Teachers Who Speak to a Child’s Soul...
A Captured Soul
The summer before my second-grade school year, a life-changing event began to work a miraculous change in me. It all started when my mother and dad decided to visit my older sister, Sybil, and her husband in Colorado. Mother had talked to Sybil earlier the same week. “Mom, I’m sick and have been sick for the last few days. I even missed work today,” she told my mom. So, Mom quickly packed our bags and loaded them into our 52 Chevy Coupe. She lined part of the front floorboard with pillows to make my baby brother a bed, then threw several pillows in the back seat. Our journey began with me between my mother and dad and my youngest brother on Mother’s lap. My three older brothers sat in the back seat reading comic books.
I don’t remember much about the trip, but I do remember Mother singing gospel songs. Occasionally, Dad would ask her to sing a Hank Willliam’s song. There was no radio, so Mother entertained us. I definitely remember each time Mom dozed off, my baby brother crawled over the front seat to the backseat. It gave me more room in the front seat but only lasted a few minutes before my brothers pushed him back over the seat. Finally, after many stops and a couple of days, we reached our destination. Mother and Dad both looked utterly exhausted.
My sister met my mother in the driveway. I thought they would never stop hugging. As we all waited in line to hug her, I heard one of my brothers say, “She doesn’t look sick to me.”
We only stayed a few days before Dad told us it was time to go home. “Pack your clothes tonight. We are leaving early in the morning,” he said.
“Where are we going to put Sybil,” I asked Mother, looking at her with a wrinkled brow.
Her eyes narrowed and head tilted as she asked, “What do you mean? Then, before I could answer, she said, “Oh, you’re asking if there is enough room the car. Sugar, your sister is going to have a baby. She must stay here with her husband.”
“No!” I screamed at Mom. “She is ours. We saw her first.” Stomping out of the room, I whispered angrily, “Then I don’t ever want to see you again. That’s not fair.”
I know I was spoiled, but in my own defense, I had shared a room with Sybil since my baby brother inherited the crib, and I was moved into her room. It became our girl sanctuary, where we giggled, played, and talked until falling asleep at night. When she left home, our room was no longer a sanctuary, just a vast empty place where I waited for Mother to tuck me in and repeat a prayer. Is it any wonder that, as a child, I wanted to load my sister in the car and take her home?
On our way home, Mother sang only when asked, and I thought I saw a tear or two roll down her cheek. I realized everyone hated to leave Sybil behind. A cloud of sadness hung over us until we crossed the Texas border and stopped for gasoline at Claude, a small town about thirty miles southeast of Amarillo. The man at the service station talked to Dad while he filled the gas tank. Afterward, Dad followed him inside to pay for the fuel—we thought. When he returned to the car, Dad announced, “I bought the service station.”
No one acted surprised. Dad was always full of surprises. We never knew what he might do next.
Mother and Dad discussed plans to move to Claude as we traveled the rest of the way home. I think Mother was okay with moving because she would be closer to my sister. Dad traveled back to Claude and rented a house while Mother packed and closed our home in Central Texas. We spent about four years in that little town in the Texas panhandle.
Although I was teary-eyed about moving away from my grandmother and boatload of cousins, I have many interesting childhood memories from that period. Things like living in a haunted house, a tornado or two, and being tagged as the Bicycle Girl. But those are all stories for another time. This story is about a life changing event—so here goes.
My fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Cheval, wore her dark hair in a bun, held in place with an ivory comb. Her slim physique hosted a perfect posture and a very tall frame, or maybe I thought she was tall because I was very short. I remember her reading to our class during our very-needed rest period after recess. One day, she carefully pulled a collection of yellowed pages from a brown paper bag and placed them on her desk. Her dark eyes skipped from student to student as she looked directly at each one and spoke, “This is a diary that has been passed down in my family for generations.” Then, laying her hand protectively on the stack of papers, she said, “I have to be very careful with each page because each paper is very old and very brittle.”
She handled the pages gently as she read from a young girl’s diary. The girl was maybe twelve years old—just a few years older than me; at that time. Her mother and Dad had been killed, and she was captured by the Indians. I listened as I had never listened before. I knew the story was true, word for word, from the girl’s own mouth. Mother gave me a diary at Christmas, which I kept locked under my pillow. Only my most truthful, deep thoughts were stored in it.
I held my breath as she finished each page and carefully laid it aside to read the next page. The hardships the girl went through over the years came alive and walked off the brittle yellow paper into our classroom. Her existence encountered conditions I had never been exposed to or thought about. She even struggled to retain her English to write her story. Mrs. Cheval read to us each school day for several weeks. I began looking forward to Monday, impatient to discover the next challenge the captive girl had to overcome.
One day Mrs. Cheval said, “I’ve read this before, but it still makes me cry.” She wiped a tear from her face before it could drop on the brittle yellow page, and then she began reading. As her voice cracked and she tried to clear her throat, I knew she omitted a sentence or two, but I didn’t know why. Now, I know—the words were too graphic for young ears.
My teacher captured my heart that year by sharing her family’s history. She knew by the way I paid attention that I absorbed every word. The reality of the diary influenced my attitude toward my family. I always loved them, but I became more appreciative and grateful for them, especially my mom. My heart broke when I remembered telling my mother I never wanted to see her again. Not long after it happened, I told my mother I did not mean it and asked God to forgive me. I know I’m forgiven, but the memory is always there to remind me of the impact of my words and actions. God knows that my memory of the event is necessary to help me control my temper and tongue.
While I did not share the diary with anyone, the young captive’s life is etched in my soul—I guess you could say it captured my soul. Her story has never left me and serves as a reminder of the value and importance of people in our lives.
But I, with shouts of grateful praise, will sacrifice to you. What I have vowed I will make good. I will say, ‘Salvation comes from the Lord’” (Jonah 2:9).
Praise: Thank you, God, for where You placed me and the people You placed in my life.
Thank you, God, for you perfect timing.
Thank you, God, for special teachers like Mrs. Cheval, who foster life-changing events in their students.
(Mary Jemison, thought to be the captive that Mrs. Cheval told us about)
