To God, From Your Child In Hiding

I know you remember, God.
I did this in high school too.
You saw me.

In a classroom full of students, I sat quietly at my desk.
The narrow kind of desks with the armrest on one side
and a wire book rack beneath the seat,
which seemed to usually be blue.
Were the seats blue because
that was the Raiders' school color,
or was it just a coincidence?
I always rested my feet on the book rack
of the seat in front of me.
The teacher had just asked a question,
and her eyes scanned the room,
waiting for those who knew the answer to raise their hands.

I knew the answer.
Of course I did.
I had heard the teacher say it countless times.

But I didn't raise my hand. I hated the sudden attention that would be shifted my direction, the quick fluttering of my heart, and the rapid feeling of heat that would take over my usual cold temperature. I was embarrassed by the red, blotchy marks that would crawl across my chest and neck and reveal the nervousness I tried to disguise. I would fiddle with my necklace while attempting to answer the question in a voice loud enough to be heard through its quivering.

Plenty of other people knew the answer anyway. And they could present it much better than I could.

So I became a hider.

Except, sometimes, the teacher wouldn't let me hide. Students around me raised their hands, some eagerly, as I tried to freeze myself into invisibility. I glued my eyes to a spot on the desk or even off to the side to appear as if I was seriously trying to contemplate the answer.
 
But I could feel her eyes settle on me. And I knew it was coming before she even called on the one she had chosen:

"Misty..."
 

I feel as if I'm in that narrow desk with the blue seat again, God. I know you have asked a question. I know, in the deepest part of me, that I know the answer. You have told me countless times.

But I'm struggling to raise my hand.
Or raise it high.
Or keep it held up.

I haven't yet learned to be comfortable with attention. I know that my nervousness and vulnerability would show. So many other people could do a better job than I could.

In some ways, I'm still a hider.

But as I try to disappear into invisibility and appear as if I'm still contemplating the answer, I feel your eyes on me.

And I'm reminded that you would rather I answer you with a quivering voice and a nervous, racing heart than not answer you at all.

Please, God, help me to not be that girl who hides anymore.