The year was 1965.
At precisely 2:47 p.m., Joyce Taylor sat at her desk in the final row of Benson High School's senior classroom, her eyes drifting repeatedly toward the clock hanging above the blackboard. Each tick of the Seth Thomas brass hands carried her one second closer to freedom.
The final bell would mark the end of twelve years of school and the beginning of a future she had dreamed about for as long as she could remember.
Nursing school awaited her in the fall.
Only a month earlier, she had been awarded a full scholarship. The letter remained folded inside her dresser drawer at home, though she hardly needed to read it anymore. She had committed every word to memory. The scholarship meant more than an education. It meant possibility. It meant independence. It meant her widowed mother would not have to worry about tuition payments she could never afford.
For the first time in months, Joyce could look forward to summer without anxiety clouding every thought.
The future seemed wonderfully simple.
Work through the summer.
Save a little money.
Buy the supplies she would need for college.
Then begin the next chapter of her life.
The problem was finding a job.
There were not many opportunities in Benson for an eighteen-year-old girl hoping to gain experience in healthcare. The local hospital accepted volunteers, but there were few paid positions available.
Fortunately, another possibility had appeared.
The First Community Church was seeking counselors for its annual summer camp, a program serving children between seven and ten years old. The position would only last until classes resumed in the fall, but it would allow Joyce to earn spending money while helping others.
At least, that was the theory.
She had never worked closely with children before.
Most of her life had been spent among familiar faces, classmates she had known since elementary school, neighbors whose routines rarely changed, and adults who generally behaved as adults were expected to behave.
Children were different.
Children cried without warning.
They argued over nothing.
They asked impossible questions.
And unlike adults, they possessed an uncanny ability to sense uncertainty hiding beneath a smile.
Joyce wasn't entirely sure she was prepared for that.
If she was honest with herself, she wasn't entirely sure she was prepared for people in general.
Throughout her life, she had learned to avoid conflict whenever possible. It was easier to step aside than argue, easier to remain silent than risk saying the wrong thing. Nursing, she believed, would be different. Nurses helped people. They healed. They comforted.
At least, that was how she imagined it.
The truth was that helping people required understanding them, and understanding people was often far more difficult than treating their illnesses.
A sharp buzz erupted through the hallway.
The final bell.
The room exploded into motion.
Books slammed shut. Desks scraped against tile floors. Laughter echoed from every corner of the classroom.
Summer had officially begun.
Joyce gathered her belongings and headed toward the doorway, unaware that before summer's end she would encounter a lesson no classroom had ever taught.
It would begin with a frightened child.
And it would force her to confront a question she had never considered:
What if the distance between two people is measured not in miles, but in understanding?
Michael Curry
The Custodian Dispatch
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