Moment of Grace by Sheila M. Cronin

When I was a practicing art therapist on a children’s psychiatric unit, each day presented me with unique challenges. Some days were fraught with anxious moments. But none compared with the events of one particular day, the day I forgot to pray for guidance.

I worked on a locked unit in an inner-city general hospital. We accepted children from ages 4 to 16. There were 14 beds and no private rooms. The children, both young and old, shared accommodations; the boys took up two bedrooms, the girls occupied one.

A significant number of our patients were court-committed. Due to the mix of street gang members and other psychotic, volatile patients, the threat of physical harm was real: I, myself, had been kicked in the shin by a ten-year-old girl with no apparent provocation. We staff members relied heavily on each other to maintain the peace, for we never knew when trouble might erupt.

Early that morning in July, a boy was admitted for depression and withdrawal. He was nearly thirteen years old. For the purpose of this story, I will call him David. He was uncooperative during the intake process in that he refused to talk. The psychologist recommended I see him as soon as possible because his art work might provide clues to his mental state.

David was of average height with blond hair, pale skin and a slender build. Watching him as he entered the art therapy room, I noticed his shoulders drooped and that he avoided eye contact. My initial impression was that he was wary.

David took the seat across from me. The room was compact but not cramped, with a porcelain sink on one wall, my desk against another wall, a large, secured window filling the wall in between, a round art table and chairs in the center. File drawers and supply cabinets completed the furnishings.

After introducing myself and explaining what art therapy was, I asked him to draw a picture of his favorite kind of weather and show what he liked to do in that weather. I used this drawing prompt in an initial session because the children did not feel threatened by it. David willingly picked up a lead pencil. I spread out crayons and markers and he nodded but didn’t touch them. 

Mentally, I reviewed the boys on the unit that week. They were predominately older and more than one was considered dangerous. I began to wonder how David would fare with the other boys and that question quickly grew into a feeling of protectiveness towards him. I hadn’t felt that way about any patient before, be they boy or girl, toddler or teen, black or white. Yet, in hindsight, I see now that I identified with this youth almost from the get-go. I was blonde, I had suffered bouts of depression at his age and sometimes I didn’t feel safe on the unit. 

My comments about his drawing became questions which he answered without hesitation. To my protective feelings I now added a gratifying sense of achievement. I had gotten the boy to talk! That was hardly remarkable, for one of the goals of art therapy was to get patients to open up. I was merely doing my job, but that day I let myself feel proud. 

In so doing, I crowded God out of the proceedings.

David’s drawing of a sunny day and himself on a bike seemed age appropriate yet sparse. I noticed the sun’s rays were short and spikey. The lack of color seemed to express his low energy and depression. In a short time, however, he perked up and asked me a couple of questions. Did I like my job? How long had I worked there? Before I knew it, we were having a regular conversation. He even smiled.

When the time came to end the session, I asked David if there was anything he wanted to know about the unit. He wondered how soon he could go outside. He felt cramped in the locked space and wanted to breathe fresh air. He asked me if I could take him for a walk outdoors.

I said I would check with the staff. I had won his trust. I had made a connection with him. My feelings of being gifted at my job soared.

As I walked over to the nursing station, it occurred to me that I had never taken any other patient for a walk. Nor was I trained on protocols. Such activities were handled exclusively by the child care workers who were experienced and trained. There was no way I would be allowed to take a patient on a “one-to-one” outside, I told myself. Especially one who had just been admitted that morning.

Yet, for reasons unknown, the staff gave me permission. Common sense went out the window. Perhaps, they saw the outing as a breakthrough. Perhaps they were short-staffed that day and glad for the help. It did not require any persuasion on my part. I asked Tina, the nurse in charge, for permission and she said yes.

Moments later, David and I boarded the elevator. We didn’t talk. I noticed he had a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. So, that’s the real reason he wanted to go out, I thought to myself. The cigarettes should have been confiscated when he was admitted. I began to feel uneasy.

We reached the main entrance and no sooner had we crossed over the threshold, than David tore away from my side, down the half dozen concrete steps and never once looked back. In front of the hospital entrance was a parking lot. That day it wasn’t even half full. Cutting across it in a diagonal direction, he reached the street in seconds. 

I watched him go, in total shock. Then, I swung into action and started after him, shouting his name. When I got to the street, he was nearly a half block ahead of me. Never before or since have I run as fast as I did that day. I ran so fast, the sound of my pulse hammered in my ears. I ran so fast I lost feeling in my legs and feet and hoped I would not fall splat on the sidewalk. There were few people on the street. I yelled at them to stop him but no one did. 

Charging down that city block, I had no idea where I was headed because I didn’t know the neighborhood. There were few places to eat within walking distance of the hospital, and the neighborhood was considered unsafe. Staff mostly brought lunch in or ate in the cafeteria. 

When I reached the corner, I sprinted across the intersection, barely glancing at traffic. Horns blared but I kept on going. I started down the next block, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode. As I ran, I caught a glimpse of David turning left at the next corner. Reaching the end of that block seconds later, I also turned left and jerked to a halt 

He was nowhere in sight. 

I put my hands on my knees and bent over to catch my breath. Thankfully, feeling in my legs had returned. Moments passed before I could stand up straight again. My eyes darted in every direction. Ahead of me stood empty, abandoned buildings, many burned out from the riots. To my right was a subway entrance. He could have gone down there, I thought. He could have been snatched by someone in a passing car and taken captive. He could be in one of the dark buildings being assaulted or worse.

The situation brought back times growing up when I babysat my younger siblings, or other children in my neighborhood. Accidents occurred now and then that they were easy to handle. A band aid, a kiss on a bump. I had been fortunate nothing this traumatic had ever happened.

The full import of my situation came crashing down on me. I had been conned by a twelve-year-old and I had been incredibly foolish. Anger at the way he had played me surfaced but fear consumed me. Far from feeling special, or gifted, or whatever I was feeling during our art therapy session, I now faced cold, harsh reality. And reality told me that I could lose my job on the spot. If David’s situation had a bad outcome, my career in therapy might be in jeopardy. My life, my ambitions and my whole sense of self would be irretrievably compromised. I shuddered. 

It was time to go back and face the staff alone. 

I felt too frightened to cry or even to pray. But I did look up toward the sun. The sun has always represented God to me. My eyes pleaded, “Help me!”

Something happened.

The sounds around me of airplanes overhead and traffic and nearby pedestrians receded. The sky changed before my eyes. The sun became a softer, kinder shade of yellow and spread out in all directions filling the entire sky with its power and warmth. At the same time, the forbidding buildings below shrank to the size of toy cardboard boxes. I stared openmouthed at the spectacle. It seemed to me that God wanted me to know He was Lord of runaway boys, of scary buildings, of the sun, of me. In that moment, I felt His love and forgiveness. 

And then everything was as it had been before. The sun and sky looked normal, the buildings were back to looking big and scary and the sounds of traffic resumed.

A calm I never expected replaced all my anxiety. I sighed heavily, squared my shoulders, turned around and began my trek back to the hospital. No longer did I fear the consequences of my rash actions. If I lost my job, so be it. I said a prayer for David but knew his condition was out of my hands. I realized that the staff should never have allowed me to take a patient for a walk. The investigation that would surely follow would hold us both accountable.

I tried to process what had happened once the chase began. The fact that I had had a hysterical reaction with the temporary loss of feeling in my lower limbs argued that I might have been hallucinating when I saw the sky change. But I believed I had been given a moment of grace, and the peace that followed was real.

Still, stepping off the elevator back onto the unit, I half expected to be greeted by police with a pair of handcuffs. No one was waiting for me. Everything looked normal. I walked into the nursing station and said, “I lost him.”

Before I could offer more, Tina looked up from the chart she was holding and said, “Oh, Sheila, good, you’re back. David’s mother just called.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“He had a plan. He headed straight for the subway and a train came along right away, He’s already back home. Turns out the kid’s got a history of running away.”

One of the child care workers asked, “Is she upset?”

“No,” Tina replied with a shrug, “not really. She didn’t even sound surprised.”

“Are we going to take him back?” asked a nursing student.

“No way,” said Tina, firmly. “He needs a more secure setting. Sorry you had to go through that, Sheila. Are you okay?” 

The staff’s unusual reaction astonished me. Rather than the condemnation I deserved, I received their sympathy. After a little more chat, I retreated to the art therapy room, humbled, shaken, and grateful. I filed away David’s drawing of him on a bike—his getaway fantasy—and filed that new connection in my store of symbol-knowledge. A knock on the door announced the arrival of my next appointment. 

Was I ready to begin again? 

Yes. Thanks to the infinite mercy of God.

Sheila M. Cronin is the award-winning author of The Gift Counselor, endorsed by Publishers Weekly Indie Spotlight as "goodwill for adults."  Best of All Gifts is the sequel. Her stories have appeared in both Christian and secular publications. Please visit www.giftcounselorbook.com  for more information.