Chapter 18

I loved learning, but between counseling sessions, attorney appointments, and sleepless nights, I began struggling to maintain my superior grades. Sitting at my desk in the back of Ms. Hardwood’s classroom, I plugged away at unfinished worksheets while the rest of the class enjoyed some time outdoors. Who needs recess? Just a waste of time, anyway, I moped. Trying to focus on the math equation in front of me, my eyes once again wandered off the page. I watched the second hand on the classroom clock tick away my life, and I released a long, drawn-out sigh. Who am I kidding? This feels like punishment.

Ms. Hardwood’s voice broke through my mental pity party. “So, what does the B stand for?”

I glanced around the empty room then back at Ms. Hardwood. “Are you talking to me?”

Ms. Hardwood grinned, glancing down at a paper in her hands. “Yes, you. I’ve noticed you sign all your papers ‘Hope B.’ Just wondering what the B stands for.” An amused smile creased the corners of her eyes.

I cocked my head, confused. Since the first day of seventh grade, our class had been instructed to place our names in the upper right-hand corner of our assignments, along with our homeroom teacher’s last name and the due date of the assignment. Is this a trick question? I wondered. Venturing a guess, I answered, “Blythe?”

Staring at my paper, she acted like a deep mystery would soon reveal itself. “No. That’s not it.”

Creases etched my brow. “I’m pretty sure my last name is Blythe,” I affirmed.

“But that’s not what the B stands for,” she insisted.

I chuckled, more out of nervousness than humor. “I don’t get it.” Focusing on Ms. Hardwood’s face, I braced for the unexpected. “What am I missing?”

Her eyes sparkled, amplifying a pronounced smirk. “Hope B what? Hope B happy? Hope B sad? What is God asking Hope to be?”

I mulled over the information, contemplating the deepness of her question. “I guess I really don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe right now He’s asking me to B a better student. My focus hasn’t exactly been on learning recently.”

Understanding reflected in her eyes. “Maybe,” she nodded.

Still pondering God’s call on my life, I flipped through several sheets of unfinished homework, allowing the pages to flutter back onto my desk. Wrestling with a question, I chose to speak again. “Ms. Hardwood?”

“Yes, Miss Blythe?” Laying down her red pen, she gave me her undivided attention.

“Did I give you the answer you were looking for?” I made eye contact, waiting for confirmation. “Somehow, I feel you may have been wanting a different response from me.”

A smile spread across Ms. Hardwood’s face, and she chuckled at the seriousness in my voice. “There is no right answer, Kiddo. Just wondering if you had ever thought about what God is calling you to do.”

My reply consisted of one flat, tasteless word. “Oh.”

Perceiving my loss, Ms. Hardwood met my gaze. “You know you don’t need my approval, right? What I think of you doesn’t matter.” She gave me a moment to process her proposal. “I realize you thrive on outward acceptance, but you don’t need mine,” she continued. “The only opinion that matters in life is God’s—your audience of One. Once you accept His definition of you, all the other stuff just becomes stuff. It no longer defines who you are. God does.” An indescribable peace rested over her words. “Philippians 4, verses 12 and 13. Look it up,” she encouraged.

I pulled out the Bible I kept in my desk and flipped to the New Testament, reading the words aloud. “…In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” I silently reread the words to ingest their meaning.

“Notice: it says all things, not just some.” Discernment lit up Ms. Hardwood’s eyes, the nuances of her unwavering faith drawing me in. “Strength, acceptance, and approval comes from God, not people. People will always fail you….”

“But God never will.” I finished her sentence, a sudden realization hitting me. “Hey, those notes were from you, weren’t they?”

A twinkle in her eye accentuated the grin on her face as she picked up her red pen and reached for another ungraded paper. “Keep looking to God for your answers, Kiddo. That’s where you’re going to find them.” Students started shuffling into the classroom, bringing our conversation to a close.

I slid my math book into my desk and started getting ready for the next class. I can do all things through Him. The sentiment nestled deep within my heart, causing me to smile. There is hope.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Greg watched my face with fascination. “You light up when you tell stories about this teacher friend of yours,” he observed. “The two of you must’ve had quite the bond.”

My face warmed in acknowledgement. “You can say that. She was a kindred spirit, kind of like the big sister I never had, and one of the few people who wouldn’t allow me to run away with reality. Some called my emotional rollercoaster a teenage thing. Ms. Hardwood saw it as one of my character flaws that could be tamed and retrained. I respected her for that.”

Greg straightened in his chair and chuckled. “Those are good friends to have—the ones who are real and have your back.”

“Yeah, I could always count on her to give me the truth, even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.” I snickered. “Sometimes, it can be hard convincing me I should reevaluate my thoughts.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re never wrong?” Greg flashed a knowing grin.

I raised a playful eyebrow. “Only sometimes.”

Greg laughed. “OK. Go on.”

Stretching my legs out in front of me, I tucked my hands under my thighs. “I never questioned Ms. Hardwood’s loyalty, friendship, or love for God. She was genuine—the real deal. That’s why I trusted her.”

“So, how did your relationship develop from teacher/student in the classroom to having a friendship outside of school?”

Thinking back on our history, the summer following my seventh-grade year came to mind. “I ran into Ms. Hardwood at a church-sponsored softball game one evening, middle of June,” I started. “She was sitting on the metal bleachers watching the game, and I was looking for a place to sit.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Well, funny running into you here,” I commented, holding a blueberry slushie in hand. “Mind if I sit?” I motioned to an open space on the bench next to Ms. Hardwood while also noting the sparsity of the spectators nearby, almost like seclusion had been the reason she had chosen that location for watching the game.

Ms. Hardwood tipped her soda can toward the bench and smiled. “Go for it. No one else has claimed that spot. Looks like it’s all yours.”

“Thanks.” I returned her smile and brushed some dirt out of the metal grooves before climbing over the first bench and sitting on the second. “I didn’t expect to find you here. You attend these games often?”

She swiped at some dampness on her forehead then downed a swig of soda. “Every now and again.” Humor hinted in her eyes as she caught me eyeing her casual attire. “It’s hard seeing me outside the classroom, isn’t it?” she chuckled. “One might almost say I look human in a t-shirt and jeans, huh?”

“Kind of,” I blushed. Taking a large gulp of ice-cold slush, I let out an instant groan. “Ooo, brain freeze!” I scrunched my face into a tight grimace as a strong pain surged through my sinuses and stabbed at my eyes.

Ms. Hardwood didn’t even try to stifle her laugh. “Those can be brutal,” she sympathized.

“Yeah. Note to self: don’t take big gulps of icy drinks.” I widened my eyes and pressed on my cheekbones, praying the sensation would ease.

“So, what brings you out here on this nice muggy evening?” she bantered, swatting at a gnat.

“Same as you, I suppose. Just here, watching the game. Figured I’d do something that would get me out of the house.” Turning my attention to the ballfield, I surveyed the crowd. Several rows of families formed a cheer squad on the sidelines; at the rear of the chuck wagon, a handful of teenage girls gossiped by the trailer hitch; and, in the dugout, coaches had their clipboards out comparing notes. No one stood out or flagged reason for alarm, yet I felt the need to keep up my guard.

“What’s troubling you?” Ms. Hardwood perceived my apprehension, following my gaze.

I sighed and relaxed my shoulders. “I don’t know. Just a feeling, I suppose.”

“A feeling, huh?” She scanned our surroundings, verifying nothing out of the ordinary. “Wanna talk about it?”

I tapped the rim of my cup with the tip of my thumbnail and shrugged. “Not sure there’s much to share.”

“Really? Nothing?” She gave me a sideways glance.

I slowly raised my shoulders then let them shrink back into place. “Nothing you probably haven’t already heard.” Sipping my slushie, I allowed the cool liquid to wash away some of the evening heat.

“Give me a try. You’d probably be amazed at how uninformed I am.” A smirk spread across her face.

“You? Clueless?” I tried to disguise my surprise. “I would’ve thought you were up to date on all the latest with Colleen—especially since my life has been on display most of the year. Not much is private any more.”

The crowd’s enthusiasm swelled as the batter rounded first base and took second. “I’ve only been on a need-to-know basis,” she answered, taking another swig of soda. “Believe it or not, I haven’t been privy to a whole lot of what’s been going on with you outside of school.”

“Seriously?” I watched the next batter hit into the outfield, while the second-base runner took third. “So, what do you know?”

Ms. Hardwood lowered her voice, thoughtful of my privacy, even though no one sat close enough to hear. “I believe sometime in January Mr. Murray informed me allegations were being brought against you by the Davis family. He said they claimed abuse took place while you were babysitting their daughter, and they were concerned for their little girl’s safety at school.” The metal bench creaked as she shifted her weight. “I was asked to help keep an eye on you—not because anyone believed the claims against you, but because administration knew you needed protection from the Davis family. If your teachers always knew your whereabouts, the Davises couldn’t make up stories that would hold up in court.”

“Wow! I had no idea,” I responded. “I thought you knew every little detail. That’s kind of why it’s been so hard showing my face at school. Even though the allegations are false, it’s still embarrassing.”

“I never believed their claims,” Ms. Hardwood confided, “but for the sake of remaining neutral, I never asked questions. I knew all I needed to know.”

“Oh?” Her nonjudgemental tone drew out my curiosity. “And what’s that?”

“Simple. You were my student, and you needed protection.” She wiped perspiration off her soda can and flicked the water droplets from her fingers. “I know it annoyed you having someone watching your every move, but it was for your safety.”

“Thank you for that.” I tried sounding appreciative.

She nodded. “Like I told you that day in the bathroom, you are never alone. God didn’t ask you to do this by yourself.”

Emotion crept into my throat, and I fought to keep my feelings from turning into tears. How does she do that? I wondered. How does she always seem to know what I need to hear, when I need to hear it? I bit my lower lip, watching the pitcher throw a strike.

“So, how are you doing right now?” Ms. Hardwood turned her attention back to the present, acknowledging my heightened sense of awareness.

“Well, I always expect Colleen to show up in the most bizarre places,” I confessed, “so I’m never fully off guard—probably never will be. It’s kind of who I am now, always looking over my shoulder, always aware someone could be watching me or listening in on my conversations.” The crowd cheered for a home run, causing me to take another visual sweep of my surroundings. “Dad thinks I’m emotional and overly sensitive,” I went on, “and Mom pretends things aren’t as bad as they really are. Me? Well, I just feel crazy all the time.”

Ms. Hardwood pressed her lips together and nodded. “Sounds like they’re just trying to protect you. I can’t imagine this has been easy on them, either.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, “but I still deserve to know what’s going on in my life. I’m not a kid any more.” Declaring my maturity seemed to be more for my benefit than hers.

Eyeing me closely, she asked, “How do you think you would feel if your mom or dad approached you right now and confided they, too, believe the Davises are a danger to you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d probably be more scared than I am right now,” I admitted.

“That’s probably what they’ve been trying to shield you from,” she replied. “No parent wants his or her child to live in constant fear.”

“But things don’t need to be sugarcoated,” I rebutted. “I’m not fragile. It’s not like I’m gonna fall apart if I know the truth.” I met her gaze, daring her to challenge my belief. “How can I prepare for the worst when all the adults in my life keep telling me it won’t happen, and then it does?” Anger welled up inside me from a place I didn’t even know existed. “This is my life. I know when information is being withheld from me, and I hate not knowing what’s going on, or even worse, being lied to!”

“You have the right to feel that way,” Ms. Hardwood acknowledged. Calmness accompanied her words. “What you’re dealing with is a real part of the natural grieving process, very normal under your circumstances.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “I’m not sad. I’m angry. Frustrated. Confused. I’m…. I’m…. Oh, I don’t know what I am!” I slammed my cup against the bench, causing the contents to almost slosh over the top. Thankfully, the closest bystanders seemed more invested in the game than with my childish outburst.

Ms. Hardwood ignored my fit, gazing out onto the ballfield. “Sometimes you don’t have to know,” she responded.

Tears pooled in my eyes and trickled unwanted down my cheeks. “But I want to know. I need to know. I can’t go on like this. It’s impossible to plan for anything when everything is always changing, and I hate it.”

Ms. Hardwood turned and looked me in the eye. “Those are the times you trust God to know what He’s doing.” Her gentleness tugged at my heart.

I blotted my tears with the edge of my sleeve, embarrassed I couldn’t hold back my emotions. “Ms. Hardwood?”

“Please, call me Val, OK? Ms. Hardwood is for the classroom. We don’t need formalities here.” She handed me a napkin, likely from an earlier chuckwagon visit, eyeing my runny nose.

I accepted the napkin and gave her a funny look, chuckling through the tears. “Really? Val?” I then proceeded to wipe the tissue across my nose.

“Short for Valerie, but yes. My friends call me Val.” She finished her soda then casually placed the can next to her feet.

“I’m not sure I can do that,” I objected.

“What’s that?”

“Call you Val.”

“Why not?” A knowing smirk spread across Ms. Hardwood’s face.

“Because. It sounds funny.” I wrinkled my nose, uncertain how to process her request.

“You don’t do change well, do you?” she teased.

I laughed, dabbing at the corners of my eyes. “I guess not.” I exhaled, releasing built-up tension. “So, Ms. Har…I mean, Val, how did you get to be so smart?” I watched as an incredulous look came over Val’s face.

“Me? Smart? Now there’s something I’ve never been called before. Wise? Maybe, if you consider my age and life experience, but smart? No. That’s not me.” We watched as the softball teams switched sides and the next player walked up to home plate. “I’d like to think God uses me from time to time because of my willingness to be used by Him,” she continued, “but that’s all Him.”

“I see. And how have you learned to trust Him so well? I’m sensing there’s some kind of story behind all of your wisdom.” I seriously wanted to know.

She smiled a knowing smile. “I’ve encountered God in my life–personal, firsthand experience. He’s proven Himself over and over again and has never let me down—not even once. That’s how I know I can trust Him. I’ve put Him to the test. You can, too.” She sighed, thinking over her own journey. “If you think about it, trials bring us closer to God, so depending on how you look at it, your situation with the Davis family could actually be viewed as a blessing.”

I felt my eyebrows touch my bangs, stunned by her proposition. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“Why not?” She watched as I processed the new idea. “Is it because God hasn’t answered your prayers with a yes, or is it because some of them He’s answered with a no, not right now, or maybe later?” I mentally squirmed under her scrutiny. “I never said God has always answered the way I’ve wanted Him to,” she clarified. “I just said He’s never failed me. Big difference.” Tenderness reflected in her tone, inexplicable peace in her eyes.

If only I could trust God like that, I thought, envying her faith.

“When you look back over your life and see how God has lead you,” she continued, “you won’t be asking God for it to be any other way. Know why?”

I shook my head. “No. Why?”

“Because God does what God does best. He looks out for His children and only gives them what He knows will deepen their relationship with Him.” Her conviction flowed from a sacred place.

“At the risk of sounding nostalgic, I’m really going to miss being in your class next year,” I revealed. “You always have such great insight.” The harsh, junior-high teacher had somehow broken down barriers and found a warm spot in my heart.

“Betcha wouldn’t have imagined sayin’ that at the beginning of the school year, now would ya?” she razzed. “Strict, unrelenting, mean ol’ Ms. Hardwood.”

I laughed. “With a heart like a marshmallow.”

Her eyes twinkled as she stood and stretched her legs. “Shhh. Don’t let anyone hear you say that. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I can’t promise anything,” I teased. “This is pretty big news.” I stood, choosing to stretch a few sore muscles of my own.

Ms. Hardwood’s demeanor shifted as she set her gaze on someone behind me, a familiar voice interrupting our conversation. “Hope?”