O’ Fearful Child, Redeem Life Through Love

King Solomon proclaimed, “Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will drive it far away” (Proverbs 22:15).

I remember that my childhood experiences with classmates always involved social mimicry. My family had overlooked the importance of teaching moral guidance. Few children in sixth grade recognized my ability to imitate others' personalities. However, those tough kids with street smarts quickly became adversaries. When I tried to fit in with a group of sixth-grade hoodlums who had already started smoking cigarettes, the toughest boy in their group punched me in the mouth. My teeth bit into the flesh inside my lip, and blood gushed out uncontrollably. I only remember him causing me to fall down a small hillside until I reached the grassy knoll at the bottom. 

I knew the blood was pouring out, but I never cried. I stood up, climbed that hill to the top, and swung at him like I had enough guts to take him on. He knocked me down the hillside once again. I lay on that grassy knoll for a while until the group of hoods left. I learned that acting tough and being scrappy were two completely different things. After a few experiences where I got a butt-kicking for my rude comments, I started avoiding children who grew up lacking naivety. Although I fit into their category as a thug, my ability to mimic naivety only saved me from other situations around the playground. Mimicking led to children sharing meals with me until a teacher ordered them to keep those items for their own nourishment.

I had discovered girls around that time. When a pretty girl treated me kindly, I automatically assumed she wanted to hang out with me on the playground. I remained clueless about females for years after taking a soccer cleat to my groin. The quickest way for a young boy to learn respect for girls often involved some kind of violent response. When I walked up to this beautiful sixth grader and kissed her, she changed my view of females, ensuring that such a painful memory lingered for hours. All I had ever wanted was a girl to like me, but a note asking whether she did or not might have saved me from that awful encounter.

The teacher always said I had a nice smile. When she sat my desk directly next to hers, I felt like being the class clown had gained me some kind of respect. After I failed to turn in my assignments for months, the teacher called my mother to make me complete every assignment before I could pass her class. She explained that I had the potential to finish every task on time, but this was a woman who knew the struggles I had gone through. A few months earlier, if I am going to be completely honest, abusive behavior forced frowns on me. Shucks, I do not remember donning a single smile that entire year. After I turned in each paper filled out with the correct answers, Mrs. Walker praised my resourcefulness.

I never told Mrs. Walker about the belting my mother gave me as punishment. My rear stayed sore for a few days after she lashed out. Mother never aimed well, so I felt lashes on the back of my legs and lower back. She used a leather belt, and when she thought I needed more discipline, she never hesitated to unleash her fury. I tried not to cry, but knowing she was so upset made the whole thing worse than the beating itself. What I needed was a quick lesson in behavioral science, but as an eleven-year-old with no idea how to behave, I accepted the punishment as a proper result of my actions.

The adult version of myself became mindful of repercussions early on. Maybe the abuse went a little too far, but I actually turned out quite well, not worse for wear. If I had known that such violence would shape the man I could become, a completely different respect for authority might have changed my immature perspective much sooner. Forgiveness offered me an important resolve when literature revealed what can go wrong, but my consciousness held a promise I kept all along. I would never treat people with contempt as an adult. My example carries a message for healing psyches after victimhood, and every written word is proof of the love I possess now.

My narrative nonfiction book, Raising Mother Nature, is a compelling story of love between a mother and her son. The psychological journey behind the healing process is an extraordinary philosophical experience that takes my protagonist through frightening mental and physical circumstances. I describe even worse situations in the book, but part of healing involves sharing the damage and replacing it with empathy. Living this life was a struggle for me, and achieving a goal as meaningful as this title allows me to present an honest portrayal of survival. In a world that can be hard to understand at times, knowing I can help affirms that my words align with God’s Word to make a positive difference. 

Love fiercely, trust completely in its power, and live well, child.