by Angela Welch Prusia

They called her Marshmallow. I didn't know why. She definitely wasn't fat. Shy, maybe. And tall. But a marshmallow?

When I walked to the bus stop for the first time, I saw a group of kids teasing her. She said nothing but only stuffed her hands in her pockets and tried to ignore them.

Part of me wanted to reach out to her, but mostly I just wanted to blend in.

“You new?” a blond-haired tormentor called to me from the back of the bus as I climbed on. I hesitated on the top step, my feet sticking to the rubber flooring.

This was the part about moving I always hated — trying to fit in. Again. My dad was a youth pastor, and it seemed God constantly called him to this state or that. In my 12 years, we had moved four times. Sometimes I just wished God would talk to me once before He called on my dad, especially if we had to move in the middle of the school year.

I nodded, smiling quickly at the girl they called Marshmallow, sitting alone in the front seat. Then I walked toward the blond girl.

“Sit here with us.” A dimple showed. “I'm Rachel, and this is everyone.”

“Hi, I'm Kami,” I answered sheepishly.

Several girls, who my mother would say wore too much makeup, and a boy with streaked hair looked at me. I felt like a zoo animal as they gave me the once over. If only I could skip sixth grade.

Face to Face

I forgot about Marshmallow until seventh period. When I walked into art, I noticed three things: a potter's wheel (my favorite), the wild-haired, Einstein-looking teacher, and Marshmallow.

Before I could figure out where to sit, Einstein pointed toward a chair.

“Why don't you sit by Maddie?” He extended a long finger toward Marshmallow.

All eyes, except Maddie's, fell on me as I took my seat. She hunched over a sketchbook. I glanced at her artwork and nearly fell over. It was a drawing of me. I started to say something but couldn't. Gazing at the picture was like looking in the mirror. Maddie was that good.

She must've felt me breathing down her neck, because she suddenly shut her sketch pad. Her eyes darted around but never connected with mine. I could see the red filling her face.

“Uh . . .” she stammered.

“You don't have to stop drawing,” I said. “You're good. Really good.”

She straightened, then looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were soft, like the hazy color of rain.

“Really?”

I nodded.

“You probably think I'm weird,” Maddie said quietly. “I mean, drawing you and all.”

I tilted my head, not sure what to say. It was a bit strange.

“I like to draw faces,” Maddie continued. “I noticed yours this morning at the bus stop.”

“You saw me?”

She fingered the edge of her sketchbook. “Yeah, you seemed nice.”

Nice? I'd been more worried about how I'd fit in than how the kids treated Maddie. Guilt hit hard as the tardy bell rang and Einstein started art class.

Chubby Bunny

The next several days repeated the first: Maddie being tormented at the bus stop, me standing by doing nothing. I never teased Maddie, so I told myself I wasn't as bad as the other kids. But deep down, I had a gnawing feeling that wouldn't go away.

One morning, Maddie wasn't at the bus stop. Secretly, I was glad. For once her day wouldn't start sourly. But then someone noticed her absence, and the teasing started anyway.

“Remember fourth-grade P.E.?” Rachel rolled her eyes. The others laughed as a boy yelled out, “The chubby bunny game.”

My ears perked up. I didn't have to ask questions. Rachel had an audience, and she performed like a drama queen.

“Mr. Hill always made us play that crazy game. Stuffing marshmallows into your mouth, then trying to say 'chubby bunny.' “

More laughter.

“And then Maddie threw up,” Rachel grimaced. “Puked all over the gym floor.”

The bus pulled up as everyone howled. My smile had disappeared, but no one noticed. I could picture Maddie in fourth grade — a quiet girl who tried to be invisible. Then boom. A nickname that wouldn't go away.

Perfect Gift

I hate to admit it, but I ignored Maddie after that. She never came to school regularly anyway, so it was easy to forget about her.

Before long Christmas vacation was here, and my mom needed me to help deliver Angel Tree gifts to children whose parents were in prison. Our church had signed up to help local kids, and my mom was the organizer.

We drove up to a house a few blocks from ours. White siding. Fenced yard. One-car garage. Nothing out of the ordinary. I don't know what I expected, but the house looked normal.

I rang the doorbell. A tall woman with shoulder-length brown hair and eyes I'd seen before answered the door.

“Won't you come in?” she asked timidly.

I followed my mom into the living room, and that's when I saw her. She stood at the doorway, big eyes looking at me.

“Maddie?” I didn't know what to say, so I handed her the Angel Tree gift. “Uh, this is for you.”

A lump formed in my throat. I needed to get away. Away from Maddie. Away from the horrible feeling knotting my stomach.

I mumbled something about not feeling so good and ran to our car. When my mom found me, tears were streaming down my face.

“What's wrong, honey?” she asked.

I poured out the whole story as she drove home: how the kids had treated Maddie, how I had said nothing.

Silence filled the car as we pulled into our driveway.

I wanted my mom to punish me. Ground me for life. Do something to take away my shame.

Instead, she looked at me with tenderness.

“You know that verse in the Bible about our spirit being willing but our flesh being weak?” she asked. “It's hard to do the right thing. That's why we need His help.”

Mom and I sat a long time. Talking. Crying. Praying.

The first day after Christmas vacation, I walked up to Maddie at the bus stop. Rachel stood, open-mouthed, but I didn't pay attention to her.

“Hey, Maddie,” I said. “Want to sit by me on the bus?”

A smile crossed Maddie's face, and the two of us walked onto the bus together.

For nearly 25 years, Prison Fellowship's Angel Tree Christmas ministry has helped churches provide gifts to children whose mom or dad is in prison. Last year more than 550,000 kids received presents from their parents in prison - along with the good news of Jesus Christ. For more information on Angel Tree, have a parent or youth pastor call (800) 55-ANGEL (552-6435).

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