February 20, 2011
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God in the Face of Fear
Vignette.1.1
or, God, in the Face of FearShe was a small Russian child, messy haired with smooth, white, doll-like skin. Her cheeks were usually flushed, giving the impression of rouge or a slight fever, and her large eyes were always a little sleepy looking. The little clipboard by her cubby indicated that she was eight and already classified as aggressive and a level 2, which meant that it required at least two people to restrain her. She was diagnosed with PDD, which in technical terms stands for Pervasive Developmental Delay, but in layman’s terms means that no one knows exactly what’s wrong with her. She would throw herself at you every now and then with a growl that sounded much like a tiny animal, and you never knew if it were to get a huge hug or if she wanted to bite a chunk out of your inner arm (history dictated that she was very capable of the latter.) Her hair was beautiful and soft, and fell like a halo around her head. She would often grab my hand and run it through over her scalp, moving her head side to side as she enjoyed the tactile sensation. “C,” I would tell her, “What comes after ‘C’?” Because we ought not to reinforce such behavior. “If you want me to touch your hair, can you ask me?” “Hair,” she would grunt, happily basking under my palm, “Hair.” The times she would lunge at me (they were not rare), fear would grip my very soul at the thought that I would have to parry while calling “STAFF!!” and waiting while from all corners of the room, help would come to tear a small child and her teeth away from me. But I never flinched, all the while bracing for the sensation of teeth and nails and yet hoping to feel a small head burrow under my arm. In the end, it was always a hug.
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I've worked in an institution for the moderate-to-severely disabled children for three years, and I was never hurt. This was not due to the standard dress code of heavy jean jackets and inch-thick arm pads worn over the sleeves (jeans are good protection against teeth, apparently.) I never needed them. It was not because of my catlike reflexes and my ability to dodge flying objects. Those far more deft than I have the scars to prove that dexterity is not a factor in avoiding injury. Often I envied those rushed to the hospital, those who needed nose reconstruction, those who had dark bruises melting around their faces. I wanted a "one time, this kid..." story. The best I have is the time the Worst Student in the School had a handful of my hair in his hands (that story for another time.) I was able to get it back without escalating or exciting him. The End. I'll never know why I never got hurt. I paid my dues, and I wanted my stories. And I realize I have them. And with these stories, came an avalanche of lessons.
I learned how to be calm in a crisis, how to keep a straight face in impossible situations, how to be an anchor for when a child's world came apart, but most importantly, I learned that in the end, they are all children. Love, the universal language, is spoken by everyone, including the ones who get left behind. The ones in the short bus. The ones who are so bad, they don't even get to go to a normal school in a short bus.
I learned how to love in spite of fear, to give in the face of the warnings from the previous experiences of others. Perhaps these lessons were not meant to be unique to these circumstances, but I am finding it difficult to make them transcend from the classrooms in which I learned them into my life, where I need them. But I always smile to myself, knowing that although the little clipboard by my cubby is far from little, and filled with warnings and history, I am safe in the arms of Him who loves me just the same.
It was there that I learned that the Savior is not afraid of our teeth. Grace, too, ought not shirk itself from shame and spitting (Isaiah 50:6)
"The LORD your God, who is going before you, will fight for you, as he did for you in Egypt, before your very eyes, and in the wilderness. There you saw how the LORD your God carried you, as a father carries his son, all the way you went until you reached this place.” Deuteronomy 1:30f
