Gym class was over and my friends and I were hanging out
in the change room in our underwear. We were taking turns doing chin-ups on a bar
above one of the bathroom stalls. Each guy did half a dozen chin-ups and then
jumped down to let the next guy have a turn. There was no way I was going to
let these guys show me up. I was determined to do the most chin-ups on my turn.
When I did push through to victory, in a moment of bravado, I jumped down triumphantly.
The only problem, I didn’t land on my feet. On the way down my right butt cheek
caught the hook that latched shut the stall door. One minute I was in glory. The
next minute I was in agony. As I groaned on the floor and held my bleeding butt
my friends laughed at me hysterically. When they realized I really was in pain someone
ran and got the teacher.
This was an awkward situation. I could only pull my pants
over my left side. I had to hold a towel over the other side for modesty’s sake
and to try and stop the bleeding. Since this was between classes I limped into
a packed hallway and make my way to the front office. There Carrie, one of the most
popular girls in my grade, was helping the secretary with her work. She agreed
to drive me to the hospital in her truck.
What do you spend thirty minutes talking about, with the
most popular girl in class, when you’re sitting in her truck on your left cheek
while holding a towel over your bleeding exposed right one? I cannot remember
our conversation.
At the hospital I received four stitches and couldn’t sit
for a week. Every time I would bend my legs the stitches would stretch, not to
mention the itch. This resulted in a week of standing at the back of my classes
trying to resist the urge to scratch my behind. For a while I became the “butt”
of everyone’s jokes.
Today I have a scar to verify my story, which I can proudly
display to my wife. The scar is also a good reminder about pride coming before
the fall.
Another story from my grade ten year also deals with crushed
pride. This story is more serious. I’ve always been a talker and I’ve always been
a bit of a clown. These traits often found me in the role of class clown – a
label hard to shake once you get it.
It was during C.A.L.M. class (Career and Life Management)
that I really played it up. We had a teacher going through a number of personal
issues and these were affecting his professionalism. We jumped all over him and
he eventually left our school with a nervous breakdown. I, unfortunately,
played a big part in this. We would try everything to get him to snap. We’d scheme
up ways to disrupt his class, distract him, get him off track in his lesson and
make sure the buzzer went before he assigned any homework. After one class of
this constant barrage, he lost it. He started ranting and pacing and talking
incoherently. We found this both humorous and scary.
During one class he had had enough of me and sent me into
the hall. I knew he was going to come out and lecture me and so I was trying to
control my giggles. I was expecting the typical, “Do you think this is funny?”
comments as I tried to keep a straight face and look in his eyes. That’s not
what happened. This time he said seven words that destroyed me. He looked at me
and said in a defeated voice, “I thought you were a Christian.”
I was speechless. I was angry. My faith was important to
me and so this hurt. I wanted to lash out. Swear. Tell him he had no right
judge me. Tell him he was a pathetic teacher who couldn’t control his students.
But I knew he was right. My behaviour was not
Christian. I was speechless. I went home that day under a dark cloud unable
to talk to anyone.
At a point like this I’ve watched many Christians make a
big mistake. They feel the horror, guilt and shame of being a lousy person and then
get stuck there. That’s how I felt that evening, but feeling this way accomplishes
nothing. I knew I had to do something,
but I also knew it was not going to be easy.
The next day I sought out this teacher in private and
told him that what he said to me was correct. I apologized and promised to stop
misbehaving in class. That was hard. Even harder was living up to my word in
front of my friends. When they saw the change the teasing started. I was
“sucking up to the teacher”. I was a hypocrite. People even started suggesting that
I was in an “inappropriate relationship” with this teacher.
When I recall how I contributed to this man’s breakdown I’m
reminded of how evil I can be. I am not a good person. I’m arrogant to the
point of callously rejoicing and laughing at the pain of others. I want to be
popular. I want to be liked. And I’ll compromise my beliefs to get these
things. I’m not a nice person.
I’ve decided this gives me four options. I can be my
natural self, which I don’t like and don’t want to be. I could wallow in
self-pity about what a loser I am. I could try to be a good person by following
the “good person” rules and end up becoming another arrogant hypocritical
church goer that the world shakes their finger at. (I’ve learned long ago that
rule following doesn’t change one’s character). Or, I could repent of my sins
and turn my life over to Jesus.
I am not a Christian because I am a good person, but
precisely the opposite. I’m a bad person who doesn’t want to be bad, but I have
the inability to do otherwise. I don’t want to live in constant shame of my badness,
nor do I desire to be a religious do-gooder. With these options, I’d rather be
bad and go down in flames.
But there is an attractive forth option. It is choosing
to follow the one who is truly good. Jesus
Christ has become my life. He is working on me so I don’t need to stay the way
I am. He has forgiven me so I don’t need to live in guilt. And he has let me
join his mission. Life is found in Jesus, not in “being good.” In fact, I’d rather
risk making mistakes for Jesus (as his disciples did), than be too scared to
live life to the full. It is for freedom
that he set me free. (Gal. 5:1). But
by the grace of God I am what I am. (1 Cor. 15:10).
Discuss: Share a story where you learned a life lesson from an injury.
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I brainstormed for any injury lesson in life, I found many injuries and many learned lessons but the combination seems rare. Maybe that is why I still get injured and still learning but not getting smarter. The closest one I vaguely remember is..
ReplyDeleteWhen I was a toddler I was curious just like others. My uncle was single and lived with us. One day he was ironing his uniform (he is a navy officer) and I was fooling around with the cord. I pulled hard and it fell. Flatly and found itself “ironing” my right foot. I couldn’t remember what happened next or what my uncle and my mother did with me. But I must have learned something because the incident left an 1x2 inches distinctively mark on my foot, as well as a sensitive awareness of heat throughout my life.
When I had my own children I would teach them the danger of heat by bring their hands close to a hot object. The approaching heat was enough for them to pull back immediately and be mindful of it. They had injuries but very few from foolish play with fire and heat.
After lamenting to Stef yesterday about my lack of injuries, a rather big one came to mind that I often forget!
ReplyDeleteWhen I was 18 months old, I had the flu, and we had a humidifier to help me feel better. I was being a huge stinker that day. My mom took me out of the crib after my nap and before she could stop me I put my hand right over the steam vent and severely burned my entire left hand. My very first memory is of that day (apparently traumatic events can trigger early memory - sure worked for me!). I don't remember the details or feeling pain, but I do remember watching the fire truck pull up, and later having nurses visit our home to clean my hand and cut away the dead skin. I even have a photo with me and my bandaged hand, plus my Ernie and Bert dolls and their bandaged hands to make me feel better about it! I'm not sure if I really learned anything from it becuase I was so young, but I guess I will be watching any future kids I have like a hawk when there is steam around! Miraculously, I have NO scarring.
My only scar is actually from last year at work. I was carving pumpkins for our annual youth costume party, and the knives were pretty dull. When I tried to insert the knife into the top of the pumpkin, the knife didn't go in, but my hand slid down the blade and I sliced the tips of 3 fingers open. I am TERRIFIED of needles, so I was too scared to go and get stiches knowing that they stick a needle in there to numb the pain first. I still have very limited feeling in those fingertips. I learned to be slower and safer in the kitchen and never to trust the church knives... they are very dull! You've all been warned!
But the injury I learned the most from was actually not very serious on its own. When I was 17, I was in a car accident that totalled my parents van. I had a passenger with me (a good friend) and I was driving. Thankfully, we walked away without serious injuries - just some stiffness and friction burns on our arms from the airbags. But the week after my accident, the same kind of accident happened in the same intersection and the passenger was killed. I didn't drive for several months after that. What if I had killed my friend? I learned some hard lessons that day about believing I was invincible. I'm not. Humans can be incredibly tough, but freak accidents kill people all the time. There's no guarantee that I'll make it home from work each day and I understand that a lot better now and am much more careful with my safety, and the safety of those who trust me!
Amanda,
DeleteI like how you begin "lamenting" your lack of injuriers. This is the first time I've heard someone wish they had more. Scars do tell good stories, but I wouldn't go out seeking them! :)
I know, it's so silly but I always felt left out when my friends compared scars and had cool stories. I have cool stories but few scars, which is definitely better!
DeleteIt was 1975; the South American dust was still fresh on my sandals when my sister-in-law took me ice skating. Not a big deal, people go ice skating all the time, but usually are people that know how to ice skate, I didn’t.
ReplyDeleteThe story behind the story is that I wanted to impress my in-laws since I knew they didn’t like me very much.
So if in my naivety I wanted to impress my in-laws and in my pride I wanted to show them that anything they could do, I could do better.(Just like the silly song)
I wanted them to know that I wasn’t just a Latino American farmer girl who never in her life had seen an ice rink or a pair of ice skate. So when my sister in law took me to the ice rink and gracefully skated away leaving me in the middle of the ice I encountered reality and reality was hard and cold.
I fell, hurting my pride, breaking my ankle and fracturing my hip. Resentful and in pain I spent great part of my first year in Canada in a cast and not liking my sister in law very much.
I cannot attach a great spiritual breakthrough to this injury; my “aha” moment was more or less realizing how stupid I was trying to impress someone by doing something that I didn’t know how to do.
Since then I learnt that not everybody will like me and that is okay. That I am not, who they say I am, but I am the person God, says I am. My worth is not in what people think of me but in what God thinks of me and because he sees me through the blood of Jesus he sees me righteous (This righteousness is given through faith in Jesus Christ to all who believe. There is no difference between Jew and Gentile- Romans 3:22)
My sister in law and I became good friends through the years. God has a perfect way of mending relationships. My ankle and my hip however, still remind me with little aches and pains that: “you can take the farmer girl out of the farm, but you cannot…leave her alone on an ice rink!
Alicia