Ramblings of a Survivor

The dry grass jumped up between my toes as my Birkenstocks trod across the lawn. I was a bit early to pick up my kiddo. I always tried to time pick up perfectly – just early enough to see the kids go in from their last recess which was when parents could assemble awaiting release, but late enough where I didn’t have to awkwardly talk about how school was going for my third grader. I don’t have a neurotypical third grader, so these conversations are terribly taxing.

“Oh, that’s great that they’re reading Harry Potter!”

“How great that they’re writing in their journals every day!”

I want to say, “Well, my kid wrote his name.” – and I want them to feel the level of accomplishment we feel…but…not the case.

I hate those conversations. They’re so….so…NORMAL. My kiddo, well, he didn’t do the read-a-thon this summer. Nope..we spent the summer not going on trips because we spent the summer with tutors and interventions…all while being blown away by his understanding of science, his memory of facts, his ability to connect concepts, his ridiculously high IQ that requires constant stimulation. My kid isn’t “normal” – but he is exceptional – but “neurotypical” parents don’t want to hear that stuff. It’s weird.

I leaned against the tree, hoping beyond hope that today had been another successful day – one without emotional outbursts, one without him slumped against the school building feeling isolated. Maybe even a day where he’d interacted with another peer – without major confrontation! That would feel like success.

I hadn’t timed my arrival well, so was more than a few minutes early, which is why I found myself hiding from the blaring sun under the shade of a tree near the “early primary” school door. I sunk into the hole of Instagram reels, and bode my time.

With a start, my head jolted upright.

“I have my Bible verse!”

Melissa, snap out of it. You’re here. You’re 46. You’re here, you’re not there.

Years of my work with therapists kicked in.

RECENTER….you’ve got this.

Flashes of memories disrupted my balance. I wavered on my feet.

That was weird.

I hate when I remember stuff I don’t remember. This whole “living life” thing post trauma is so incredibly unpredictable.

But that voice….

Ok. Ok. What the heck is going on….

Senses. Get back to what IS

What do you taste? You really shouldn’t have had those Good ‘n Plenty – they were stale. Nothing worse than stale licorice….

The shade seemed to have disappeared, and other parents were gathering behind me, chatting blissfully.

What do you smell? Rain. I think it’s going to rain.

Shoot, am I allowed to be standing this close to the building when they head inside from recess? Maybe I didn’t read the school rules enough.

What do you feel? I feel fabric against my skin, grass between my toes. Ugh. I should have worn sneakers.

My heart was beating a million miles an hour. Why? What just happened? My face is flushed and hot? WHY?

Ok back on track: Senses…there’s no reason for panic.

What do you see?

What do you hear?

A few women in jeans and tshirts began wrangling kids… ” Come on, friends! Get in line. One at a time…I can’t go in until all of you are in…”

The words faded:

“I have my Bible verse!!!”

A boy, with red flannel pajama bottoms grabbed another kiddo who was pushing their way through the crowd. His hand reached to her shoulder. She shrugged him off.

“I have my Bible verse!!!”

He reached out to another as they also ran passed him.

I couldn’t stop staring. Heart dropped – what my jaw wanted to do.

His blonde head darted around, looking for someone to listen.

“It’s MICAH 6:8!!!!” His face looked around for someone to listen. Children ran toward the growing line.

“I have my Bible verse,” he said again as his head dropped.

Another boy ran by him and yelled something. I don’t know what. I didn’t – I couldn’t- hear despite the volume I knew it had. He screamed at him:

“I have my Bible verse”

His words filled my body – pounding against my skull.

As the line of children disappeared into the school building, the boy approached his teacher, and his head lifted. He looked her in the eyes and said, “I have my Bible verse” He didn’t wait this time. “Micah 6:8!!!!”

“Oh. Ok. Um. Well, I’ll have to look it up, gotta end the school day, Buddy!”

Why can’t I remember the importance of Micah 6:8???? What does it say? Come on, Melissa, you know the Bible…I KNOW at some point you had to recite that verse. I know that is an important verse…I mean this is a public school…so why would a 2nd grader know Micah 6:8 when I didn’t even have a “sense” of what it says?

I stood still. Eerily still, under the shade of the tree. How had I heard his voice out of all of the din? How had his words pulled me out of my hiding???

The parents who had been behind me moved to their chosen spots to pick up their kids. I was frozen where I was, under the shade of the tree. Memories flooded me. Not ones that I could visualize or articulate. Just emotions. I wiped a tear from my eye, and moved toward the door where my son would come running out, bursting with the news of his day.

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. Micah 6:8.

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There was an excitement in the air: the kind of excitement that proceeds dread. It was the kind of feeling that comes in the instant before you burn yourself while grabbing something out of the oven with a just a dishtowel. A false sense of “it’ll be ok” mixed with “this is gonna go all wrong.”

The roll call began.

“Here.”

“Here”

“Here”

I never really knew why they did that. There was maybe a dozen of us – both grades combined. Pretty easy to see who wasn’t there and who was…we all knew who would late, who had been early. It had been the same exact student list since we were in kindergarten and first grade – a few gone now that we were in 7th grade and families had chosen to leave the Fold. You’d think they’d know without having to go through a darn list.

Off we went, making the trek from the church basement to the Sanctuary.

We knew we would be there until lunch. The question was more…when would lunch be? How long would today’s “revival” meeting last? Sister Abbott, the pastor’s wife, had a pension for speaking for hours…but maybe today it would be a 15 minute sermon followed by 4 hours of prayer. Or maybe we’d be taking notes for three hours and only have a short prayer time. I hoped against hope it was the latter. I had a sketch I really wanted to finish.

Each grade filed in: boys in their navy blue slacks and white shirts, girls in their simple, but colorful pinafores – Laura Ashley McCall’s pattern 3223 – all sewn by mothers or wearers. The rainbow of solid colors swirled as most girls snuck whispers into the ears of those in front or behind them. The boys slid into their pews quiet and subdued, yet a subversive energy rumbled beneath their demure faces. For each class, a teacher could be found planted between the chromatic prism of white and blue, and a rainbow of colorfully dressed girls: a physical barrier between the two forces. With larger class groups, the wood of the pews provided the barrier necessary to maintain appropriate spacing between male and female.

And then it started.

My Uncle. My Uncle who used to sing folk songs with my other uncles…with my dad and grandad at family gatherings; My uncle who laughed with me and my family so many years ago. My Uncle who I KNEW…that was his body up there, but that wasn’t him. A sense of grief. Unimaginable grief. My Uncle was gone

“Ok! We’re all here!

Lord Jesus, we begin our day with you at the forefront. We ask that you……”

That wasn’t my Uncle. I shared his last name and he was my dad’s brother. But he wasn’t my uncle those mornings. There was never a morning he was there as the Principal of Winham Street Christian Academy where that man was my Uncle…I adjusted.

My Uncle was someone different than that.

I shuffled through the notebook in front of me. I stole a look at the front left pew that was empty other than an older woman who sat stiffly, epitomizing the character of an Englishwoman. In the pew behind her sat a row of 2nd graders, fidgeting and restless, their teacher tapping the knees of egregiously energetic 7 year olds.

“Hands in your laps!”

Uncle was finishing up his ridiculous introduction – all of us had known Sister Abbott since before we had memories, why did we need an introduction?

Just say, “So Sister Abbott wants to have two weeks of putting you in your place.”

Call it like it is “UNCLE“ – or whoever the heck you are.

“Open your hearts; you are the hope of America, and that is a responsibility that takes repentance!”

I scribbled a heart on the notebook in front of me….

then a zig zag down the middle.

It was going to be a long morning.

“Open your Bibles to MIcah 6:8.” her imperious voice rang out.

“Do Justice, love Mercy, and walk Humbly with your God.”