May 9th 1974 started out to be a wonderful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the temperature was perfect. It was Kindergarten roundup day, and the thought of getting to go to school and make friends had been all I was able to think about for days.

    The boy—the one who cast such a long shadow over those early years—brought me there, acting as my caregiver and the one put in charge of babysitting for the roundup.

    It was a small-town park in a town of about 1,000 people at the most, which made the atmosphere feel even more quiet and familiar. I remember it being a sad moment for me when the girls I was playing with had to leave. Everyone else gradually went home, until just four little boys stayed behind to play longer.

    He led us—the four little boys and me—into the thick of the bushes, pulling us away from the open light of the park. When he removed my clothing and instructed the others, the children reacted in four entirely different ways: one obeyed, two turned their backs and refused to look, and the third stood frozen in a blank stare of shock, neither joining nor turning away. From where we were, I could see the courthouse, and I remember wishing for someone to come out, but no one ever did.

    The aftermath didn't hit until the first day of school that fall. The little girls I had so much fun with at the roundup said their moms said they weren't allowed to play with me. When I asked why, they just shrugged their shoulders and ran away. I had no idea what I had done wrong, and looking back to what happened at the park wasn't something my five-year-old mind could connect. I went the entire semester with no one allowed to play with me. Even the teacher was mean to me.

    As I went through the rest of my school years, the not knowing from that day never left. Since I didn't know what I had done to make so many people not to like me, I had no idea where to find the self-esteem to make friends with anyone ever.

Though those school years were shadowed by a loneliness I couldn't understand, the child who wished for a rescuer out by the courthouse eventually learned how to rescue herself. Today, the quiet no longer feels empty; it is filled with the strength of a survivor who finally found her voice.

 

“He heals the brokenhearted

and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3