Catering for My King

One day at school, I sat at my desk, fretting, while waiting for sixth grade math to be called up. Math class always made me nervous and I didn’t know why except that I knew I didn’t like it. Soon the teacher called the sixth-grade class up to the table in front of the classroom. There were only three of us - Carol, Jimmy and me. On the black board the teacher assigned a large digit problem to each of us. Carol and Jimmy proudly gave their answer, getting it right. I sat focusing on the number, which seemed to jump around and mock me. I guessed and the answer was wrong. Again, I guessed and was wrong. Soon the teacher demanded that I come up to the black board.
And as I guessed again, she moved me closer until my nose was touching the board. Suddenly I could feel myself tremble and quickly was unable to hold back the tears. I could hear snickering and laughing behind me. Slowly, deliberately, I could feel the teacher’s hands turning me around to face the class, who were all now silent in their seats.
The teacher said coldly, “This is what happens when you don’t do your studies! You turn into a dummy!” Humiliated, I quickly walked back to my desk, my head hanging and my chest heaving from crying. At that moment the over-whelming realization hit me—I was not smart. I was dumb. Suddenly my stomach hurt. It was really my heart, but I didn’t know it.
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Days had passed since the funeral and I still hadn’t cried. One day mom confronted me with an angry tone ‘‘Why don’t you cry?’’ I couldn’t tell her about the burden I carried. Besides that, I was terrified of what dad would say. No, I had to keep this to myself. However, days later my world changed—it was Christmas and I wanted my brother back. I broke down and sobbed.
During the next months, our home was filled with grief and silence. There was no discussion about Steve’s death, resulting in little or no healing for me. And so—guilt crept into my heart, telling my low self-esteem (stupid) to move over. Thus, both “stupid” and “guilt” took up residence in my heart.
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In the morning, while Bill was outside, my brother Rick could tell something was wrong. ‘’What’s wrong, Barb?’’ he asked. I shared with the boys what had happened. Rick gasped. Bill’s son, however, just shook his head as if this was no surprise. Within an hour, with hardly any words spoken, we were packed up and heading home. The first chance I got to talk to Rick alone I begged, ‘‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone, ever!’’ He reluctantly agreed.
So, ‘’low self-esteem’’ and ‘‘guilt’’ naturally moved over to make room for ‘’shame’’. Little did I know that together, the deadly trio was going to slowly pierce my heart and silently kill my spirit. Ultimately, I became void of any self-worth which caused me to give up. I soon found myself heading down a road of destruction.