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)