Stuttr.

Have you ever had a moment that feels like it lives rent-free in your mind?

You know those moments that might have even happened a long time ago but you can recall them like it’s yesterday? Sometimes those moments have an association to them.

It’s a feeling. An emotion. Joy. Shame. Happiness. Trauma.

This memory to me is all about running.

When I was 6, we lived about 20 minutes from where I went to school. My parents had moved into a newish neighborhood on the north end of the city. With no schools yet in the area, my siblings and I rode the bus to a school south of us.

Running to catch the bus was a thing. My thing. I wasn’t exactly punctual as a kid. But what 6-year-old is? Running to catch the bus was just a normal part of my childhood. Running in the morning, running in the afternoon. It wasn’t a big deal in my mind. I always made the bus.

Until I didn’t.

I decided one day to stick around after school and help my teacher clean up. At least that’s what I seem to remember. It may not have been my choice. But I remember her saying to me, “Dan, hurry up, you’re going to miss your bus.”

Par for the course.

The bus was always parked across the school field. As a kid, this was a decent distance. Good thing I was used to running. But… I knew I was pushing this one. There was no one in the field running with me. It looked like everyone was on the bus.

I was really running.

As I got to the edge of the field, I could smell the exhaust from the back of the bus. Just about there. I could hear the other kids shouting at me to run faster. No problem.

But then… the bus pulled away.

Big problem.

Remember, I’m 20 minutes from home. In a car. Or bus. And I’m 6. There were days I couldn’t find my pants before school started. I had no idea how to get home. No idea what to do.

I was out of breath. So much running. But I couldn’t catch it. My breathing wouldn’t slow down. The panic had set in.

I did what most kids would do. I ran back to the school, only to find every door locked. No one around. No way back in.

I went back to the bus stop. Having no idea what to do, I did the one thing that would terrify me if my own kids did it at that age. I knocked on a stranger’s door who lived across from the school. Still out of breath. Remembering every time I heard the phrase “stranger danger.” But having no option, I knocked. Still couldn’t breathe.

An elderly lady opened the door. She could tell I’d been crying. She asked, “What’s wrong?” And… nothing. No breath. No words. I couldn’t make a sound. I just started crying even harder. Even when she brought me in and asked me my name, I couldn’t get it out.

If it wasn’t for my name on some schoolwork I had in my bag, and the handiness of the phone book, I don’t know how long it might have been until my folks came to get me.

But my voice was stuck. Stuck behind the panic. Trapped behind the fear of not knowing who was on the other side of that door. It’s been chained up ever since. Never fully free.

That moment still runs in my mind. I used to feel the panic when it came to mind. Like my breath was still gone.

But when I think about the moment now, it runs in my mind differently. I don’t feel the panic the same way. You see, sometimes the moments in our lives that play out over and over again usually have a script attached to them — a narrative arc that we use to interpret the moment.

For years, the script I had in my mind was: I am alone, and I’m damaged.

Living with a stutter is a lonely place to be. Most people don’t understand the feeling of being trapped in your own mind — the feeling of having something to say but not being able to say it, and the awkwardness and pain of trying. You feel like something is wrong with you. Like a faulty device that doesn’t work quite as well as advertised.

But the script has changed over the years. Going back to that moment has helped me understand what was really happening.

I wasn’t alone.

When I think about the moment the bus left, I don’t see a kid all by himself. I see Jesus. Standing with me. Holding me. And with His hand on my chest, I hear Him say, “Just breathe.”

You see, Jesus has a way of redeeming what we believe is unredeemable. He takes the broken moments and makes something beautiful out of them. He takes our pain, our hurt, and writes over it with His love, grace, and compassion. He reminds us that our identity is not defined by what’s happened to us, but by what He has done.

I’m not damaged. I’m fearfully and wonderfully made. I may still look back at times and wish that moment had never happened. But I wouldn’t be where I am today. I wouldn’t know what reliance on God for my next breath really feels like. And… I wouldn’t have the story I have — a story of how God uses weakness to show His strength.

These days I love to run. Not because I’m always late. I do it just because I can.

I just need to remember to breathe.