“Doctor, I have chronic pain, fatigue, depression, problems with blood pressure, sleep problems, anxiety, headaches, restless legs and my stomach hurts all the time. What is wrong with me?”

“We’ll run some tests.” The tests come back negative. The doctor looks at you. “Have you ever thought about seeing a psychiatrist?” Dismissal of physical symptoms is a familiar experience for survivors of childhood trauma.

First grade was the first time in my life I felt understood. I loved everything about school. The snacks, the smell of mimeographed worksheets, learning how to read and write, the playground, and most of all, I loved my teacher Mrs. King. She was the first adult I had ever met who loved me back.

I had watched my big brother board the school bus every day for the last year. Now, it was finally my turn. The very first week of first grade, my teacher, Mrs. King, fulfilled every dream I had ever had of school

“All right, children,” Mrs. King said, as she stood at the front of the room in her bright red lipstick. “We have a very special guest today. I need for everyone to come sit on the floor by the piano.” Everyone moved near the claptrap upright as Mrs. King went to the door. She turned to all of us. “When our visitor comes in, you must be very, very quiet. You must not talk, you must not shout and whatever happens, you…must…not…laugh. This guest is very sensitive, and if you make any noise. Any noise at all, you will scare him and he will want to leave. Does everyone understand?” My mouth dropped open as a hush-filled magic fell over the classroom. All eyes stared at the door.

In the early morning hours of a winter’s day in 1944, Corrie Ten Boom stood in line for roll call at Ravensbruck Concentration Camp. A middle-aged woman, she and her family had been arrested by the Nazis for saving Jews. Standing in that awful place surrounded by suffering, Corrie lifted her eyes to the sky. Suddenly, a lark flew overhead. Its song soared to the heavens. Every prisoner looked up. For the next three weeks, the lark appeared every morning and became a reminder to Corrie that even in the midst of despair, truth and beauty and goodness continue.

I sat with several other children in the dark, dank little basement of the church where my father was pastor. Karen Wray, my Sunday School teacher, pointed to the classic drawing of Jesus welcoming the children. I pondered it for a long time. Nobody in my home greeted me like that, and no one in the church knew what was going on when my family left the building on Sunday mornings.

I had looked forward to the Mary Kay Cosmetics party my mother was hosting all week. Too little to wear make-up, I certainly wasn’t too small to be interested. I had looked at every picture in the Mary Kay catalogue and dreamed of the day when I could get my hands on some of the tiny lipstick samples. I knew I was a scrawny-legged child, too ugly to be of interest to the fancy ladies who would be attending the party, but I was determined to do my best to fit in. Putting on my Sunday dress and buckling my black patent leather shoes, I watched through the window as the guests began to arrive.

In the popular children’s book “Ramona the Pest” by Beverly Cleary, five-year-old Ramona is told to “sit here for the present” by her kindergarten teacher, Miss Binney. Misunderstanding the instruction, Ramona refuses to move from her seat for the rest of the day. She thinks the teacher’s requests for participation in classroom activities are a test of her obedience. If she moves from her seat, Miss Binney will not give her the promised present. Ramona’s happiness at being promised a present leads to shame and ridicule by her classmates when her mistake is revealed.