Purple Hearts

When I was seven years old a boy named Darrell pushed me from behind and I fell directly onto my chin. My dad took me to the emergency room where they gave me four stitches and (being the brave girl that I am) I didn’t shed a tear until after they gave me the shot. When we got home, Mom had warm macaroni and cheese on the table and my brother presented me with a special gift he had made in my absence: it was a purple heart, cut out of construction paper, hanging on a strand of pink yarn. My parents explained that this is what soldiers received for bravery in combat. (Apparently Alan had been reading a lot about the military.) I wore it with honor all through dinner.

It’s the end of the school year and we are about to have the awards ceremony at the school where I teach. In these trying last few weeks, I really wish I had my purple heart to keep me brave. But, if I still had it, I would probably pass it on to Beth, a former student who's graduating this year.

When I first met her, Beth was an eclectic combination of mental illness, patience, depression, wit, and acne. At least two or three times a week she would come into my classroom disheveled and crying. I regularly walked her down to the counseling office where she talked about cutting herself and sometimes even killing herself.

But, on her better days, Beth loved to read and joined the book club I was sponsoring. She also loved to write poetry, which she never dared show to anybody. Some time around spring break she came in with a binder clutched in her sweaty palms. “Miss Smith,” she gasped, “I decided I want you to read my poems.” Then she tossed me the binder and frantically ran out of the room.

It took three days of complete agony to get through that binder. The poems were awful, gut-churning rampages about boys who had broken her heart and taken her to Wendy’s (not always in that order). But she trusted me to read them, which was a serious compliment, so I was determined to give her Pulitzer Prize-winning feedback. I composed a thank-you card filled with very specific comments to prove that I had read each and every verse. “The one about the Cadillac reminded me of my college days,” I wrote, “It’s amazing how much we associate objects with memories.” I also told her that her “stream-of-consciousness style” reminded me of Faulkner and other great writers. I bought her a copy of Anne Lamott’s Bird By Bird and stuck the card inside.

One week later Beth gave me a card of her own design. It was constructed from poorly-folded cardstock and had a faded ink-jet picture of a kitten on the front. The letter from Beth was almost identical to the one I had given her. “Thank you for saying that my poem about the Cadillac reminded you of college,” she wrote, “and thank you for telling me that my style reminds you of Faulkner.”

But showing me her poems was not Beth’s bravest move by far. During the last weeks of school she began frantically writing apology letters to everyone she knew, including me. “I just wanted to tell you that I really loved your class,” she wrote. “And, I’ve really messed up, but I promise I will get better and make it up to everyone.”

For several days she hinted at this mysterious, seemingly unforgivable mistake. One day she offhandedly mentioned a fight she'd had with her father. He had not spoken to her for three days. “Beth,” I said, “Whatever you’ve done it’s not irredeemable, and I’ll love you no matter what, so why don’t you just tell me what you’re dealing with here?”

“I can’t say it out loud,” she responded. Then she scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it to me. I knew what it said before I even opened it: I’m pregnant.

“Well,” I told her. “This is definitely going to change your life, but it’s not a disaster by any means.” I tried to stay calm but truthfully I was deeply concerned. Beth was emotionally unstable and was still taking an array of prescription drugs even after she found out about the pregnancy. I was worried about the health of the fetus. I was worried that she might abort the baby, and I was even more worried that she might think she could raise it herself.

Beth came in several days during lunch and we had a few difficult but important talks. Typically, I would not involve myself so much in a student’s personal issues, but this was different. I felt compelled, spiritually, to be a true mentor and step outside of my comfort zone. So, crazy as it sounds, I told her she should probably stop taking the medication. Also, we discussed her options regarding the baby. It wasn’t my place to tell her what to do. Instead, I told her, “Whatever choice you make, you will have to live with it, every day, for the rest of your life. Choose wisely. Be selfless, and be brave.”

For months I watched Beth trod through her senior year, her belly getting bigger every day. Early in the pregnancy, she decided to place the baby with adoptive parents and, amazingly, this experience healed her. The tears and instability ceased to exist. For some reason, the process of giving her child away – participating in the ultimate sacrifice and the ultimate gift – made her whole again.

Just recently, Beth stopped by my room for a visit. She was healthy and smiling with cornsilk hair and plans for college. We were reminiscing about the past couple of years and she told me what it was like right after the baby was born. “She was in the NICU for several days due to a heart murmur,” Beth said. “So I went down there to visit her and held her little hand. Then, before I knew it, she was well and it was time for her to go home.” Beth insisted on handing the baby to the adoptive parents herself. “I’m handing you my child,” she told them, “because you can give her the life she deserves and because you deserve her more than I do.” After that, she walked away. She didn’t want to cry in front of them.

I thought about Beth today when I was reading about Samuel, one of the Old Testament’s most famous prophets. His mother, Hannah, was barren and severely ridiculed by the other females in her circle. So she went to the temple, weeping and praying so much that the priest thought she was drunk. In her prayers, Hannah promised that if she received a son she would dedicate him to the Lord. As soon as the baby was weaned, she took him back to the temple and left him there for the rest of his life. I admire Hannah’s bravery. It is difficult for me to understand the amount of selflessness it takes to pray for something, receive it, then turn around and give it back to God. Essentially, this is Beth’s story. Like Hannah, her ultimate display of love was placing her baby in hands of the one who could perfectly protect and care for her.

Women like Beth and Hannah have taught me that purple hearts belong in our chests, not on them. They also helped me realize something important about my faith: if the ultimate display of God’s love is Jesus on the cross, then we must embrace sacrifice in order to even remotely comprehend how He feels about us. And, in turn, we will be healed.

It sounds strange, but every day that I walk with God I’m learning more and more to expect loss and to do so willingly. After dozens of painful goodbyes I have finally realized that when God gives us something to love, the best thing we can do is give it right back to Him. That is the only way we can be truly brave. That is the only way we can truly love.