Note: Due to the sensitive nature of this story, the students’ names have been changed.

If you’ve been reading these stories for a while, you’ve probably noticed I tend to be a glass-half-full kind of guy, and that’s mainly true. When it rains, I’m happy for the moisture. And when the Rockies play baseball, despite two horrendous seasons, I’m sure they’re gonna win. But sometimes all that positivity isn’t enough. There are days when all I feel is empty.

That’s how I felt walking out of my school’s double doors just before Christmas break. The memory of what happened in the principal’s office slowed my steps, like a heavy ball and chain being dragged through the parking lot.

I kept replaying Trevor’s words.

He’s the assistant principal who supervises all the English teachers. He’s a great guy, another leader like Hillary Hienton who makes teaching an absolute delight. And he used to be one of my students, which only adds to our respect for each other.

He’ll often walk into my classroom just to give me a high five. Or, he’ll stop by to see what we’re reading.

“I remember reading that,” he’ll say with a smile, and we’ll both laugh.

But one day in his office the vibe was different.

He had done an observation in my class, and with Christmas break two weeks away, we needed to talk about it.

The conversation started with vacation plans, road trips and malt milkshakes. And that flowed into a discussion about the observation.  He told me he liked that the lesson plan flowed well and kids were being seen. Our conversation was encouraging.

But then it shifted.

“There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he said, leaning forward in his chair.

His smile faded, and I could tell whatever he was about to say wasn’t good. Honestly, I felt for him. Being an administrator, he has to bring up the ugly issues. But what happens when those ugly issues are circling around his former English teacher?

“Sure, what’s up,” I said, like nothing could crack my veteran teacher’s armor.

“Do you know Reanne Templeton?” he asked.

I nodded, waiting for the bomb to drop.

“She said you touched her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.”

His words leveled me.

“What?” I whispered, completely confused. “Why would Reanne say that?”

I acted calm, but everything inside me felt the explosion.

Condemnation and betrayal ripped through my heart like shrapnel.

“Her parents even came to school,” he said with a sigh. “They were pretty upset.”

My face felt hot, and my mind raced. This is crazy! I racked my brain trying to remember some “uncomfortable moment” with Reanne. Nothing came to mind.

Thankfully, Trevor moved the conversation along.

“I did a quick investigation,” he said, offering a smile, “and talked to Kelly Davis, who it looks like sits right next to Reanne in your class.” He checked to see if I was tracking.

“Yes.”

“She said she may have remembered you patting Reanne on the shoulder and saying, ‘Good job.’”

“Trevor,” I said, sitting up a little. “I don’t even remember doing that. She was maybe in my class once last month, and she’s failing.” The words poured out like the adrenaline pulsing through my body.

Then, it all started to make sense.

Trevor shook his head and smiled.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he said. “I figured she was probably trying to get out of your class.”

Trevor trusted me; he had my back, but the damage was done. I walked slowly up the stairs to my office thinking about Reanne.  She wasn’t the enemy.  She was another broken person like me.  I knew that, but I had nothing left. My cup wasn’t just half full. It was empty.

The next morning, like every weekday morning, I got in my car to go to school and clicked my Spotify playlist.  But as I drove up Rangewood, I couldn’t hear the music.  All I could hear were ugly questions.

Did Reanne tell other kids what she told Trevor?

Do other students think that way about me?

Shame and darkness crept into my car, and I didn’t want to be at school anymore.

One student’s accusation had turned my world upside down. . .

But then something caught my attention—keys being played on a piano.

The song was familiar, like the voice of an old friend, and my eyes filled with tears.

Steven Curtis Chapman was singing his song When You Are a Soldier on my playlist, and every lyric was perfect.

“When you are a soldier,” Chapman sings, “I will be your shield. I will go with you into the battlefield.”

As the song played that particular morning, I knew this was no coincidence. I turned up the volume, and the words filled my car with truth.

“When the arrows start to fly,” he sang, “take my hand and hold on tight.”

Only God could time that song so perfectly. He could see the “arrows” flying at me, and better yet, He could see me!

The words settled on my heart like a refreshing spring rain, and I totally lost it, wiping away tears.

This wasn’t Chapman singing anymore. Yes, it was his voice, but he couldn’t see the dark questions and shame. Only God could see all that, and it was Him singing now.

“And I will be your shield. . .” With every line, the power of the accusation faded.

“ ‘cause I know how it feels. . .” Yes, I thought. He does understand.

“When you are a soldier.”

The piano played as the song ended, every note whispering the truth that I was loved.  And all that darkness, all that condemnation suddenly couldn’t touch me.  Right there in my car, God was my shield.  And I was His soldier.

I parked and sat there in the silence. Somehow from my driveway to the school parking lot, my glass was filled up again, overflowing with something much more powerful than positivity. It was overflowing with Joy!  The song proved God saw me; He wanted me in that battle at school, and when I walked back through those double doors, I knew I wasn’t alone.

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