The screen door slammed shut as she
headed out of the house to begin her walk to the school bus stop, a
mere four tenths of a mile up the road. Her feet felt like lead and
her heart was beating rapidly in fear. You see, she was being
bullied by older children. They would call her names and make fun of
her last name by changing it to not so nice words. They would
pretend to run her over with their bikes forcing her to run up an
embankment that had briers and poison ivy. Why didn't she tell her
mother?
But that wasn't the end of the
intimidation. On the bus, not many wanted her to sit with them. In
school, the teachers would at times take up where those older
children left off. One teacher threatened her with punishment
because a younger foster child in the home kept forgetting a library
book. Another teacher had half of the class as favorites and of
course, she was not in the favored half of the class. This teacher
belittled her for an error during class participation in front of
everyone. This error was caused by nerves in speaking publicly,
especially in front of this overbearing teacher. Why didn't she tell
her mother?
This was back in the day before
teachers asked parents for supplies of tissues so there was no tissue
box available for children to help themselves. One teacher threatened
this little girl who had the sniffles that “tomorrow you had better
bring tissues or else!” There were no boxes of tissues in this
little girls home either. Just cloth hankies. So she stopped off at
a neighbors house the next morning on the way to the school bus and
asked that mother for a few tissues. Why didn't she just ask her
mother?
This little girl was so unhappy but
couldn't cry. So she would look at the sun on the way home from the
school bus stop to make herself tear up and then go into her house
and tell her mother she had a tummy ache. She felt so alone and so
unloved and so unaccepted.
Of course you have guessed by now.
That little girl was me! Why didn't I tell my mother (or father)
what was happening in my life? I don't know. Except that I never
considered it!
I was taught not to show emotion. No
temper tantrums were tolerated. Crying was discouraged. And as a
teenager when I would try to tell my mother how I was feeling, I was
accused of “sassing” or talking back. I probably could have used
a different time and tone but that was a foreign idea at the time.
(It has taken me a lifetime to learn that lesson.) This early trauma
brought many years of poor self esteem and wondering Who am I?
In the book, The Hardest Peace
by Kara Tippetts, I was helped immensely by this paragraph:
“Your story is a good story. In the
grief, pain and hard, the Author has a plan. It may feel like a
desperate breaking of your very heart, but suffering is not the
absence of God or good. In our culture, the goal often seems to be
winning, being the best, most beautiful, most successful, but what if
that isn't the good story? How has suffering made your story richer?
How has it shaped your story?”
Although the complete paragraph is so
full of truth, what sticks out to me is, The Author has a plan. Of
course the Author is God Himself. He has a plan. Jeremiah 29:11
says, “I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans
for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” I
love that Kara Tippetts asks questions throughout this book and
expects the reader to stop reading and start writing. This is very
therapeutic. Another phrase that shouted to me from the above
paragraph is, “suffering is not the absence of God or good.” God
is still present in the midst of suffering and He uses it to mold us
into a more useful vessel for His kingdom.
Kara Tippetts goes on to write, “The
grace of Jesus allows us to look honestly at our lives, not lock our
stories into a place of shame. When I open wide my hands to the
truth of my life and allow grace and forgiveness to seep into the
pain of my story, I can lift my face, walk in grace and forgiveness,
and not dwell on the bitter moments that hurt so desperately. It
never discounts the pain. But the redemption of my hard yesterdays
gives me a softened heart to walk in my tomorrows.”
That is so beautiful I wish I had
written it! But after reading the above paragraph I did write this
in my journal: What are the hard parts of my childhood story?
Loneliness, feelings of being misunderstood and mistreated in the way
of fairness. Fear, of Dad, and fear of some of the chores and jobs we
were expected to do, like being in the grainery full of dust, pushing
back the grain. Fear of displeasing Dad and his resulting anger and
impatience. Unfairness – choking down food we didn't like. When I
was upset enough to cry I would hide behind the cook stove which is
where a roll of toilet paper was kept on the window sill. I didn't
feel safe crying in front of my dad. Why? I felt uncomfortable and
embarrassed and feared a reprimand.
Through counseling, prayer, and many
years of seeking the Lord, I feel like I have worked through a lot of
these hurts. But I know my childhood has helped form me into who
I am today. And I think of multitudes who had it far worse than
me and I have no room to complain. As I look back I understand and
truly believe that my parents did the best they could. For one
thing, it was a different age as I was 50 years younger than my dad
and 39 years younger than my mother. And the Great Depression had
just ended. I shared about my mother in Part One of this two part
blog because I wanted everyone to know that I had a good mother who
did many good things under difficult living conditions.
I can now say that I was loved but
not heard. It is so important to be heard and to be understood.
So as Kara Tippetts said, “The redemption of my hard yesterdays
gives me a softened heart to walk in my tomorrows.” I know that I
am a more caring, loving person because of my hard yesterdays. I
understand that those tummy aches were really heart aches. And it has
helped to give me an empathetic heart. A heart that doesn't want to
see anyone suffer.
When I first saw this pic/pencil
drawing at 50+ years old, I was amazed! I saw myself in this little
girl and my heart realized that when I was her age, Jesus was
watching over me. And I could just close my eyes and feel Him
hugging me and telling me He loved me.
What would I say to my hurting child
back then? “Little girl, you are special; you are loved; you are
smart and can do anything your heart and mind wants to do. You can
learn – education is a path to all kinds of wonderful things and
opportunities. You can achieve. Don't settle for anything less
than who you are!
What truths do I need to hear now? I
am intelligent. I am loved by many. I am a leader. I am never too
old to make a difference. I am a special, loved, daughter of the
Most High God. I know this to be true.
