Cold Shock

I awoke one morning to discover I wouldn’t be attending school that day. I was going somewhere else for testing. No explanation. No details. Just testing. I climbed into the car with my mother, nerves racing, not knowing where I was headed or what waited for me.

We arrived at the public school. My footsteps echoed across the cold floors as the halls ominously buzzed from the worn, dim lighting overhead. They placed me in a small room—alone. The clock on the wall ticked like the beating of war drums—I hate tests! The door creaked open, and my head snapped around so fast it nearly fell off.

In walked the school psychologist. No warm greeting. Just a cold, calculating stare that matched the room. The door slammed shut behind her. BAM!

“H-hi,” I said. “I’m Paul.”

She adjusted her glasses without looking up. “I know. Let’s begin.” ‍

First, she ordered me to read aloud—my worst nightmare. I stumbled through the pages. Then came the multiplication flashcards. Red ink flew across her yellow notebook as I tripped over the numbers. What is she writing about me? This is horrible. I don’t feel good. I tried to peek, and she snapped the notebook back. “Aren’t you nosy,” she muttered.

Finally, she pulled out some puzzles. I thought, okay, maybe this part will be fun. I believed the worst was behind me—until she grabbed a stopwatch. “Go,” she ordered.

My fingers fumbled with the pieces. Elephant? Donkey? Can’t tell. Why is she still writing? Why is that clock so loud? In my final seconds, I jammed the puzzle together. The picture finally became clear. I had unlocked a new species (extra points!). And just like that, the examination was over. She stood up without a word and disappeared back into the cold depths of the school to calculate my results.

“He sends out His command to the earth; His word runs very swiftly. He gives snow like wool; He scatters the frost like ashes; He casts out His hail like morsels; Who can stand before His cold?”

Psalm 147: 15-17