Why her memory still haunts me
She was the sort of girl you spoke to when the teacher was listening, but later shunned on the playground. In the well-defined social strata of fourth grade, she occupied the lowest position in the pecking order.
She provided my first glimpse beyond the comfortable borders of my elementary school experience.
She arrived halfway through the school year and she rode my bus. She seldom bathed, or so we surmised after standing next to her in the lunch line. The raveled hems of her dresses swung unevenly around her dirty knees when she ran. Her sleeves were always too long or too short. We regarded her as an unwelcome interloper into our well-incubated world.
Our teacher encouraged us to play with her, to include her in recess games of tag and kick ball. But from our fourth-grade perspective she was difficult to befriend.
She cried over simple disagreements, threw tantrums when she lost playground games. She made up lies about us, something we discovered as we whispered about her behind her back. And she stole things, we were certain of that.
Nothing turned up missing from the pockets in the coat room until she came. Then chocolate bars and crackers, half-eaten licorice ropes and packets of Sweet Tarts vanished with regularity. None of us could prove it, but we knew it was her. She had nothing of her own, we reasoned, so she coveted what was ours.
That spring, the fourth grade made sachets for our classroom craft, to be given as gifts on Mother’s Day. They were fashioned from pink sateen and filled with perfumed talcum powder. Trimmed in lace, they were meant for our mothers to place in a dresser drawer. The new girl didn’t finish hers. She was clumsy with her hands and never any good at making things.
On the Friday afternoon we took them home, I boarded the school bus and tucked my sachet inside my notebook. Such a delightful surprise wouldn’t keep until Sunday morning. I savored choosing just the right moment to reveal it to my mom.
I smiled, envisioning the pride and satisfaction that would gleam in her eyes when I presented it. I imagined her tucking it carefully away inside her top dresser drawer.
With my prize safely secured, I left my seat to join a friend near the back of the bus. The new girl sat alone, a row behind where I’d stashed my books.
My friend and I talked and laughed while we rode from farm to farm, until the driver finally turned into the half-mile lane that led to my house.
As I returned to gather my things, an older student leaned across the aisle and whispered, “That girl just stole something from your notebook.” Even before she pointed, I knew who she meant: the new girl.
Fourth-grade indignation flashed through me. How dare she steal something of mine, and right under my nose! I was so angry, my hands were shaking. But the bus had stopped and the driver had already swung open the door, his hand still resting on the silver handle as he looked in the mirror to see if I was coming.
Too furious to know what to do, I got off and ran to the house, hot tears streaming down my face. When my mother asked what was wrong, I choked out my accusation. Seeing how upset I was, she deposited me on the passenger side of our pickup and got behind the wheel.
We drove faster than I’d ever seen my mother go on a county road. We caught the bus four miles away, as it pulled into the tumbledown farmstead where the new girl lived. I leapt from the truck and confronted her as she stepped through the hinged door and down the steps of the yellow bus.
“Give it back!” I demanded, my heart pounding. She looked up from her armload of books. Her ragged bangs fell over her forehead and her brown-green eyes met mine for the first time.
They were large eyes, and frightened. But it wasn’t the fear I saw that stopped me cold. Something deep inside her eyes blazed a question into mine. What did she want from me? I hesitated a moment, unsure.
Then the moment passed and my anger returned, stronger than before, spreading like a brushfire inside me.
“You stole it!” I hissed, and held out my hand. Her eyes fell. Dutifully, she handed over the sachet from between her school books. I felt vindicated, even elated, as I snatched it back. She’d deliberately stolen something of mine and I’d caught her, red-handed. Surely this excused us from the burden of including her at school.
I watched her walk across the bare yard toward the back door of her house, my eyes fixed on the spot between her shoulder blades. I wouldn’t feel sorry for her. After all, I was in the right. Trust and respect had to be earned. Stealing was wrong. Everybody knew that. And today, she had shown us exactly who she was: a thief.
Her mother stepped outside, obviously aware that something was wrong. Several small children poured out of the doorway behind her and clung to her legs. Her slight frame was clearly outlined by the force of the wind against her cotton dress.
It meant nothing to me then. I was bursting with vengeful pride, the one who had finally caught the new girl in the act—the perfect little Pharisee, my fists filled with stones.
I didn’t stay to watch her go inside. I returned to the pickup, feeling suddenly tired and empty. We followed the school bus out of the yard and drove the four miles home without talking.
I don’t remember now if my mother said she liked the sachet. I’m certain that she did. And I don’t remember where the new girl moved next, although her family had vacated the old farmhouse before the school year ended.
What I do remember is the wind blowing dust across her yard as we drove away. And the moment when her brown-green eyes met mine.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had said, in that moment, that she could keep the sachet. That I could make another. That my mother wouldn’t mind.
But I didn’t say it, and I can’t go back. The passing years have revealed the true worth of that bit of fabric and lace I fought so hard to keep; in and of itself, it’s meaningless to me now.
Jesus understands that. He’s always been clear about the difference between the temporal and eternal value of things. “If someone demands your coat,” he says, “offer your shirt also.” And if you want true life? Give this one away.
I didn’t know any of those things at the time. I was so much younger then, so sure of all the rules.
I was certain I had right on my side.
She provided my first glimpse beyond the comfortable borders of my elementary school experience.
She arrived halfway through the school year and she rode my bus. She seldom bathed, or so we surmised after standing next to her in the lunch line. The raveled hems of her dresses swung unevenly around her dirty knees when she ran. Her sleeves were always too long or too short. We regarded her as an unwelcome interloper into our well-incubated world.
Our teacher encouraged us to play with her, to include her in recess games of tag and kick ball. But from our fourth-grade perspective she was difficult to befriend.
She cried over simple disagreements, threw tantrums when she lost playground games. She made up lies about us, something we discovered as we whispered about her behind her back. And she stole things, we were certain of that.
Nothing turned up missing from the pockets in the coat room until she came. Then chocolate bars and crackers, half-eaten licorice ropes and packets of Sweet Tarts vanished with regularity. None of us could prove it, but we knew it was her. She had nothing of her own, we reasoned, so she coveted what was ours.
That spring, the fourth grade made sachets for our classroom craft, to be given as gifts on Mother’s Day. They were fashioned from pink sateen and filled with perfumed talcum powder. Trimmed in lace, they were meant for our mothers to place in a dresser drawer. The new girl didn’t finish hers. She was clumsy with her hands and never any good at making things.
On the Friday afternoon we took them home, I boarded the school bus and tucked my sachet inside my notebook. Such a delightful surprise wouldn’t keep until Sunday morning. I savored choosing just the right moment to reveal it to my mom.
I smiled, envisioning the pride and satisfaction that would gleam in her eyes when I presented it. I imagined her tucking it carefully away inside her top dresser drawer.
With my prize safely secured, I left my seat to join a friend near the back of the bus. The new girl sat alone, a row behind where I’d stashed my books.
My friend and I talked and laughed while we rode from farm to farm, until the driver finally turned into the half-mile lane that led to my house.
As I returned to gather my things, an older student leaned across the aisle and whispered, “That girl just stole something from your notebook.” Even before she pointed, I knew who she meant: the new girl.
Fourth-grade indignation flashed through me. How dare she steal something of mine, and right under my nose! I was so angry, my hands were shaking. But the bus had stopped and the driver had already swung open the door, his hand still resting on the silver handle as he looked in the mirror to see if I was coming.
Too furious to know what to do, I got off and ran to the house, hot tears streaming down my face. When my mother asked what was wrong, I choked out my accusation. Seeing how upset I was, she deposited me on the passenger side of our pickup and got behind the wheel.
We drove faster than I’d ever seen my mother go on a county road. We caught the bus four miles away, as it pulled into the tumbledown farmstead where the new girl lived. I leapt from the truck and confronted her as she stepped through the hinged door and down the steps of the yellow bus.
“Give it back!” I demanded, my heart pounding. She looked up from her armload of books. Her ragged bangs fell over her forehead and her brown-green eyes met mine for the first time.
They were large eyes, and frightened. But it wasn’t the fear I saw that stopped me cold. Something deep inside her eyes blazed a question into mine. What did she want from me? I hesitated a moment, unsure.
Then the moment passed and my anger returned, stronger than before, spreading like a brushfire inside me.
“You stole it!” I hissed, and held out my hand. Her eyes fell. Dutifully, she handed over the sachet from between her school books. I felt vindicated, even elated, as I snatched it back. She’d deliberately stolen something of mine and I’d caught her, red-handed. Surely this excused us from the burden of including her at school.
I watched her walk across the bare yard toward the back door of her house, my eyes fixed on the spot between her shoulder blades. I wouldn’t feel sorry for her. After all, I was in the right. Trust and respect had to be earned. Stealing was wrong. Everybody knew that. And today, she had shown us exactly who she was: a thief.
Her mother stepped outside, obviously aware that something was wrong. Several small children poured out of the doorway behind her and clung to her legs. Her slight frame was clearly outlined by the force of the wind against her cotton dress.
It meant nothing to me then. I was bursting with vengeful pride, the one who had finally caught the new girl in the act—the perfect little Pharisee, my fists filled with stones.
I didn’t stay to watch her go inside. I returned to the pickup, feeling suddenly tired and empty. We followed the school bus out of the yard and drove the four miles home without talking.
I don’t remember now if my mother said she liked the sachet. I’m certain that she did. And I don’t remember where the new girl moved next, although her family had vacated the old farmhouse before the school year ended.
What I do remember is the wind blowing dust across her yard as we drove away. And the moment when her brown-green eyes met mine.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had said, in that moment, that she could keep the sachet. That I could make another. That my mother wouldn’t mind.
But I didn’t say it, and I can’t go back. The passing years have revealed the true worth of that bit of fabric and lace I fought so hard to keep; in and of itself, it’s meaningless to me now.
Jesus understands that. He’s always been clear about the difference between the temporal and eternal value of things. “If someone demands your coat,” he says, “offer your shirt also.” And if you want true life? Give this one away.
I didn’t know any of those things at the time. I was so much younger then, so sure of all the rules.
I was certain I had right on my side.
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