Recently, several things went awry in my life. A sinus infection morphed into the flu then into bronchitis and had already lasted for over a month when I tripped over a foam roller I carelessly left on the floor. The searing pain in my left leg led to an ER visit and a diagnosis: tibial plateau fracture. Three weeks prior, my husband had retired, and our health insurance terminated at the end of the month. COBRA coverage was supposed to kick in, but their system messed up and didn’t have me listed as a dependent on my husband’s policy. Even though the rep assured me coverage would be retroactive, when I tried to get in to see an orthopedist, the doctor refused to take me as a patient. I didn’t feel safe.

During times of struggle, the usual religious platitudes have never worked for me. “You are loved…You are enough…You’re a daughter of the King…Everything will work out…God causes all things to work together for your good and his glory.”

I don’t feel it.

I worry about my health, my children’s health. Will someone I love get into a devastating car accident? Will an audit of our taxes reveal a costly error? Would one of us get arrested and go to prison?

You may say I’m pessimistic, a Negative Nellie, I’m imagining things, exaggerating my fears, future tripping. That I shouldn’t focus on the worst-case scenario. By nature, I’m melancholic, so that’s where my mind automatically goes.

After my fracture and five-hour adventure in the ER, I did get to see a good orthopedist the next day. She put me in a brace and delivered these instructions: “You need to stay off that leg for six to eight weeks. Don’t put any weight on it or you might displace the tibia, and then you’ll need surgery.”

No Safe Place in Sight

Back at home, I worried that I’d trip and fall again, leading to an even more extended recovery time. I worried that my already porous bones would crumble away from osteoporosis. I worried that my bronchitis would turn into pneumonia or something worse.

Friends and neighbors supported and encouraged me. But still, I worried. One day, a friend whom I’ve known since childhood emailed a phrase that resonated deeply.

At the end of her email, she wrote, “Remember, you are safe.“ I immediately felt peace. I don’t recall anyone saying this to me before, and I’m not sure why she shared this now. But she had been in the trenches with me. By trenches, I mean she, too, was sent to boarding school in first grade, and we lived in that institution together for eight years.

At her words, my soul relaxed.  Yes, I am safe.

I felt it. I’m no longer that six-year-old girl stripped of everything familiar. Torn away from my home and my mother’s loving arms. Separated from my precious younger brothers and baby sister. 

As I lounged in the recliner in our den for days on end, I thought back on my childhood challenges. In the dorms the year I turned six, the ratio of girls to house mothers was twenty-eight to one. As loving and well-intentioned the staff might have been, they could not ever have replaced my mother’s nurture.  

At Kent Academy, there were many rules, and I wasn’t aware of all of them when I started in first grade. Perhaps someone read them to me, but I didn’t comprehend or remember them.

A Heightened Danger Sensor

The punishments ranged from chastisement to shaming to a smack on the hand with a hairbrush, a swat on the backside with a ping-pong paddle, or a strapping with a belt. The specter of a strapping hung over me daily and frightened me so much that I became a rigid rule-follower. Sometimes, there would be a group punishment if one person acted out of line. The discipline seemed arbitrary and I lived on constant alert.

At other times, the junior high girl who oversaw us during the morning room cleanup would make up a rule just for fun. Then she’d add, “You’ll get a spanking if you don’t obey me.” Life became very uncertain and unsafe.

To compound the struggle, I was a highly sensitive introvert. Clamor and noise surrounded me daily in the dormitory, classroom, playground, and dining hall from the first call of “rise and shine“ to the last call of “lights out.“ Hour after hour, I felt dragged along with a herd of bleating sheep. C-PTSD from childhood trauma contributed to my constantly scanning the horizon for danger.

While sitting with my leg propped up to reduce the swelling, again I read my friend’s email. “You are safe.” I breathed a sigh of relief. I’m secure in my cozy home with my loving husband and son with no threat of being sent away. I’m not going to get in trouble at the hands of a harried house mother or on the whim of a teenage hall monitor. No one’s going to force me to eat food I can’t tolerate.

Today I can dial down my over-diligent danger sensor.

I am safe.

Looking Back

Over the past five years, I’ve been seeking above all else to find where God was during my myriad childhood challenges. Hence the name of my blog, “Above All Else.” The more I researched, the sadder I became as I uncovered the harm my brothers and others suffered. (One of the dorm uncles was especially cruel.) And I began to realize the extent of my trauma, even without regular belt-beatings. I struggled to see where God was in those moments when I waited in fear, knowing my little brother was being marched to the dorm office to receive another strapping by “black magic” or the “red scorpion.”

Since last November, I’ve been decluttering my faith. I’m questioning some of the beliefs that led to the neglect and abuse of children in a mission boarding school. However, I’m not throwing out the faith of our fathers or making up my own faith. I’m chucking out the rules, rituals, and regulations I grew up with that were human-constructed from cherry-picked Bible verses. I’m sorting through the facts and throwing out the fiction.

In my current situation, I’ve been able to see some positives and attribute them to God’s providential hand as I’ve focused on gratitude. My husband was available to take me to all my medical appointments because he had retired three weeks before my fracture. I eventually sorted out my health insurance and had access to good medical care. The staff at the hospitals and facilities all had a positive bedside manner. Friends messaged me with cheerful encouragement and visited me regularly to keep me company and help with chores. They brought flowers, cookies, and china teacups. During these weeks, I’ve texted often with my mom and siblings and am blessed to have a warm relationship with my family even after all we’ve been through.

What I Know Now

I’m still seeking to discover, “Where was God when I was a child?” Did I ever feel safe at boarding school? I recall searching out quiet places I could sneak away to while the other kids raced around on the playground. I found a secluded garden spot, nestled between two wings of the girl’s dorm. And another corner of a garden beside the dorm parents’ apartment. 

Another refuge was burying my head in a book. Within the stories, I traveled to faraway places and enjoyed adventures through the eyes of the young protagonist.

During the Sunday church services, the music soothed my aching soul. The words of the hymns told me Jesus loved me and he would keep me “safe and secure from all alarms” —comforting words from “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.”

God didn’t prevent my boarding school experience, but he helped me endure the chaos and provided moments of tranquility. Today, through practices of reflection and gratitude, I’m finding serenity in the midst of my current struggles.

I’m thankful I received the email from my friend who reminded me, “You are safe.”

In the shelter of your presence you hide them from all human intrigues; you keep them safe in your dwelling from accusing tongues. Psalm 31:20

For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock. Psalm 27:5,6 NIV

To read about how I came to live in a boarding school, click here.