If I were able to revisit my much younger self, I sometimes think about what I would say to her. I wonder if I could say something that would prepare her for the events that will shape her life.
To celebrate Easter, I was going to run the short story I wrote several years ago about one of those life-changing events. I actually went as far as typing it, and then changed my mind. Instead of sharing the story, I need to write the review. And even though the ending has already been changed once, I sense another ending in the works.
My story begins as I am dancing on the steps of my small Catholic school, wearing my plaid uniform and dreaming of being swept away by a handsome prince. I loved the story of Cinderella and wanted so badly to be cast in the leading role. But every time I looked in the mirror, my deformed lip that I had since birth stood out as my predominant feature. It would not be until later in that first grade year that plastic surgery would be performed to remove the unsightly bump, becoming a traumatic event in itself as I was not sure my parents would come back to get me after leaving me at the hospital. I am not sure why I thought this. But I did.
My red hair drew unwanted attention and relentless teasing. To make matters worse, my hair was unevenly chopped off either because it was one of those times I ran out of the beauty shop before the lady had finished with it or my mother had cut it herself. In any case I was not at all pleased that it had to be so short. Freckles offered to add color to my fair complexion but did little to create the princess persona for which I was aiming.
As my story goes, I am approached by the most desirable girl in the class at recess. An awkward child with few friends, I could not understand why I would look up to see this popular girl standing before me. What is even more confusing is that she has come bearing a gift--a gift for me!
Because it is almost Easter, this girl wants to give me a small basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs. I see this as a gesture of friendship. I accept the gift equating it to receiving an invitation to the ball at the castle with all of the beautiful people. I have arrived!
At recess I can't understand why my new friend wants nothing to do with me. Even at the age of six I needed to know the truth. When I finally ask her what her intentions are, she says, "I gave you the basket because my mother told me that we are supposed to give to the poor. I don't want to be your friend."
Memories are faulty and unreliable. And yet, I remember this event as though it happened yesterday. It shaped the way I would look at friendship. It made me aware that I was perceived to be on the wrong side of the haves and the have-nots. I still think about it before giving to someone in need, not wanting anyone to ever feel like I did on that day. Sometimes it makes it difficult for me to give at all.
As I recall, I started crying just as the bell was ringing and in order to not have my hands slapped with a ruler by the mean nun who stood by the door, I had to act as though I was fine and go back into the school. With all of the pretending I had to do just to survive my childhood, I may have excelled as an actor if I had ever found the courage to take an acting class. Thus the real-life event ended here.
Years later, after counseling to overcome what this one simple incident had done to me, I was sitting in my rocking chair praying for a different ending to this story when I saw myself reenter the story, get up from the sidewalk and instead of walking into the school, I walk into the church. One was as scary as the other. The church was dark since vines covered the large stained glass windows at the front and the lights were permanently on dim. The confessional booth was the absolute worst when it came to scary places. Afraid of the dark, I would confess every sin I could think of just hoping to escape.
As a new ending for my story, I see myself standing below the huge crucifix holding the basket of candy I was given and wondering how I am ever going to end up having a real friend. I think maybe I need to give a gift even though the offer of friendship was not that girl's intent. The story ends as I sense the love of God surrounding me. I see Jesus as alive instead of hanging on the cross. I am not alone.
What emerges as I think about another ending for this story today is the strong maternal instinct I have toward this sad, lonely little girl. I want to meet her on the sidewalk where she sits brokenhearted, take her by the hand and lead her back into that church, no longer a place of fear. I light candles and we sit together on the altar as she considers her gift, and I consider mine. Even though I know a whole lot more about life than she does, I am at a loss for words.
I want her to know that she has more to offer than a silly little basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs and that her need to know the truth will never steer her in the wrong direction. I want her to see that being the princess is not the goal and that true beauty is more spiritual than physical. I want her to never doubt that she is loved, even though she will. Though she looks so small and helpless, she will persevere. She will learn to forgive. There will be a time for her to dance again.
Leaning toward her, I smooth her hair, help her pull up those blue knee socks and tie those ugly orthopedic shoes. I offer her a tissue to dry the tears flowing down her sweet, freckled face. And then I hold her . . . for as long as she needs. Because sometimes words are just not enough.
To celebrate Easter, I was going to run the short story I wrote several years ago about one of those life-changing events. I actually went as far as typing it, and then changed my mind. Instead of sharing the story, I need to write the review. And even though the ending has already been changed once, I sense another ending in the works.
My story begins as I am dancing on the steps of my small Catholic school, wearing my plaid uniform and dreaming of being swept away by a handsome prince. I loved the story of Cinderella and wanted so badly to be cast in the leading role. But every time I looked in the mirror, my deformed lip that I had since birth stood out as my predominant feature. It would not be until later in that first grade year that plastic surgery would be performed to remove the unsightly bump, becoming a traumatic event in itself as I was not sure my parents would come back to get me after leaving me at the hospital. I am not sure why I thought this. But I did.
My red hair drew unwanted attention and relentless teasing. To make matters worse, my hair was unevenly chopped off either because it was one of those times I ran out of the beauty shop before the lady had finished with it or my mother had cut it herself. In any case I was not at all pleased that it had to be so short. Freckles offered to add color to my fair complexion but did little to create the princess persona for which I was aiming.
As my story goes, I am approached by the most desirable girl in the class at recess. An awkward child with few friends, I could not understand why I would look up to see this popular girl standing before me. What is even more confusing is that she has come bearing a gift--a gift for me!
Because it is almost Easter, this girl wants to give me a small basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs. I see this as a gesture of friendship. I accept the gift equating it to receiving an invitation to the ball at the castle with all of the beautiful people. I have arrived!
At recess I can't understand why my new friend wants nothing to do with me. Even at the age of six I needed to know the truth. When I finally ask her what her intentions are, she says, "I gave you the basket because my mother told me that we are supposed to give to the poor. I don't want to be your friend."
Memories are faulty and unreliable. And yet, I remember this event as though it happened yesterday. It shaped the way I would look at friendship. It made me aware that I was perceived to be on the wrong side of the haves and the have-nots. I still think about it before giving to someone in need, not wanting anyone to ever feel like I did on that day. Sometimes it makes it difficult for me to give at all.
As I recall, I started crying just as the bell was ringing and in order to not have my hands slapped with a ruler by the mean nun who stood by the door, I had to act as though I was fine and go back into the school. With all of the pretending I had to do just to survive my childhood, I may have excelled as an actor if I had ever found the courage to take an acting class. Thus the real-life event ended here.
Years later, after counseling to overcome what this one simple incident had done to me, I was sitting in my rocking chair praying for a different ending to this story when I saw myself reenter the story, get up from the sidewalk and instead of walking into the school, I walk into the church. One was as scary as the other. The church was dark since vines covered the large stained glass windows at the front and the lights were permanently on dim. The confessional booth was the absolute worst when it came to scary places. Afraid of the dark, I would confess every sin I could think of just hoping to escape.
As a new ending for my story, I see myself standing below the huge crucifix holding the basket of candy I was given and wondering how I am ever going to end up having a real friend. I think maybe I need to give a gift even though the offer of friendship was not that girl's intent. The story ends as I sense the love of God surrounding me. I see Jesus as alive instead of hanging on the cross. I am not alone.
What emerges as I think about another ending for this story today is the strong maternal instinct I have toward this sad, lonely little girl. I want to meet her on the sidewalk where she sits brokenhearted, take her by the hand and lead her back into that church, no longer a place of fear. I light candles and we sit together on the altar as she considers her gift, and I consider mine. Even though I know a whole lot more about life than she does, I am at a loss for words.
I want her to know that she has more to offer than a silly little basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs and that her need to know the truth will never steer her in the wrong direction. I want her to see that being the princess is not the goal and that true beauty is more spiritual than physical. I want her to never doubt that she is loved, even though she will. Though she looks so small and helpless, she will persevere. She will learn to forgive. There will be a time for her to dance again.
Leaning toward her, I smooth her hair, help her pull up those blue knee socks and tie those ugly orthopedic shoes. I offer her a tissue to dry the tears flowing down her sweet, freckled face. And then I hold her . . . for as long as she needs. Because sometimes words are just not enough.
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