At the beginning of every school year since the 1980s, I thank God I’m not behind bars. Here’s why. As the guidance counselor at King Elementary School, I took the children in my Caring and Sharing groups on a retreat at Lancaster County Central Park. We always had a wonderful time, especially because Sharon Lopez, who had an enviable way with children, came with us.
At the time, she was working at the Boys & Girls Clubs of Lancaster. The children enjoyed being outdoors, where we played games aimed at developing a variety of different relationship skills — trust-building, conflict resolution, listening skills and how to show respect for everyone we know. But that year, Sharon was not with us; she was in law school.
I arranged for a counselor from a local counseling agency to join us. He seemed the perfect match. He seemed easy-going and said he liked working with inner-city children. Before the retreat, I had him participate in a few Caring and Sharing meetings with the children to foster a relationship between him and them. All went well.
The day of the retreat was a Friday; it was a clear, sunny day, with temperatures in the 70s. The children were excited and looking forward to a great day at the park.
But one of them had had a problem at home that morning, according to his mother. I shared this with my helper, advising that this was a child who required a bit more patience than the others. As soon as we started organizing one of the games, the boy — we’ll call him “Joey” — and my helper got into an argument. Joey took off running into one of the park’s wooded areas. The other children ran after him, calling, “Joey, come back!”
My helper took off in his car, leaving me in full charge. I looked all around the area and didn’t see any of the children. Then, I heard one of them call out to me as he swung from a very young tree near the river.
In my mind’s eye, I saw the headlines: “Guidance Counselor Found Negligent in the Drowning of Elementary School Children.”
I almost passed out but sat on a rock and prayed, reminding God that we had brought the children to the park with good intentions and that I didn’t know what to do.
About five minutes later, one of the boys came back.
“We didn’t find Joey, Missy (his way of saying “Mrs.”) — but we’ll keep on looking.”
That’s when I heard myself saying. “What we need is a posse, and you can be in charge.” I could see his eyes light up. “But,” I continued, “we need to let your parents know what we’re doing. Let’s go back to school to let them know, and then we’ll come back.”
He ran off to get the other children, and soon they were all there. I don’t know how we managed to squeeze into my car. I remember that I was driving with a child on my lap, but it was a short distance, and we made it.
The principal, Ray Smith, told me that Joey had returned to school unharmed, and that he spent the day with another teacher.
The children forgot all about the posse, especially since Joey was safe and sound.
I had the worst migraine of my life on the way home and crashed into a mailbox on my street. I never heard from my helper again and never planned any other retreats farther than the schoolyard.
The children talked about the fun they had for days.
Me? Convinced God heard my prayer, and grateful forever after.
The author is a retired educator who lives in Manheim Township. This story took place in 1986.
If you know an interesting, true story, please write it in 600 words or less and send it to Mary Ellen Wright, LNP editorial department, P.O. Box 1328, Lancaster, PA 17608-1328, or email it to [email protected]. (No fiction or poetry, please). Please include your phone number and the name of the town you live in.
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