First Principals

We all have a bad day, sometime. But, Grenville Kent suggests, we need to be more careful when someone else is.

Mr Lowe, our gentleman headmaster, was enthusiastically explaining a maths technique to us, his Year 6 class, when one of the mothers stormed into the room. She had no appointment and he was clearly busy, but the warlike drumming of her heels suggested more urgent issues.

The class collectively sighed. It was Mrs Alton-Nevis (names are changed to protect the hyphenated). We knew her as “Whine and Cheese”—the one who would appear at sports carnivals, all big hair and flashing brand-names, and hur-umph that things were “simply not good enough”—never stopping to help.
She could speak down to taller people. In the school concert of life, she aspired to play the princess but was tragically miscast.

Mr Lowe said, “Morning, Mrs Alton-Nevis. I’ll be free to see you at recess in about 15 minutes.”
“I can’t wait,” she piped “It’s simply not good enough, the way you’ve . . .”
“Excuse me, ma’am, I do have a class.”

But she showed none. She continued attacking our Mr Lowe, right in front of us. We fumed, even boys he’d recently caned. (Somehow Mr Lowe’s canings felt like a reminder of your better self, a compliment to your potential. Or so I heard . . .)
She ended her empty rant with a walkout, nose in the air.

Then came one of those rare and golden moments when life deals justice. She snagged her shoe on the metal strip securing the carpet in the doorway and pitched nose-first towards the floor. Her handbag flew into the air, her skirt flapped up, her small legs bicycled frantically in mid-air. Her arms swam freestyle.

Mayday! Mayday! She’s going in! But she didn’t. Somehow, she managed to get her nose up and some undercarriage down in time to land herself, belting off-balance down the hallway until she recovered her stride.

There was a few seconds of silence. She turned around, her shock turning to anger, lighting up her face. She taxied back up the runway toward Mr Lowe, probably with the intention of verbally strafing him some more. But before she could speak, the classroom erupted, and the laughter of 25 children proved too strong an emotional headwind. She clutched for her handbag and fled (carefully) toward the car park.
There were two people who weren’t laughing, however: Her son. And Mr Lowe. He held up a hand to quiet us, explaining that everyone has “bad days” and that it’s always better to be understanding about these misfortunes. The son’s face showed relief.

Mr Lowe must have read the Proverbs: “Do not gloat when your enemy falls into trouble. When he stumbles, don’t let yourself rejoice, or the Lord will be displeased with you and may remove the trouble from him” (24:17, 18).
And Jesus’ advice: “Love your enemies, do good to them. . . . Then your reward will be great, and you will be true children of God, who is kind to the ungrateful and wicked” (Luke 6:35).

An examination of the crash site later revealed a nail sticking up a few milimetres. We said, “It’s simply not good enough!” and hammered it down.

And looking back, I wonder if Mrs Alton-Nevis actually felt “simply not good enough” about herself. Mr Lowe treated everyone as worthwhile, even in our neediest moments. He gave us a glimpse of the heart of God.

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