S…tut…tering

Wheels grating on concrete
            Caught.  Can’t breathe.
Large black projector pushed in.
Kids running around.
            Counting.  How many till me?
            Frantic.  Searching.  Out the window. 
            Hearing voices.  Closer.
My turn.
            Eyes.  Suddenly quiet.
            Stomach heaving. 
Pushing. 
Straining.
            Shaking. 
Smiling. 
Giggles.  Pointing.
            Disappearing.
            Dying. 
 



When I was a young girl about ten years old I started to stutter. This poem describes the anguish I felt when I heard the filmstrip projector being brought down the hall and into our classroom. I knew we would be going around the room with each of us taking turns reading a slide. It was my most painful time.
 
It would be after a lifetime of healing my inner little girl before I would come to realize that stuttering had been my greatest gift. Why? Because God also made me a teacher. But, in order to walk into a classroom, especially to meet a new class, I would have to ask God each time to talk for me because I just knew I could not. And, graciously, time after time, God did. Over the years, whether I am teaching, preaching or presenting, I always plan well and then hand it over to my Beloved God whom I have long come to witness can do it much better than I!  Stuttering brought me to the altar of total trust and surrender. For this blessed gift, to time and time again feel myself, my voice, being used as God’s instrument, I feel more gratitude than I could ever adequately express. And, all the pain of stuttering? A small…a very small price to pay, indeed.  
 
Yes, we do, indeed, blossom not in spite of but because of.