Can you change a bully?

     There was a bully who lived in my neighborhood during most of my elementary and middle school years.  He was not just mean, he was cruel.  For a long time, I was actually afraid to leave my yard.

     I grew up in what some would consider an idyllic setting.  We had a house in the woods, surrounded by trees and hills.  There was a creek at the end of the lane where we spent most of our days in the summer.
     Our house was just a summer cottage when my parents bought it, as were most of the houses.  Five or six other families lived there year round.  My dad poured a ton of sweat into making that cottage a house we could live in.  He worked third shift at the post office, then he'd come home and work on the house.  What he didn't know, he learned.  He apprenticed anyone who would let him.
   
     When we first moved in there weren't other children my age, so it was a big deal when this family moved in down the lane.  They had a daughter and three sons, one my age and one my younger sister's age.
     This family put a mobile home on a large corner lot, and some time later added another mobile home, creating an "L" shape.  They then built a deck that filled in the space between the two. 

     Dennis was closest to my age, and the third child in his family.  He had a stay-at-home mom and a dad who worked long days.  His mom was nice enough, but his dad was terrifying.  The kids would stay away from the house as much as possible when he was home.  He drank, a lot, when he was home.  Then the yelling would begin.  I could hear it all the way up to my house.  Any minor incident would send him into a rage.  The older two boys were beaten on a regular basis, as was their mom.
     One day, Dennis's dad had an accident at work and he lost his eye.  Eventually, he was fitted with a glass eye.  This wasn't like the modern inventions we have now, the one you can't even tell are fake.  His was a full-on 1970's nightmare.  It was fixed in place, and totally resembled a marble.  I was both frightened and fascinated at the same time.
     After his accident, Dennis's dad became even angrier.  Ultimately, he had an affair and abandoned his family.

     Dennis was mean to me almost from the beginning.  He had found someone weaker than him.  Walking to and from the bus stop was torture!  We lived on a dirt road that was covered in gravel every summer.  All the way up the lane he pelted my feet and legs with stones while he yelled "dance".  I would pray for the bus to be there so I wouldn't have to wait with him.  Coming home was no better.  At one point, I remember the bus driver giving me a head start before he let Dennis off the bus.  I would run as fast as I could down that dirt road, praying that I wouldn't fall. (Don't get me started about how the bus driver handled this!)
     My younger sister was a scrapper.  She had brute strength and wasn't afraid of anything.  I remember a time when Dennis had been threatening to beat me up.  I was supposed to meet him behind the fire hall.  I was filled with dread.  I knew for sure I was dead meat.  When it was time for the fight, my sister stepped in.  She beat the daylights out of him!  He got in a few punches, but she won in the end, loudly demanding that he leave me alone.
     She bought my peace.

     There was a brief time between adolescence and puberty when we had a love/hate relationship.  We'd get along for a bit, but then he'd show up at my house with a sledgehammer, demanding I smash something with it (usually a frog), or he would smash my foot.  I don't remember ever smashing something myself, but I saw him do it plenty of times.  It was enough to keep me in fear of him.
     My parents didn't like me hanging around with him.  They had that parental spidey sense, the desire to protect their child.  They didn't know what he'd done to me in the past-- I never told them-- but they were determined to protect me in the future.

     Once we reached puberty the general taunting ended.  My body developed early, and soon both Dennis and his older brother were sniffing around.  I knew enough to stay away from his brother, but Dennis and I had a few make-out sessions, but nothing sexual.  My  boundaries were murky.  Mom and dad taught me to save my body for marriage, to not let men take advantage of me.  This contradicted with my early childhood experiences.  Grown men had already taken advantage of me.  It was all too confusing.  

     Ultimately, Dennis sexually assaulted me.  Twice.  I didn't tell anyone.

     I write these experiences all to get here:  how different would Dennis's life had been if another adult had intervened?  Would he have been a kinder, gentler, non-abusive person if he had received tenderness, acceptance and unconditional love?  I believe so.  I'm not excusing his behavior.  Not by any means.  But, now as an adult looking back, I can feel empathy for him.  

     How different would our world be if we all did what we can to bring healing?  What if we stopped turning a blind eye to abuse and neglect?  What if we saw beyond a persona, beyond their living situation, beyond the clothes they wear or if they're bathed?  What would happen if we all reached into those people's hearts?  That's what Jesus would do.  

     I want to be more like that.   

   

Mere Christianity

     I grew up in the church.  Well, from five-years-old on up.  I loved hearing Bible stories of how people in the church took care of each other.  The stories of Jesus ministering to people, where they were, were some of my favorites.

     As I got older, Sunday School lessons revolved around "being like Jesus";  we were to treat people with kindness, feed the poor, take care of the needy, visit the shut-ins. But I was also taught to "be of the world, but not like it".  People who weren't Christians were supposed to look at me and know that I was different, that I had something they didn't have.  It was supposed to make them want what I had.

     But where was the ministry? Who were we reaching out to?  It was the same group of people attending each week.  The same group of people attending weekly Bible studies and home groups.  Occasionally new people came.  For the most part, they appeared to already be Christians.  It was a homogenous group.

     I was a wounded child.  I had deep injuries from physical, sexual and emotional abuse.  I didn't feel like my church was a safe place to share that information, so I kept quiet.  But I loved going to church!  Jesus met me there.  He held me there.  He kept me close.  When I left church, I felt good.  As a child, I didn't know how to explain what I experienced.  Sometimes, I still struggle to explain my relationship with Jesus.  To me it sounds like the simplest thing, yet it sounds so trite (or so I think) when I hear the words come out of my mouth.

     When I was in Youth With a Mission, that was the first time that I felt like I was actually ministering to the world.  I felt like I was fulfilling my Sunday School command to be like Jesus.  Travelling to third world countries and inner-city areas in America exposed me to people, to opportunities very new to me.  My heart began to understand what it meant to serve the weak, bind up the brokenhearted and give what I had to the poor.

     It's interesting how all along the way I attracted women and children with experiences similar to mine.  There seemed to be a radar on me.  I admit, I was not far enough along in my own healing to really help.  But I was an ear, a shoulder, a beating heart who understood what they experienced.

     After my husband and I got married, we moved several times and attended a variety of churches.  Each of the pastors preached the same sermons of my childhood, but it seemed like the caring aspect of the church, the part that allows for healing, had not progressed.  It was still "churched" and "unchurched".  Often, old-school church vs. new Christians and wounded people.  There was no allowance for the messiness that comes along with people being real, the people who are struggling to heal from things no one wants to talk about.  I've heard so many stories along the way of injured people being further injured by the Church.  

     It hurts my heart.

     This past week has been a hard one for me as I've listened to people's stories.  I am glad to do it.  I understand what it feels like to have no one understand what you've been through.  But this week I heard things that both broke my heart and stirred an anger in my soul.  I listened to the story of woman who endured gut-wrenching abuse throughout her childhood and teen years.  She felt like it made her dirty, that her secret diminished her worth.  When she told me how the behavior, the judgments, of prominent leaders in the church reinforced her feelings of not being worthy of God's love, I broke into tears.  She told me she felt like if they couldn't accept her, let alone help her, then how could God? 

     I hear stories like this over and over again.  The broken, abandoned and marginalized seek solace, some semblance of comfort from we the church, and we turn them away.  Yes, we.  I am including myself.  I don't always respond the right way, and I've been through crap.  You'd think I, of all people, would understand.  But I struggle with messiness.  I like things tied up in neat little boxes.  Emotion is hard for me.  I don't like to show it.  It's equally hard for me to see it.  Yet that is what we are called to, those  are the very people who need  us, who need the touch of Jesus.  

     So that brings me to this:  when do we actually start being like Jesus instead of just talking about it?  When will we see our pews, chairs, auditoriums filled with people who aren't "members", but rather people who heard Jesus would be there so they showed up seeking an encounter with him?  When will women enduring domestic violence, or women whose husbands are molesting their children, feel safe enough to share that with their pastor and not feel shamed for needing out?  When will pastors stop demanding proof of the abuse before they show compassion?  When will those of us who suffered sexual abuse as children feel like it's a safe place to start unpacking all those boxes we have created deep inside in order to help us cope?  

     How would Jesus actually respond?

     The Jesus that I know, would weep at what He saw.  He never intended the church to be for the whole or those who have it all together.  Those He chose to follow him certainly weren't.  They were messy, unruly and decidedly un-Churchlike.  He would cradle those abused children, holding them to his heart.  I see him embracing those who fear that what's happened to them also defines them.  I think he'd be marching in the streets, fighting for those who just can't do it anymore.

     I see Him smiling, eyes warm, his arms open and welcoming.   Can you see him? 

     I've been convicted these past few days to love more.  If you know me, you've probably heard me say "I hate people".   It's a coping mechanism.  I actually love people, I just don't know how to deal with them.  But I'm convicted.  Jesus never would have said that he hated people.  If I'm to be like Jesus, I need to make some changes in my own thinking and behavior.

     How about you?

** I encourage you to check out these songs on Youtube or Spotify.  They stir my soul every time I hear them.

     "My Jesus", Todd Agnew

     "Truth be told", Mathew West

     "Preach", John

     

     

Breathing Emotions

     I don't deal well with emotions.  Not mine, not others.  And especially not external displays.  As a small child, I learned that crying made things worse.  Laughter and happiness also seemed to have the same negative effect with my father.  He considered it all to be "noise".
     When I went into foster care, even as a 5 year old, I felt like I needed to be strong.  I didn't want anyone to be upset with me.  I didn't want to give anyone a reason to hurt me (this was due to my earlier experiences, not because I was being harmed in my new home).  I became silent, invisible.  Emotions attracted attention.  I didn't want that.
     By the time I was in middle school I had learned to stuff my emotions.  I pushed them so far down, all in an attempt to avoid feeling them.  After all, if everything looked ok on the outside, then it must be, right?
     The older I got, the more determined I became to hide my emotions.  All of them, but especially fear, anger, uncertainty.  I grew to associate these with weakness, and I was anything but that.  I became stoic, leading people to think I didn't care, which was so untrue.  But it was my wall, my protective reflex.
     All of this stuffing of my emotions, however, seemed to heighten my ability to read other people's emotions.  This skill allowed me time to read the situation and prepare accordingly, either to physically or psychologically escape before they emoted.
     As I have worked through the maze that is my life's story, I have gradually learned to add emotions back into my life.  Mostly the "safe ones". Happiness.  Joy.  A semblance of peace.  Sadness.  But, rarely, do I cry.  That is my last piece of strength.  I cry so infrequently that it freaks my husband and kids out when I do.  They flip into a mix of discomfort and concern.  See, the problem with not dealing with your emotions means other people don't know how to deal with your emotions.  People want to share the burden, the joy, the emotion.

     Fast-forward to yesterday.  My husband was out working in the garden.  I bathed, then I put a load of laundry in to wash.  I changed the bed.  As I was pulling up the comforter, I felt my chest seize.  I couldn't breathe.  I began to panic!  I leaned on the bed, gasping for breath.  Every inhale seared through my lungs.

     "I have covid", I thought.

     I made my way through the house and across the yard.  By the time I reached the garden, my chest was on fire.  Tears were trickling down my cheeks.  My husband saw my tears and was instantly on alert.  When I said I couldn't breathe, he flew down the hill and got me back into the house.  After a quick call to my doctor, we headed to the emergency room.
     The hospital is less than 10 minutes from my house, but each minute seemed to make it even harder for me to breathe.  I tried all the coping skills I knew, trying to steady my breaths and stop the pain.  Nothing worked.  By the time we pulled in, tears were freely streaming down my cheeks.  I wasn't even going to try to hold them back.
     My husband ran to the make-shift intake station to tell them what was happening.  The lady took one look at me and quickly appeared with a wheelchair.  I heard my husband tell me they weren't going to let him go in with me.  It made me full out cry which made it even harder to breathe, especially with a mask on.
     In that moment of fear, not knowing if I was going to live or die, emotional control went out the window. I sat in that room all alone, crying as I struggled to breathe.

     A flurry of nurses came into my room, each one wearing multiple layers of gloves, plus masks and gowns.  Blood was drawn.  A chest x-ray was taken.  Telling me to "take a deep breath and hold it" seemed like a cruel joke.  Next came the covid test.  The nurse pushed the swab so far up my nose that I kept wondering if it would come out my tear duct.

     Again, they left me alone in my fear.

     As I waited for the next steps, I texted my kids.  I needed them to hear from me, just in case.  I fought to put that out of my mind.  It upset me, making it too hard to catch my breath,  As I sat there in the solitude, I could hear the man in the room next to me.  He was upset because his caregiver hadn't been allowed to come back with him.  He just didn't understand what was happening.  I could also hear the nurses describing certain rooms as "air borne".  It made me sad to think what they were going through, in their rooms all alone.
     Eventually I was given a breathing treatment.  The nurse said it should work in about  minutes.  Well, my body doesn't do anything "typical", so it was an hour til I started feeling relief.  I was released with an inhaler, being treated for viral bronchitis.  I later learned the covid test was negative.
     After a long day, both physically and emotionally, my breathing eased.  The pain remained in my chest, caused by the exertion of my gasping and coughing.  It serves as a metaphor for my emotions.  Working through an incident doesn't take the pain away.  Knowing what caused an emotional response allows me to learn more about myself.  Showing an emotion allows me to learn about both myself and others who care for me.  While it makes me uncomfortable, is it really fair for me to have others shut down their own emotions or not allow them to share in mine? 
   
     I don't think so.
   

It's not me, it's you. Or is it?

I live right across the street from a church.  That means when I come home from church each week, I can't park anywhere near my house.  This aggravates me to no end!  It's bad enough that they take up their side of the street, their parking lot, all the side streets AND the school parking lot.  Do they have to park immediately in front of my house?  For all three services.   Today, I came home and there was a car parked in my grass.  Not an easy feat since he had to jump the curb to do that.  You'd think he would have noticed something like that.

So, I just went outside to walk the dog and the guy parked in my grass was getting something out of his car.  I toyed with saying something about being in the grass, but decided better.  I thought he was leaving.  Then I realized he was going back into his church!  We had made eye contact, and he turned and went back into his church.  Really?  No "sorry I'm parked in your grass" or "sorry I've been taking up your parking for 3 hours". My irritation started all over again.

This irritation grew as I walked the dog.  Everywhere I went, I encountered people coming out of this church, all wanting to pet my dog.  I just wanted them all to be gone. To go park at their own house, and leave me alone.  What a great person I am, huh?

As I was coming up the last block, I noticed a small woman getting out of her car.  There was a little girl with her. Then I saw she was also carrying a pretty large, sleeping toddler.  I watched for he to go into the house where her car was parked. Instead, she struggled down the street, carrying her sleeping child and trying to keep hold of the little girl.  She walked the whole way down the block, then half-way down the next street before she finally turned into her house.

I was angry for her.  These church people had parked in front of her house, too, majorly inconveniencing her.  Then I heard the voice.  "And you're angry because you had to walk across the street, all by yourself, carrying nothing but your purse."  I began to feel about an inch tall.

It's interesting how quickly my attitude can change when confronted by someone who could honestly be justified in their anger at the same event.  Now, I don't know what was going on in this woman's head, and that's not the focus of this blog.  It just helped me to look outside of myself for one minute.  It doesn't mean I'm not going to get ticked about the lack of Sunday parking.  But it does mean I will be more aware that I have no clue what is going on with other people.