The Rebel Is Dying

“Did you hear that, Rebella is very sick?”

Miss Lawson kept on correcting worksheets and didn’t answer.

“Did you hear me?”  The teacher’s lips tightened but she nodded almost imperceptibly. 

“Isn’t Rebella one of your students?” Miss Lawson took another paper off the pile stacked on her desk and studiously ignored the spokesperson.

“Don’t you even care,” Mercy exclaimed, exasperated.

“Of course I do!” Her sharp, pointy chin jerked up as her eyes flashed. “Of course I do. She has been sick for these past three weeks, and I am well aware of it.” And what a relief it has been not to have her in school! Never have I encountered a child so rude and disrespectful; so intent on doing the opposite of what I have suggested. I am almost worn to the bone trying to control her.

“I think you should go and see her.”

“Me?! Why should I?”
“You are her teacher.”

And some teacher I am. She is totally unteachable.

“I am too busy. I have to have these papers corrected by tomorrow morning.”

“I think she will die.”

“Die? Her! She’s much too fiery spirited to—“Miss Lawson’s face looked scorched. Obviously she had said more than she had intended to.

Miss Lawson and Mercy tiptoed silently into the sick room. Why, she really was very, very sick.

Mercy reached out to touch Rebella’s hand and thought, or maybe imagined, she felt a very faint squeeze in return. She searched the mother’s eyes. They were so filled with pain and anguish that she had to look away. But then her gaze strayed to the father. He was so obviously suffering, also. She drew a shaky breath. Instinctively she knew that no one had been hurt more by their daughter’s rebellion than Mr. and Mrs. Christiansen… but they cared the most.

                Would she live or would she die? Only time would tell, but she knew that Rebella’s parents would continue hoping and praying as long as there was any breath left in their child.

Which one am I?