The studio where I teach sewing is a sweet gig. Someone else finds the students, stocks the fabric, pays the rent, and pays me. I show up with knowledge in my pocket and rapport with young girls. 

Things are even more streamlined this term, with an app that I clock in on, which also does me the favor of reminding me of my shift. If I neglect to clock out it will give me a quick text. I love it. 

Another upgrade is the policy of two teachers. While I did fine last fall with a room full of novice sewists, it is much calmer with two of us to solve problems. The assistant is usually a high school student who has herself made a thing or two in her life. Her current project is the dress she will wear to prom. 

On occasion, she takes me aside to inform me of how things are done. She learned in a certain order, and is willing to get me up to speed. The thing is, there is more than one way to sew a cat, or an apron, or a tote bag. But I always listen. 

Last week, as the students were cleaning up, and we were getting ready for the next class, she asked to show me something. She drew pictures, to make the point clear.

"When you make ears for a bear, you can insert them in the head seam, upside down, and when you turn it all right side out they will be where you want them." 

I said nothing. As it happens, I intended to help the student sew them on by hand, as another worthwhile skill. But I thanked her. 

My ego wanted to say that I have been making stuffed bears since before she was born. Since before her mother was born. I have made enough giraffes, and cheetahs, and rabbits, and sloths to fill a zoo. A stuffed zoo, but still. 

Yet her intention was to help me, and I kept my mouth shut. 

Driving home that afternoon, I thought about how I give pointers to God. There are problems that I could weigh in on, ideas He might not have thought of. In a friendly way, of course. 

What astonishes me, is that He keeps quiet when I do.