Shared Suffering

The sun was behind the foothills, warming the sky with a pink glow when Shelly put her feet onto the hardwood floor. The first light of consciousness was the worst part of every  day, but once her feet were on the floor, her strength returned. The chill of the wood shot up through her bones, tightened her muscles and set her blood flowing on a course of optimism rather than despair.

She had a brilliant lesson prepared for her class of four year olds this Easter Sunday. It was a lesson they would never forget, one that would drive home the meaning of the Easter events, something that was not easy to do with four year olds.

As she’d grown older, Easter had become an increasingly disturbing day. All the holidays were difficult because on those days, her face was rubbed in the happiness of married women with precious children. This morning, the women’s faces would glow as they leaned on their husbands after working together to hide eggs, wallowing in the ecstatic shouts of their children as they discovered their prizes – boiled and plastic – and baskets filled with chocolate and jelly beans.

It was an abomination . Not only were eggs pagan, they had absolutely nothing to do with the death and resurrection of the Savior. She supposed it was a vague tie-in with the idea of re-birth, but none of the children understood that. Their minds were a cottony web of sugar, furry rabbits and baby chicks. Did they know those fluffy yellow things would grow up to have their heads whacked off to provide the chicken nuggets the children loved so much? Shelly had faced reality when she was a small child. She’d grown up on a farm, not in this disconnected suburban community where everyone was cocooned from the brutality of life.

She sat in a child-sized chair, waiting while the children trickled into the classroom. The girls wore pastel skirts and jumpers. The boys strutted in shorts and pastel tee shirts. The energy in the room told her they’d already indulged in chocolate. The children loved Sunday School, loved coloring and pasting and hearing stories. They stared with moist lips and liquid eyes at the large bowl in the center of the long, low table.

When all eleven children were seated, she uncovered the bowl. She explained the significance of Easter morning. “But how many of you came to church on Friday?” No hands rose. She read their puzzled looks – who attended church on Fridays?

She explained the importance of Good Friday. “Are you thankful for the suffering that was endured for you?” Twenty-two eyes stared at her blankly. She plucked a dried liquid amber pod out of the bowl, then passed the bowl, telling each child to select a pod.

Once all their tiny palms held a prickly dried ball, she instructed them to close their hands tightly around it.

“Ouch,” said Lauren. “That hurts.”

“You’re hardly squeezing it,” said Shelly. “Press harder. Imagine that crown of thorns shoved onto your head.” She walked around the table folding her hand over each child’s hand, pressing hard. Some children’s eyes filled with tears and their lips opened slightly, turning pale. Some of the children tried to wrench their hands away from hers, but she simply tightened her grip. Their strength was no match for hers.

She knew the mothers would be unhappy, but they shirked their responsibility. They couldn’t simply offer their children the fun parts of a spiritual life. They had to know what it all meant. It was her job to teach them.

Now they were all gone. It was possible there would be repercussions. The mommies and daddies had not looked happy at their children’s twisted, red faces. The deacons might take away her job as a teacher of small children. That wasn’t important. She’d done what that job required when no one else would.

Shelly picked up the one remaining liquid amber pod. She clenched her hand around it, feeling the pricks dig into her skin. She wrapped her left hand around the outside of her right and squeezed harder until she felt her blood escape through the surface of her skin. Maybe just one child in the class had learned the lesson – to feel the suffering of another human being.

© 2010 Cathryn Grant