I Praised a Sandwich and He Stopped Sharing

Tuesday I had Ben on a blanket past the third-base fence for the last stretch of practice, with David out on the field, and a dad in a navy Jazz hat held his phone sideways and told the boys that next week they'd walk along the fence and pick up trash so the other families could see it. Caleb looked over at me with his glove still on. I got very busy with a pebble in Ben's sandal.

The sandwich he didn't want named

Cole was eight and in my third-grade class in Orem on Thursday, March 3, 2005, my second year of teaching. His lunch was a cheese sandwich on the square white bread, cut in half and wrapped in a paper towel, plus a small bag of carrot sticks he kept. Maya, at his table, had a milk and nothing else. I was at the door with a boy who'd soaked his sleeve in the drinking fountain and was explaining, water in his shoes, that it had been an accident, so my back was to the tables.

Half the sandwich was by Maya's elbow when I turned around. The paper towel was damp where a thumb had pressed it. A boy across from them said Cole had given it to her. Cole said, "No I didn't," with carrot still in his mouth, eyes on his own napkin.

Maya ate the half. She didn't thank him out loud.

After lunch I put the class on the carpet and thanked Cole in front of everyone. I said I was proud of him for sharing, and that we were the kind of class that noticed kind people. The routine was hands flat on knees, and they did it while Cole looked at the carpet with a crumb on his cheek.

There was a Friday line in my plan book for a public thank-you, and his sandwich was the cleanest example I'd had all year. I was twenty-five, and I drove home pleased with myself.

He ate what he brought for the rest of March and straight through April.

I watched anyway.

The carrots stayed on his side and nothing else crossed the table. I left the Friday line in the plan book until the last week of May, because crossing it out meant writing down that the line had been for me.

What they can finish without me in the room

The small acts of service kids can do are the ones they can finish while I'm in the other room. If the person receiving it needs me there to explain what just happened, the errand was mine.

A two-year-old can carry a cracker to someone and let go. If he eats it on the way, I let it go too. He's two. A handprint card is my project, since I chose the person, painted the palm and wrote the sentence while he stood there.

From about five to eight, the acts I trust are dull ones a child can finish without me announcing a project. A card in their own spelling, apple slices in a bag they closed, cups they picked up because they saw the cups. An eight-year-old can stir cookie dough, and that part can be theirs, while I run the oven and decide if the plate goes out at all. I've written about a dinner being more for the cook than for the people who have to eat it, in A Meal Is Not Always a Gift to the Family Eating It, and a child beside a tray has that same problem.

My kids notice an empty place faster than I do, including a friend who stopped coming to church, and what I told them is in A Friend Stopped Coming to Church and My Kids Noticed. A missing lunch is smaller, and an eight-year-old can do something about it while I'm still picking a polite sentence.

An eleven-year-old can walk a neighbor's empty can up the driveway or rake one bed. A bake sale needs a parent for the cash box, the sign and the ride home, and the thanks come back with that parent's name on them.

If they want you to see it

Parenting Science says, "When you praise kids every time they do something they enjoy, it might actually reduce their intrinsic motivation." I wrote it down because of Cole's lunches after I turned one of them into a class event. He may not have liked giving the food away at all, and after that one Thursday he stopped passing anything to Maya or to anyone else at the table. I won't hang all of that on the thank-you, and I won't do the thank-you again.

What I say now, if I say anything, names what they did and leaves the child out of it. "You gave her half." Then I turn toward the sink, or toward a homework question, so the sentence doesn't get a stage.

If they ask whether I saw, I say that I did. Under about seven, that question is ordinary and the answer is enough. If they never tell me, I don't go get the story just so I can be nice about it. A Church page on service says this more plainly than I can.

Consider serving anonymously, which can help you and your children feel the pure joy of giving without concern for recognition or reward.

Anonymous has to include me on the days they don't bring it up. A secret-service challenge that has to be reported at dinner puts the audience back at the table.

What King Benjamin does with the credit

He had already told the crowd he'd worked with his own hands and hadn't taken gold, silver or taxes for it. He could have stopped with the list. What he says instead is, "I do not desire to boast, for I have only been in the service of God" (Mosiah 2:16).

And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God. (Mosiah 2:17)

In that verse, serving a person is already the service of God. I still put the sandwich up in front of the class.

In January 2025 the Church said it wanted a million children under eleven doing service that year, so those children would know they belong in the Church and can help in real ways. I liked the hope. I still do.

Frequently Asked Questions

What can a little kid actually do for somebody else?

A two-year-old can hand someone a cracker or a drawing and let them keep it. By five or six they can write a short card, share food they already have and pick up a mess they noticed. If I'm the one doing the real steps, the service is mine and they can keep me company.

How do I know it's turning into a performance?

I watch where their eyes go before I get very interested in the story they tell. If they look at my face before they look at the person they helped, the help is already bending toward whoever is watching. The other sign takes a week or two. They do it when a grown-up will hear, and they skip it when nobody will.

What do I say when they want credit for helping?

If they ask whether I saw it, I tell them yes and stop there. When they ask if I'm proud, I name what they did and skip proud, since that word is what put Cole on the carpet. Then I ask what they want to drink and we go on.

Should I post a picture of my kids serving?

I don't post those pictures, and I wouldn't send one to the ward newsletter either. The audience stays after the help is over, and children catch that sooner than the person writing the caption. If they want the photo before they've wondered whether the person liked the help, the photo was the point.

Give them one job they can finish while you're in the other room, and don't prepare a speech for after. If they tell you, name what they did and ask an ordinary next question, the sort you'd ask on a day when nobody helped anybody. If they don't tell you, leave the quiet there.

with love, Melissa