In high school, I knew a girl who was a talented ballerina.
More accurately, I knew of her and could spot her in the hallway.
We never shared a classroom. Never ate at the same lunch table.
I vaguely recall us catching one another’s eye a few times — perhaps because she was the only other female in my grade with red hair: mine was light strawberry; hers was fire.
And yet, for someone with fire upon her head, she was cool and collected. Her posture alone made her appear tall, and she was already quite tall.
She was lithe and almost otherworldly in grace.
I am embarrassed that I cannot recall her name, yet her image remains clearer in my mind than any word to describe her.
Rumor had it that she desired nothing more after high school than to attend The Juilliard School, located in New York City, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
New York City felt like a very faraway place to me, and fitting that such a girl — the ballerina — would want to go there.
I could imagine her there so much that at our small high school in Texas, she seemed more like a foreigner than a native.
In this, she and I connected, whether she ever knew it or not.
Most days, I didn’t feel as if I fit in either. Perhaps that was the common, unspoken theme in the crowded hallways that often smelled of perfume and body odor.
I didn’t feel overlooked because I knew my position and was confident in my path, even though I had neither the maturity nor experience to avoid overthinking.
I guess she overthought, too, or at least that is what I told myself when I got the news.
We were informed that counseling would be available to any student. Only after this announcement did the principal reveal that the girl had committed suicide.
I remember sitting in my chair in English class, thinking that the only other redhead was gone. She was the pretty one out of the two of us.
She had plans… dreams… we both did.
In some bizarre way, embarrassingly, I felt as if she had cheated on us both: we both were to succeed. I couldn’t decide if I was angry or scared. I just knew a hot tear was running down my cheek, and I had to remove it with my hand before anyone noticed.
Strangely, I felt more protective of knowing about her death than I did of her while she was alive. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. Ever.
I was quiet. So was she.
Toward the end of my senior year, we had a school assembly in the cafeteria. Lunch tables were folded and stacked upon the stage behind the black curtain. Chairs were put into rows for students to fill.
I sat in a chair very near to where the ballerina would have sat if the table were there — if she were there. Not sure why I recall that, but I do.
The speaker was the ballerina’s mom. She was not a public speaker, but she was a parent who loved her child. Correction: loves her child.
“She killed herself because she thought she didn’t get into Juilliard,” the mom said into a microphone.
Her voice shook as much as her hands.
My heart started to race. Why, I do not know.
“The notification deadline had passed, and she thought her dream had died,” the mom continued.
Bending down, she pulled an envelope from her purse that was on the floor beside her.
“It was almost a week past the deadline when the letter arrived,” she said. “She got it. My daughter was accepted into Juilliard. She never knew that she had made it.”
I watched the mom take the acceptance letter from the envelope and read it aloud.
That was more than 30 years ago, and I can still picture the mother and her courage in speaking to us about life, death, and the danger of making permanent decisions based on temporary emotions.
I may have forgotten the ballerina’s name, but something about her still passes by me in hallways and crowds from time to time when I see someone with fiery red hair.
This year, I have set a few goals that I plan on achieving.
Just as I was in high school, I am driven by a strong desire to honor the Lord and to exceed my own expectations. This combination has, at times, lent itself to disappointment and frustration.
Things don’t always turn out the way I would have predicted or hoped. Oftentimes, when they do, it is more of an exception than the norm.
I must ask myself whether that which I am pursuing is for the Lord or for me. If it be for the Lord first, then whatever comes will be enough.
My time, talents, and gifts are best suited to be distributed by His hand that has no limit of reach.
I am much too limited and often reduce myself further by becoming frustrated in circumstance.
Even my best dreams are not as big as God’s. His best is always better.
I have often left a place or person thinking the experience did not go at all as expected, only to understand later that it was exactly as God ordained.
Even disappointments have their place.
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose,” (Romans 8:28).
ALL things.
God has sovereign control over every aspect of life, assuring Believers that He orchestrates all circumstances.
God can transform challenging situations to promote spiritual growth, even in the absence of worldly victory or happiness. We may not understand or even like it at the time, but we can persevere in faith.
What I have learned from disappointment is that God can turn even the worst situations into a positive, eternal outcome. I must be obedient and stay the course of faith in my relationship with God. I must, or I will lose myself. And all that I am and try to be is because of who He is.
The next verse puts this more into context: “For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son…” (Romans 8:29).
May we remember that our ultimate goal is not any objective we set for ourselves in accordance with this world, but rather to strive to be more like Jesus in character, faith, holiness, love, peace, and readiness.
The pain and disappointment He endured on the cross was real. Very real. And yet, He persevered for what it would bring: ultimate redemption.
May we strive to remember this during our own moments of disappointment and pain.
Great suffering and defeat abound in this world, and we must remember that the best is yet to come, but there is still good here… even when things do not go as we hoped… we are not without hope.
To the child within us all who, at times, feels the pain of dreams, relationships, vocations, and goals slipping from our reach, let us remember whose grasp of love and purpose is upon us — far greater than anything we can hold onto in this world.
“Fear not, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10).
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. For more inspirational articles, follow ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.
