I didn’t have much of a childhood. It was more like a roadmap.
My parents were urban gypsies. They were constantly moving: running from bill collectors, seeking something better, dragging us 4 kids along for the ride.
My brother Jon claims he counted out 44 different homes before we graduated from high school. He could be right. I remember roach infested apartments, seedy trailer parks, three homes with no running water, one with no electricity and a dirt floor. One place we lived in for two years. Another we were at for less than a month. We enrolled in 16 different schools in 3 different states.
All that moving around doesn’t put you at the top of the popularity ladder in school. It puts you below the bottom rung. I was a target for bullies, picked last for teams, people whispered and giggled when I walked past. Jon and I were in the same grade. We were often in the same class. Since we were both social outcasts, we often teamed up for class projects and other activities. Yes, partnering with your brother doesn’t help your social standing either, but when no one else wants you on their team…(sigh).
Somehow, I always managed to have a friend or two. My strategy was: the first day you walk into a new classroom, look for the person who has no one else sitting by them. Introduce yourself and sit down. Usually, they were also a welfare kid, clothed by Goodwill and just as friendless as I was.
Things changed in high school. We were actually at the same building for all 4 of our high school years. I had two friends, but I wanted something more: I wanted a boyfriend.
Things at home were worse than normal. My parents always seemed to be fighting. It was a kind of joke among us kids: when we were little there’d be a huge argument every week. By middle school, it was every other day. In high school, the fights were every night. They were screaming matches with name calling, accusations and degrading language. My folks had no time for us kids. They only had time to hate each other.
I needed someone to love me. I needed a boyfriend.
I prayed for a boyfriend. I pleaded with God for a boyfriend.
And God said No. Over and over, his answer was NO.
I graduated from high school without a boyfriend. Grad night would be my last in Nebraska. All of our belongings were packed up and we were leaving for Kansas in the morning. My parents were kind enough to let Jon and I go to the senior all night party.
It was the early 80’s and “Freeze Frame” by J. Geils Band was a hit on the radio. It was also the theme song for one of the senior girls (I’ll call her Becky). Becky had a reputation of being “friendly” with every member of the football team and they claimed to have the pictures to prove it. There at the bowling alley, the song came on the radio. Shouts and cheers went up. Everyone zeroed their attention in on Becky, cat calling and jeering. Becky got another ovation when she was called up to get a gift card.
“Freeze Frame! Freeze Frame!” The jocks all chanted. Becky smiled broadly as she came forward for her card. I couldn’t tell if the smile was in pride or to hide shame.
I never saw Becky again. I don’t know what became of her.
Seven years after high school, I finally got my boyfriend. We married two years later. I wore white. Yes, white. Yes, because.
I now realize what a gift it was that God never gave me a boyfriend during my high school years. As a love-starved social outcast, what would have prevented me from becoming a Becky if I’d fallen in with the wrong type of boyfriend and his pals?
Ephesians 6:14 says “Stand therefore, having girded your waist with truth, having put on the breastplate of righteousness.” That breastplate is not only the righteousness of God’s Son that is bestowed on you as a Christian, but also the righteousness he calls us to as his followers. The breastplate protects us from outside forces and holds our essence as a Christian in. What would have happened to my breastplate if I had gotten my wish in high school? Would the breastplate of my lonely youth have held up to social pressure, or would it have been sacrificed to serve up a proverbial chicken?
Often God protects us by NOT giving us what we want.
“Stand therefore, having girded your waist with truth, having put on the breastplate of righteousness…” Ephesians 6:14
Back in high school, about a century ago, I had my life all planned out: finish high school, go to art school, become an illustrator for Disney, or start my own comic script rivaling Peanuts in popularity. Disney and Schultz were my gods back then. I had tons of books on art and animation, I watched Disney cartoons my eyes devouring all the information they could: poses, facial expressions, making the impossible seem plausible. I had tons of paperback books with the Charlie Brown comic strips. I collected Disney comic books with the same devotion my sister collected pop star posters and Tiger Beat magazines. I was going to work for Disney! I was going to make draw funny pictures! I was going to be the world’s greatest funny artist!!!
A few decades later, I can attest that dream never happened. I don’t even have a job in the art field. And know what? I’m OK with that. I like my life.
A lot of things survived my high school days, though. I still have the art books. I still have my Disney comic book collection, and Charlie Brown / Snoopy books. And I still have my drawings of Sir Pip.
My Rediscovery of Sir Pip
Sir Pip was a cartoon character I invented my junior year. A cross somewhere between Marvin the Martin and Mickey Mouse, the few dozen drawings I made of him featured the little hero and his sword in one shot comedy situations. I uncovered the drawings as I was going through boxes of old stuff from my younger days. Looking over the drawings, one thought came to mind: man, these were pathetic! Pip didn’t even have real armor, just something resembling a leotard and Mickey Mouse shoes! His helmet was kind of Roman-ish, but other than that and his sword, he was totally defenseless.
The Belt of Truth
Coincidence or not, this month in church, our pastor Teddy Fairchild began preaching a series on the armor of God. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5tGNOXRN2U Paul’s description of the armor was based on the armor of the Roman Centurions that occupied the holy lands at the time. They were well known and feared. The first piece of the armor mentioned is the Belt of Truth. All the other armor is attached to this belt, so it has to be strong to withstand the weight of everything else. This belt is the word of God. God calls us to have it cinched tight at all times, ready for battle.
The belt on my armor was tested about ten years ago when the church we were attending voted to allow gay people to become priests in our congregations, and to perform gay marriages. My brain seized up when I heard that. We loved our church family! We’d been attending for years! But my brain kept repeating “this isn’t right, this isn’t right!”
“Just give it a few months.” People suggested. But do you understand what that means? The Bible is very clear that homosexuality is a sin, and now my church was asking me to pretend it wasn’t. Not only that, but they were fine with people who openly engage in this sin becoming their leaders, and the congregation would be blessing and celebrating the union of people who wanted to disobey God in this sin.
I was being asked to loosen the belt.
Have you ever noticed how much society wants that belt loosened? Gay marriage – loosen the belt a little. Transgenderism – let it out another notch. Legalized marijuana – let it out some more. Drag queen story hour – just a bit looser…
At some point you will loosen the belt to the point it falls off. And once the belt falls, all the other pieces will come crashing down with it. You are then open for attack and Satan moves in for the kill. Christianity, as you once knew it, dies on the altar of social pressure, and you are left with nothing but leotards and Mickey Mouse shoes.
So, yes, we’re now at church that is more in tune with core Christian values and keeping the belt tightened in The Word.
Back to little Pip. Kiddo, you’re about to get an upgrade…
“Hi Sis. I just got off the phone with Barb. A car fell on Jon.”
That’s not the phone call you expect when you’re on your way to a wedding.
That’s the phone call that makes you forget how to breathe.
I had just called my brother Jon the day before. Close in age, the two of us had grown us as best friends and virtual twins. We were now separated by 800 miles. I’d called to tell him my husband Ernie, our kids and I were driving from Grand Rapids Michigan to Tulsa Oklahoma for my stepson’s wedding. Jon and his wife Barb lived in Kansas City. We hadn’t seen them in over a year, but it was too far out of the way. We wouldn’t be seeing them again this year.
But a car fell on Jon. My only brother had been flattened by a broken-down hunk of metal.
My brain literally stopped working. Instead it started gasping.
There I was in the car, my husband Ernie behind the wheel shouting at me “Do I need to pull over?” My sister was on the cellphone screaming “He’s alive! He’s conscience!” and there was me in the middle gulping for air like a fish out of water, tears gushing like a fountain, repeating “Oh my God! Oh my God!” over and over.
In the back seat, the kids were all eerily silent for once. I’m sure they found their mother’s current mental state both frightening and fascinating.
My mind had defaulted to worst case scenarios: my brother was brain dead. He was paralyzed. He would spend the next few months in a hospital bed, in agony, and then die from his injuries. The loop played over and over, blocking out any other options. My sister had little information to counter my fears.
There was nothing we could do. Well, there was a LOT for ME to do. Panic. Cry. Worry. Shake. Replay the loop again and again.
Pray.
That option finally surfaced. Ernie pulled the van over and prayed for Jon and his family. And for me. Then, he drove us on toward Tulsa. There was nothing we could do to help Jon, and we still had a wedding to attend.
As the hours ticked by, phone calls trickled in.
Jon was in the ICU. The car had come down on his head and upper body. He was alive, and in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he was talking cohesively. He was in pain and shock. There were fractures. Many, many fractures. His head, his chest, his shoulder…
I’m sorry to say, I don’t remember the wedding too well. The bride and groom were very understanding about it. They were aghast when they heard about Jon and shoed us out the door shortly after the “I do’s”, wishing us God speed, and Jon good health. We apologized profusely. This was Ernie’s oldest son’s wedding after all. He waved us off, assuring us he understood. We’d been there for him. Now we needed to be there for Jon.
Five hours later, we were walking into Jon’s hospital room. He was propped up in bed, looking very bruised and battered. His eyes were not quite working together, in a Peter Falk kind of way, but he smiled a little when he saw us.
“Hi Sis.” He greeted.
I shook my head. “Man, the stupid things you do just to get us to visit.” And then I started crying again. Then, he cried. Barb and Ernie cried. The kids stared at us, not caring for hospitals and unsure of how to respond.
We finally heard the whole story. Jon had been at his father-in-law Charles’ house working under his car. The jack holding the car up slipped and down came the vehicle on Jon. Charles got the jack back in place and cranked up. Meanwhile, Jon was wiggling his feet to let Charles know he was alive. Charles thought it was a sign of neurological shut down and Jon was brain dead. But once the car was off him, Jon actually tried to sit up. He passed out from the pain.
In the ER, they’d assessed his condition: multiple skull fractures. His shoulder was shattered. Nearly every rib on his left side had cracks and hairline breaks.
“How many fractures?”
“They lost count at 164.”
“What about your eye? Can they fix that?”
Barb shook her head. “We asked them, and they aren’t going to touch it. There’s multiple fractures to his skull. A lot are around the eye socket. But they’re all in place. None of the pieces have shifted any. If they try to go in, they’re going to move the pieces around and mess things up. They’re thinking as the swelling goes down and the fractures heal, his eye will realign, and his vision will be back to how it was.” She teared up again. “The doctors can’t figure it out! They keep coming in staring at him! He should be dead! He was pinned under a car! He should have been crushed, there should have been brain damage! There should be internal injuries! But look at him! He’s ok!”
I looked at my brother sitting there in the hospital bed, sheepishly staring back at us. He had a line of stitches in his scalp where his head had been gouged down to the bone. His face was bruised and a little swollen. The askew eye stared slightly off to the left of center. A plastic shield protected his chest. His right arm was immobilized.
That was it. No body cast. No amputated limbs. No brain damage. No paralysis. No permanent disfigurement.
A car had fallen on him.
164 fractures.
And 8 days after the accident, Jon was discharged from the hospital.
Life did not immediately return to normal. My brother was on disability for nearly four months as his ribs, vision and shoulder healed. During that time, his family was engulfed by friends and family pitching in to help out physically, spiritually, and financially. Doctors rebuilt his shoulder and his vision returned. Still, he suffers from periodic migraines and he can’t read for extended periods of time. He also lost a few of his character voices he used in his church’s puppet ministry. There’s a scar on his forehead that’s only noticeable if you specifically look for it.
But he is very much alive.
Psalms 113:11 says “You who fear the LORD, trust in the LORD; He is their help and their shield.” God was definitely holding a shield over my brother that day.
There are people who have the audacity to tell me they don’t believe in God. They claim that if there is a God, he doesn’t care. I stare at them in amazement and shake my head.
“Then Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head, and he fell to the ground and worshiped. And he said: ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there. The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.’” Job 1:20-21.
In the first chapter of Job, the title character goes from riches to rags in a progressive series of gut-wrenching moments, one on the heels of the other. His possessions are striped from him, followed by his children and finally his health. All he’s left with is sores and boils, a nagging wife, and three friends who don’t provide much help.
I’ve had my share of gut-wrenching moments: Our home and belongings burned to the ground. A brother, his wife and their child were killed in a freak accident. My husband’s job was downsized after 22 years of loyalty to his company leading to relocating 800 miles from home and family. Two children lost to miscarriages. A stepson was killed in Iraq. My father died quite suddenly and unexpectedly from a blood clot to the heart.
Each and every one of these experiences sent me and my family into an emotional tailspin, but thankfully they were spread out over a lifetime allowing one to be absorbed and mourned before the next one struck. I cannot imagine experiencing all of them at once as Job did. Would I be able to say as he did “Bless be the name of the LORD”, or would I curl up in a catatonic ball screaming “WHY? WHY? WHY?” in my head?
Lord, I pray that I will never have to find out the answer to that question, but if it did, please take my hand and let me feel you by my side the whole time.
“And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father Noah and told his two brothers. But Shem and Japheth took a garment, laid it on both their shoulders, and went backward and covered the nakedness of their father. Their faces were turned away, and they did not see their father’s nakedness.” Genesis 9:22-23
When Noah woke up and found out what had happened, he cursed Canaan. Why Canaan? Many scholars believe it was because Canaan must have noticed Noah first and told his father. So why did Noah curse the boy? Did he laugh at his grandfather’s nakedness? Did he make fun of him or make lude comments? I don’t know. The Bible doesn’t say.
But, I remember when my dad died. My family and my brother’s descended upon his house to go through his belongings. That’s when we discovered Dad liked looking at pictures of naked ladies. LOTS of pictures of naked ladies. All the grandkids were banished from coming into the room as my husband, brother, sister-in-law, my dad’s brother-in-law, and I went through stack after stack of papers, sorting out important documents and tearing up lude pictures. We also excluded Dad’s current wife. She just lost her husband, and the rest of us felt it would be a great unkindness to expect her to endure this tarnish to his memory. A great purging occurred that left all us grownups feeling dirty and ashamed. But it was a part of my dad’s past we had no desire to expose our children to, especially my son Chris who was 18 at the time and had adored his grandpa. The shredded pictures would never be mentioned to them.
The bible tells us to honor our parents. There are times our parents act in ways that are not honorable, but even in those times we are called to preserve their dignity. God willing, our children will follow our example and honor us too.
