The memory of my 7th grade year still haunts me. There was the typical acne and painful rejection, which felt heavy, but one solace I found was a locker decoration. I found a great picture of John Elway holding his helmet and smiling, so I taped him in my skinny metal home.

I was happy for a while, but storms were brewing.

One day Mr. Elway wasn’t holding his helmet; he was holding his head. Some 9th graders watched me open my locker, and their snickering gave them away. I did nothing to fight back, and the boys (grown men to me) loved watching me wallow in weakness.

A few days later, reaching for my math book, I felt the awful closeness of those same snickering 9th graders.

“Hey buddy. What’s up?” one asked.

Another walked up behind me, and I was stuck. Arms wrapped around my chest, and someone grabbed my feet. They lifted me in the air, and when the guy holding my chest let go, the room was spinning. The one holding my feet was spinning me around him in the air like a terrible wheel. The laughter and gasps proved there was a crowd.

And I was alone.

Change fell from my pocket, the 9th grader’s girlfriend smiled awkwardly, and then my ride came to an end on the hallway floor.

Hot shame pulsed through my body while the crowd watched me scramble to my feet. And a lie was etched on my 7th grade heart: “I’m not enough.” Any confidence left flickering in my adolescent body was extinguished by that lie, a lie that still finds its way to the surface of my heart even as an adult.

Thirty years later, like a rotten smell leaking from Tupperware, that lie seeped out from deep inside me.  And it came out of nowhere.

“How about a hand for the winning team over here!” I shouted to my students above the zipping backpacks.

Everyone clapped politely, and with five minutes left in class, the review games were over. Christmas vacation was a few exam days away, and I was a teacher, impervious to insecurities from the past, right?

Wrong!

“Are there any more questions about the exam?” I asked.

One hand popped up.

“Yes Kyle.”

A blonde-haired kid in the back had a furrowed brow. He was a wild card. One comment from him could either bring depth or deflate an entire discussion.

This time, he had no filter.

“How can we get motivated for this exam if you take forever to enter grades.” He wasn’t smiling, and that 7th grade lie was suddenly right in my face.

All eyes shifted to me. The sounds of zippers and side conversations ceased.

Let me pause to say that the phrase “never let them see you sweat” is especially true for teachers. There are days I feel like a minnow in a shark tank, when one tremulous ripple of fear could create a wild frenzy. Students have cussed at me, threatened to kill me, and one kid threw his body against the door to keep me from calling his mom, but as strange as it might seem, none of that got to me like Kyle’s words.

I paused, took a breath, and responded.

“Kyle, I spend 20 minutes on every essay,” I said, gritting my teeth. “If you multiply that by 150, it equals a lot of time. I do that because I care about you, but I also have 3 kids and lesson plans to write. I’ll enter grades, but you—you should be motivated regardless.”

I was mad. Everyone, including me, wanted to leave, and the bell rang. It was the last class before exams and a horrible way to end, but what made that moment even worse was the Tupperware had been ripped open, and I didn’t like what was coming out.

I drove home that day with Kyle’s words hanging over me.

The house was empty.  Dropping my keys on the counter, I collapsed onto a bar stool. Deb and the kids had gotten out our Christmas decorations to do repairs.

Wise men and shepherds looked at me from the counter, some chipped and some with broken pieces next to them.

I felt like that Nativity set, chipped and broken, a mess of a teacher, but in the quiet, as I picked up the glue and worked at repairing the shepherd’s face, God was doing something. I held symbols of God’s entrance into our world, of the moment in time when He became Emmanuel, God with us. And with each dab of glue I dabbed onto those figures, the Author of my story was giving me a glimpse of what He had planned for me.

When my family arrived, we ate dinner, and then I headed back to school to finish an exam. Stepping out of my car, I looked up at the stars and prayed, “Lord, I can’t resolve what I’m feeling. You need to do it.” My heart was broken by a middle school lie that had suddenly resurfaced. There were pieces laying around me, and I had no idea how to glue them back. I slipped on some headphones, staring at my computer, and got lost in music and multiple-choice questions.

About an hour into it, in the midst of processing Kyle’s words and whether or not to include one more grammar question, Jadon Lavik’s version of This is My Father’s World started to play. It was God’s glue!

Truth broke through every word: “This is my Father’s world. And let me ne’er forget that though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.”

A thought came to mind. Whose world is it, Kyle’s or God’s? If I was really living in my Father’s world, it’s His voice, not Kyle’s, that has authority to speak into my life.

The One who “conveniently” placed those ceramic figures in front of me sent His son to pick up my broken pieces. He had used a song to call out strength from deep in my heart and silenced the power of a lie. The tears came. Test-making had ceased, and I was wrapped up in the arms of a God who I knew loved me. He had done what I told Him only He could do. Like the shepherds and wise men on my counter, I had been pieced back together, and I left my office that night healed.

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