And of Some Have Compassion, Making a Difference ...

Mercy. One word that I am not so closely acquainted with. Upon salvation I was not given this gift, much to my dismay sometimes. It has been generously given to me at times, for which I am eternally grateful. Not just the mercy afforded me by Christ at my salvation, but the acts of mercy done to me since then. Acts of mercy bestowed upon me in my childhood. which are now the apparent reason that I have amounted to anything.

I spent most of my elementary school years in East Texas. Panola, Texas, to be exact. Panola was so small that they didn't even have a school district. I attended schools in nearby Elysian Fields, which I didn't know until later, was named after the greek mythological resting place of the souls of the heroic and virtuous. Most of rural east Texas is country....and I mean 'cun-try'. Like Reese Witherspoon famously said in the movie 'Sweet Home Alabama', "people should need a passport to come down here."

I grew up in a small town, and everyone knew everybody else's business. Not only the business in their own town, but in the neighboring towns as well. This geographic situation only added to the hopelessness of my childhood. Because there was certain heinous activity occurring under the roof in which I resided, our interestingly blended family was at time ostracized. Fortunately, there were a few people who rightly understood that I was just a victim of my circumstances, and they chose to do something that has forever clung to my soul - they showed me mercy.

I had wonderful teachers at my school. This was back in the days when we would have corporate prayer in the morning, and the same before lunch. I was quiet and meek, understanding that drawing attention to myself would result in drawing attention to the blight of my circumstance. I was often rewarded for being obedient and studious, which to some children might have been one more building block to their already healthy psyche's - but to me it was a soothing balm on a patch of bare, wounded skin. I never wanted to leave school. School was my refuge. Home was my hell.

I had one teacher, Mrs. Pearlie Robinson, who in my 6th grade year sponsored the UIL competition team. She had a gold-toothed smile and an infectious laugh. After hearing me read aloud in class one day, she encouraged me to enter the poetry reading competition. She gave me a list of poems and told me to take them home, practice reciting them, and choose one for the competition. I chose 'O Captain! My Captain!' by Walt Whitman. Not the most cheerful poem I could have chosen, but to me it had passion and heart. It was a poem by which I could express my own despair.

I practiced and practiced. Days and weeks I practiced. I had to read with emotion and some dramatic interpretation. I was instructed to use my hands and to use voice inflection and facial expressions. Mrs. Robinson listened to me recite that poem over and over, until one day she said, "It's perfect Anna. I really think you are going to win."

Competition day arrived. We boarded the bus, nervous little 11 & 12 yr olds. We didn't talk much on the way there. Our stomach's were in knots, our hands cold and clammy. At least mine were! Once we arrived we went to the event board to see where we were supposed to go. My first reading was before three judges in a small classroom. After I read, I just knew that my voice had quivered too much and that I had read too fast. An hour later the results were posted - I had advanced to the semi-final round. I read again, this time before 3 judges and a small crowd in a BIGGER classroom. Again, I feared I read too fast and was quite sure my voice cracked a few times. To my surprise, I advanced to the final round. FINALS - the school auditorium packed with just about every judge and contestant present that day....and I read, despite feeling that I was surely going to lose consciousness.

Later that day, we got on the bus to go home. Mrs. Robinson had the results of the days competition in a brown envelope, and she proceeded to announce the winners from our group and give them their medals and ribbons. My heart sank, as she called out name after name, eliminating my winning possibilities with each announcement. Then she paused, and looked for me. She said, "Attention students! I wanted to save this medal for last. The first place medal for UIL 6th Grade Poetry Reading goes to..... Anna Owen."

I had no one there from my family to share in my victory, as some of the other students did. That was ok with me. It was my moment, and no one else deserved to share it with me.

Have you ever had someone believe in you... I mean REALLY believe in you? I have. Her name was Pearlie Robinson. She took a shy, ashamed and maladjusted little girl and inspired her to win 1st place in the only competition she had ever entered. Afterwards she bought me a t-shirt and had the following words put on the back - 'UIL 1st Place Winner'. I wore that t-shirt until it started cutting off circulation to my limbs. At the 6th grade yearbook signing, she wrote in mine, "to my little 1st place UIL winner. I am so proud of you." I must have read that about a thousand times. Her seemingly small acts of mercy and kindness made all the difference in the world to me. I will never forget her as long as I live.

"In the face of men
and women,
I see God."
- Walt Whitman