In early November, I told the pupils in my class I taught in Delaware about my plan. “I'd like all of you to do extra jobs around the house to cam some money,” I said. “Then we'll buy food for a Thanksgiving dinner for someone who might not have a nice dinner otherwise.”

I wanted them to understand that religion is more than noble ideas; that people somehow have to make it come alive. I hoped they could experience a sense of their own power to make changes.

Early in Thanksgiving week, the boys and girls arrived in class holding their hard-earned money. They had set tables, washed dishes, cared for younger sisters or brothers. And now they couldn't wait to go shopping.

I supervised (监督) while they moved quickly up and down the supermarket. At last we headed toward the checkout, pushing a cart (购物车) filled with turkey and other pieces of food. Then someone spotted a “necessity” that sent them racing.

“Flowers!” Kristine cried. The group ran toward the holiday plants.

It was more meaningful to use any extra money to buy staples (主食) that could be stretched into meals. After all, I pronounced, “You can't eat flowers.”

“But Mrs. Sherlock, we want flowers." Defeated, 1 looked at the collection of purple chrysanthemums (菊花). “She’ll like this one,” the children agreed, and put the purple plant into the cart gently.

An agency had given us the name and address of a needy grandmother who had lived alone for many years.

Soon we were bouncing along a road to her house. The atmosphere in the car was definitely not spiritual. “You're squishing (压扁) me!” one voice announced. “I think I'm scared of strangers,” said another. Between giggling (咯咯地笑) and punching, and those purple flowers, I wasn't sure that any lesson about giving and receiving was getting through.

We finally pulled up in front of a small house.