from the school board happened to visit while I was with Raymond. "Keep on doing what you're doing," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "It's making such a difference."

Raymond could still be trying at times, but I didn't tolerate any nonsense. I tried to be fair and firm. Finally, we grew to genuinely like each other. I would put my arm around his shoulder as we walked down the hall.

As the school year drew to a close, Raymond and I learned that he had done so well, he no longer needed my help. I presented him with a hardcover volume of short stories and explained how proud I was of him. He held the book tightly, said nothing and staredat the floor.

A wonderful thing happened to Raymond throughout that year of our mornings together. A wonderful thing also happened to me: a bitter heart once filled with dislike for a difficult child was gripped and changed.

When Raymond and I read, with our heads bent over our books and our shoulders touching, something special filled the classroom we shared. I believe it was a miracle. I believe it was a miracle not because of good deeds or determination or diligence, but because of a simple thing called love.