Today is Teddy's 17th birthday. She's been through a lot with me these last nearly two decades, and she wasn't supposed to be mine to begin with.
Our Sunday school teacher at church motivated us with a point system. We would earn points for memorizing Bible verses, completing worksheets, and participating in class. The points could be used to trade for prizes at the end of the semester. I didn't particularly care about earning points so I didn't make an effort to do anything extra aside from going to class on Sundays because I had to go to church.
On the Sunday when we were trading in our points for prizes, the teacher pulled out an array of toys, games, and trinkets, and displayed them on the table. He called up the students first with the highest points earned that year to choose their prizes. After everyone with points had chosen their prizes, he was still left with a lot of toys and gifts on the table. He piled them all back into his bag but then changed his mind and pulled them back out again and set them on the table. He started calling us up one at a time to go pick something, not because we had earned the points to get a prize, but because he deemed us worthy of choosing one. He called me up to pick a prize and said I paid attention in class and didn't disrupt the class during lessons.
I timidly walked up and picked one of the few remaining teddy bears from the table and brought it back to my seat. From the very beginning, there was something so charming and so cute about this little bear.
Over the years, this bear has seen it all - the good days and the bad. Her wounds and scars are just a sampling of the experiences we've endured together. Her nose is no longer perfectly smooth and shiny, but chipped in small places from years of play and some abuse. There's a furless line running down the front from every time she's been through the washing machine, each time growing a little longer until it reached from her neck seam to the leg. She's missing toes on her left leg because the threads have pulled out. Her stuffing and beads are all mashed up and in the wrong places now. Both of her legs have been torn through years of ransom tug of war with my mother, and of course, I'd always have to let go through tears when I heard the seam rip. And my mother always sewed it up because she knew how I loved the bear.
I actually ran into my old Sunday school teacher at our church about a year ago. I mustered up the courage to walk up to him and say hi. He vaguely remembered that class and some of the other students. I told him about the bear he'd given to me and how I still had it. He met my husband and was a bit surprised at how early we'd gotten married.
Even now, 17 years later, weathered and worn, she possesses this same charm and cuteness. Happy birthday little bear. I've not forgotten that you were given to me through grace.
