God, part 5: Untitled*

*I don't know what to call this one. It bothers me, but I can't come up with the right word.

I taught Sunday School about 2 years ago. My first class, kindergarten age – too adorable for words – went pretty well. I learned the power of Play-Doh and made certain it was always available if class stared to go badly. I found that sometimes the lesson worked – the kids were interested and blew me away with some of the life lessons they’d already learned. Other times it was madness – I couldn’t keep them at our little table, had no control or focus, and would just watch the clock until parents would pick up the little minions.

The second year I taught was tougher. An autistic girl, Abby, would come to class sometimes. Her parents would bring her to the room together, making sure she was settled, then would proceed to the sanctuary.

I wanted to have Abby in class. I thought her parents could use the time to focus on worship, knowing she was safe and entertained. But I couldn’t make it work – sometimes I thought I could, but it never quite clicked.

She didn’t like me, and normally people tolerate me pretty well. I’m not offensive at all. But when children find something wrong, I wonder what they see – if there’s some inherent problem in me that is clear to their innocent eyes.

I comforted myself with the other children as they took turns sitting on my lap. I learned a lot with them. Laughed and made caterpillars out of egg cartons, pretended we were animals being chosen for the arc, colored pictures, held hands and prayed.

I tended to leave class in a rush home to nap – mentally and physically exhausted after only an hour with them. It takes a lot of work, and I remain in awe of those who educate in the elementary school systems. Wow.

One Sunday, Abby returned after an absence of several weeks, tugging at her tights and clinging to her father.

“Hi, Abby.” I said gently, walking over to talk to her, but careful not to get close enough to intimidate. “Do you want to come play with us for awhile today?”

Keeping her head tucked between her dad’s neck and shoulder, she shook her head.

The other girls, 3 of them, made their way to my side and cajoled her into joining them in the tiny chairs at the table that barely reached my knees. I sat with them, and we made our way through the lesson and started the craft.

Abby wandered around the classroom, and though I invited her back to our circle several times, she often was lost in her own world. I understand that pretty well, so I let her play, knowing her parents encouraged breaks, asking her to focus on the lesson only in small increments.

I got distracted, I guess, lost in the pleasure of talking to children I had grown to love, listening to their thoughts, trying to tell some of God’s stories, enjoying myself. Until I looked around and gasped.

“Where’s Abby?!”

“She left.” One of the boys informed me with a smile before returning to his selection of the perfect crayon.

Holy shit! I lost a kid!

“When?” I asked desperately as I rushed out the door.

We were on the third floor and I thought frantically of the stairs. One set was enclosed, leading to the alley in back. The other set though, they were in easy view from the classroom doorway and open, leading to the entry foyer.

Oh, God, don’t let her be hurt. I’m sorry I thought ‘holy shit’ in Sunday School. I’m so sorry I lost track of her. Please let her be safe.

I found her two doors away, watching one of the older classes from her position in the hallway.

“Abby,” I breathed. “why’d you leave? I was worried.”

She shrugged and walked toward the stairs. I reached out for her arm, and she frowned at the place where I rested my hand.

“Sweetheart, you can’t go downstairs. We have to stay up here with the other kids.”

And with a glance back toward my classroom, I realized I had left 6 5-year-olds alone to search for Abby. Fantastic.

“Your parents will be back soon.” I promised Abby and started towing her back to the classroom, despite her quiet protests. “I’m sorry.” I whispered. “I know you don’t want to be here. Right now I don’t either. But we have to go back.”

After a few steps I realized my door was closed and lights were off. What was happening to my life?! Had they left? Were they hurt?

Opening the doorway, I pulled Abby in after me and closed the door behind us, flipping up the light switch, sick with worry.

Two girls were under the table, stifling giggles. There was a boy behind the piano, a girl in the storage cabinet, another boy in the space under the sink, and the last girl crouched behind a stack of spare chairs. Finding them quickly (because at least I have one relevant skill), I counted and sighed in relief.

“What’s up, guys?” I asked, making eye contact with each of them so they’d know I found them.

“We hid!” offered the boy who so helpfully had told me Abby “left” after I realized she was gone.

I went home, head pounding, and sent an email to the education coordinator. I told her I wished I could do it – I really did. But I wasn’t capable of handling Abby and the class, and was terribly uncomfortable that my incompetence in this area could have brought harm to one of these children.

Abby started to arrive with another adult after that, and things went along pretty well. I tried to connect with her a couple more times, but mostly threw myself into teaching the children who liked me.

Abby’s friend couldn’t come one Sunday, so another teacher joined our class. She was struggling with Abby though – chasing her around the room, holding the door closed when Abby tried to leave. Since I’d been there myself, I told her we’d trade. She’d teach. I’d hang out with Abby.

“I like Abby a lot.” I told the other woman, smiling down at the small girl.

She didn’t return my smile, but she did walk away from the door at my request, and I wandered around the room behind her as she explored. Walking to my bag, she pointed to some stickers that poked from the top. I pulled them out and handed them to her.

At one point, she crawled under the spare table and sat there. I peeked down to see her.

“Are you OK, Abby?”

Receiving no response, I stood there, lost as to what to do. I looked longingly at the table of chattering children – easy to interpret and enjoy. Then I prayed – I needed some help, wanted to do the right thing, just didn’t know how.

Then I got on my hands and knees and slithered under the table with her. I ended up resting on my elbow and hip, too tall to sit up under there.

This is the point where I’d like to say that something profound occurred. Like she looked at me and said, “You know, Katie, God loves us, and even though you’re not so good at relating to me, that’s OK. Jesus loves us anyway.” Or maybe she could have given me a hug and I could have looked in her eyes and I felt as though we’d touched souls.

Didn’t happen.

Instead, we just sat down there on the dusty floor. Silent. Looking out at the other children as they laughed and talked.

“Those stickers are pretty, aren’t they?” I said, looking over at her as she considered the colorful pictures of flowers.

Then she scooted back toward where I’d curled my legs up as I rested on my side. And stuck a bright pink carnation sticker on my shoe.

I smiled and thanked her, touched. She shrugged.

I’m not sure what the lesson is. What I was supposed to learn or know from it. But I felt something, look back on her with great fondness instead of regret, and maybe that’s profound enough.