The Good . . .and the Not So Good, Part 2

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.