Running Scared: Part 4, The Real Beginning

Answers to tough questions never come easy. The students in classroom eighteen knew how to ask them of me and each other.

"Where is God when I hurt?" "Why did He allow so much bad stuff to happen in my life?" "How can I know He loves me?"

Genuine questions from a group of students who want to know the answers. We've spent over a week addressing these inquiries and others. Most of the students have approached me with doubts and uncertainty about their Christian faith and yet a willingness to allow me to discuss their issues.

I don't have all the answers. My faith has been stretched in some way by each one of them.

At the end of last week's class, the students continued our conversation in the hallway. I ushered them into an empty classroom. More that half followed because they didn't have a next period class.

Our discussion continued for another half hour. They were opening up to me and to each other. How I praised God!

When the conversation slowed, I shooed the students out—except one. I'd promised her we would talk.

Kaylee hugged the other girl. "Grab tissue. Mrs. Perkins has a way of making you cry." She smiled at me.

"Really?" I raised a brow. "Am I that mean?"

"No." Kaylee tilted her head. "Just that caring." She walked out.

I pulled a chair up across from where Rachael sat. I looked at her and smiled. "You said in one of your papers that the past was the past. No need to dig it up. Either you don't want to deal with your pass so you buried it, or you've dealt with what's back there. I don't think the latter is the case."

Tears streamed down her cheeks without her saying a word.

I stood. "Let me grab the tissue."

She nodded.


I don't mean to sound cliché, but this class has changed my life. Since college I've had a desire to work with high school students, yet God has seen fit to allow that desire to grow for almost 25 years before allowing it to become a reality.

I almost missed the opportunity.

When the principal of the school asked me to teach this class, I came close to saying no. I knew what I wanted to teach and this wasn't at the top of my list.

"I really believe God will use you with this group of students," she'd said.

But was I willing to be used?

I’ve often told the students God changes my lesson plan on my way to school.

They laugh.

But He really does.

I'm so glad I listen. I'm glad He loves this group of seniors enough to not leave them where they are.

Running scare. Not sure of what the future holds for them when they’re no longer high school students. They will soon learn many are still running scare. Even after high school, from young adults to seniors. It’s the scared, that I pray they don’t focus on, but the running—and to Whom.

God's not through with the students in room eighteen.

And He's not done with me.

Running Scared: Part 3

The students entered the classroom with less chatter than usual. I'd said several prayers in anticipation of what God would continue do in the lives of this small group of seniors. I smiled at their demeanor. Those who'd given their testimonies the day before appeared relaxed--or was that relieved. Those who waited their turn to speak in front of their classmates sent nervous glances my way as if to ask not to be called upon first.

Kaylee volunteered. A collective sigh of relief filled the room. I said a silent prayer for the student who days before told me she would rather take a F instead of stand in front of her peers.

"My life is far from perfect." She glanced at me and looked back at the paper in her hands. With her elbows locked to her sides, Kaylee tried to keep the paper from shaking. "Christianity is far from what I thought it would be. I was sure God hated me."

For the next five minutes, Kaylee talked of a friend's mother killing her friend and siblings and depression so deep she resorted to self-injury. This was the story she didn't want to share. One of pain and suicidal thoughts. The quake in her voice lasted until her last paragraph.

"I thought God hated me," without looking up she half smiled, "but what I learned is He loves me. Even thought life sucks, I'd rather it did with Him than without him. The Bible tells me, He's not finished with me yet. I'm glad." Kaylee took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then let it out. She looked at me and smiled.

I mouthed the words, good job.

She shrugged, walked to her seat, and sat.

God, continue to bring the walls down, I prayed.

Michael jumped up. "I'm next."

"Okay," I said.

Michael reminded me of Waldo from the book series, Where's Waldo? He often walked with his hands in his pockets, slight stoop to his posture, and black wavy hair that hung between his eyebrows and his eyes. His frame was small for his six foot height.

I struggled with engaging him in class. He often turned answers to questions into the same three words: I don't know. And made no further attempt to elaborate or apologize for his answer. I spent more time looking at the top of his bowed head than at his face. Often, he doodled while I taught. I didn't know if he was paying attention or not.

Michael stood in front of the classroom. He paced and ran his hands through his hair before he faced me. "I wrestled with this assignment, Mrs. Perkins. Last night I planned on typing what I thought you wanted to hear, but I couldn't." He tossed his hands up. "I don't have anything. Written that is. I, um," he pushed against his bangs, "I don't know if I believe there's a God."

The hush that filled the room, gripped my heart. Before me stood a student who grew up with Christian parents, involved with a church and a youth group for as long as he could remember, and he questioned God's existence.

The walls were coming down....
(to be continued)