(And no, I wasn’t dying of hunger or thirst or anything remotely stomach related.)
But I was sitting at a red light in my Nissan Xterra, snarfing down a chicken burrito before I turned onto Juanipero Serra to help feed the hordes of J Serra football player’s lunch during hell week.
My car was perched on the freeway off-ramp and visibility limited to the left by the large stone structure of the overpass.
The light turned green and I started to pull out, but just as I hit the gas a large chunk of chicken accompanied by gooey sauce and lettuce launched into my lap. I checked my mirror, realized no one was behind me and paused to scrape sour cream off my thigh.
Defining Moments
And in that split second of hesitation I heard a roar.
A heavy-duty pick-up truck came barreling through the intersection running two back to back red lights and screeched by in front of me.
I gulped and whispered a prayer of thanks –tears and adrenaline spilling out of me.
I would have been a sitting duck and the truck would have hit me dead on the driver’s side of my vehicle.
I like to think Jesus, or a big awesome angel, flicked my chunk of chicken at just the right moment.
Annoyance or Mercy?
And it reminds me that sometimes those little annoying moments are really God’s grace and lavish love.
How often do we get in such a frenzy of emotion that we don’t recognize the financial hardship, or health issue, or even tension in our relationships as a red-flag from the one above?
Instead, we go barreling into the intersection to certain doom and fail to stop, pause, and address the spilled burrito of our life lying in pieces in our lap.
I’m so grateful today for that messy burrito and the hot sauce I squirted all over my wheel.
Where do you need to pause and let God speak to you?
Every morning my son Kyle wakes up at the crack of dawn and stretches for thirty minutes. He also puts in another thirty before bedtime. He does this on top of six to eight hours of daily football practice. So why is my thirteen year-old such a masochist?
It’s might be because my studly boy is determined to play college ball and he knows that in football being inflexible is a deal-breaker.
Now my son takes after my side of the family, the non-Gumby side. My husband jokes I am about as flexible as a two-by-four. So, Kyle doesn’t come by this naturally, it’s a painful and labororious process.
Gumby or Two-By-Four?
I too am getting stretched metaphorically. In the last week, Tim and I submitted a book proposal, which means Tim talks and I write my behind off to catch his brilliance…and then add some thoughts of my own. I also built a website to go along with our book.
(more details to come)
So the writing part wasn’t a big stretch for me, but writing with my husband was! We had to listen and listen some more, and compromise and get endlessly edited and it was hard and wonderful and a true growing experience for our marriage.
There were moments I wanted to punch him and better moments where I was floored at his insight.
And then there was the website construction itself. If you look deep inside my eyes today you might see HTML. Yes, I’ve been that obsessed.
I, Sam, book smart and wordy but often totally clueless, I actually built a website! Are you as astonished as I am?
When I initially set up my blog Scrappy Sam, I blundered through the free WordPress mumbo-jumbo and then when I eventually had to move to a self-hosted version, I paid a web expert to set me up.
This time I paid me.
It feels like I put the big girl panties on, developed some brain muscle and even grew a few inches.
Me. Wow. I can’t believe it. I set up a stinking website with e-commerce, bought and transfered a domain, with video capability, widgets, plug-ins, customized a theme, header and logo.
I’ve been obsessed with both these projects to the detriment of my home, floor, figure and fridge -but gosh darn it I did it!
(I did manage to feed my family and take baby to the pool most days, though we might have watched a lot of Mickey Mouse this week)
Sometimes it feels so good to do something new and big and challenging. And even though my yoga mat was neglected, Kyle and I are on on the same wave-length. God is bending and stretching our muscles and we are growing and developing into the people we long to be.
I have only been punched twice in my life. My initiation to aggression was at a Cult concert at the tender age of eighteen.
Exiting the amphitheater, a random drunk decided I was in his way, and launched a bomb to my right eye. Knocked off my high heels, I laid writhing on the ground and cried like the girl I am, as my friends defended my honor and a large brawl ensued.
I felt violated and angry that someone could be so abusive to a complete stranger, but the mosh pit and chaotic climate didn’t exactly exude peacemaking. Though my pride was injured, I was able to process and come to terms with the assault.
The second time I took a hit was far more traumatic than my college experience, but just as unexpected. Almost twenty years later, serving at a local outreach center in a poor and downtrodden neighborhood, a little girl opened my eyes to the hidden realm of domestic abuse as I was thrust abruptly into an altercation.
We were painting the learning center that day, a large group of high school kids from our church youth group dedicating a three-day weekend to go serve in the community. Newly pregnant, I was relegated to the courtyard to avoid the fumes. My job was to paint all the doors which had been removed from their hinges. It seemed like an endless stack piled against the tree planter.
As I painted, a few little girls played nearby me and I bantered with them and tried out my limited Spanish. I pointed to my little bump, “bebe,” and they giggled and rubbed my belly. The girls were about six years old; one had dark pig tails and missing teeth (the distinct marks of a first grader), the other wore blue and for a small child had an air of sadness and maturity. The girl in blue spoke English while my little pig-tailed companion jabbered away happily in Spanish and had her friend translate for me.
Out of the blue, little pig-tails approached me, head down and leaned in for what I thought was a hug. I opened my arms wide and got the shock of my life. With all her might, she reeled back and punched me in the stomach.
Stunned and staggering backward, I could only whisper, “no, no, no,” as the little girl, with terror in her eyes, started crying. Her friend started scolding her in Spanish, and she only cried more. I asked what she was saying through my own tears, and the girl in blue translated, “She wants to know if she killed the baby.”
“What?” I asked.
“She wants to know if she is in trouble, because she tried to kill your baby,” whispered the little girl in blue, mortified at what her friend had done and scared I was going to haul them both off to the authorities.
My first reaction was to protect the baby in my womb. I ran for help. In big hiccuping sobs, I explained what happened. Dumbfounded, the director stood there in disbelief. Then moved into action, found another volunteer and the two of them tended to me. Slowly I moved from hysterical, nauseous, and light-headed to worn-out and emotionally drained. Ironically, I had an ultrasound scheduled the next day and after a call to the Dr., who reassured us that the baby was probably fine, they forced me to lie down on a sofa and I passed out.
While I was sleeping, the director hunted down the little girl and dropped in on her parents who lived in an apartment nearby. When confronted with the situation, the mother apologized profusely and pleaded for forgiveness, but the father, smirked and refused to comment. His defiant arrogance and lack of remorse suggested he was quite likely the model for her aggressive behavior.
The director realized all too quickly what was going on in their home and begged that he not hit the little girl or hurt her as punishment. She left their home frustrated and sad. How do you confront a child perpetrator who is also a victim in a vicious circle of domestic violence?
In all likelihood, the little girl had probably witnessed the abuse of a pregnant woman (possibly her own father hurting either her mother or sister). Statistically, domestic abuse rises in pregnancy… add in poverty, language barriers and rigid sex role stereotyping, and the ratios rise even higher. 48% of Latinas in one study reported that their partner’s violence against them had increased since they immigrated to the United States.[1] According to the Centers for Disease Control, every year in the United States more than 300,000 pregnant women experience some kind of violence involving an intimate partner, and about one-quarter of women in this country report having been sexually or physically assaulted by a spouse, partner, or boyfriend at some point in their life. Domestic violence is a leading cause of injury to American women between the ages of 15 and 44 and is estimated to be responsible for 20 to 25 percent of hospital emergency room visits by women.
The director of the learning center shared with me that domestic abuse and violence are common occurrences in the neighborhood. And sadly, it may only be the tip of the iceberg as to the real magnitude of the problem because of the very hidden nature of this type of abuse-one that women and children cover out of shame and desperation.
One year later, I decided to go back to the learning center. I took my three-month old healthy baby girl with me, snuggled in close in a baby sling. I wanted and needed to redeem this place that offers so much hope and assistance to a hurting community. Alas, my expectations were too high. As, I walked through learning center and saw the brightly colored walls that our high school kids had painted, I was initially encouraged. I paused and noticed the doors I had painted and cherished the scene of children happily studying and playing.
I sat down with a tutor and a small group of children and we worked on lessons. But one little boy seemed to be having problems. Distracted and belligerent, the boy refused to listen or obey the rules. Frustrated the tutor called for backup and eventually his mother was called. In walked a defeated woman. She tried to get her son to leave with her quietly but he began to get physical and started to kick and hit her. He was so out of control, it took two men to get him out of the room. Trying to protect the baby, I backed into the corner with the other kids. Fear and tension entered the room.
Once again, violence had broken into our midst. The children were able to settle down quickly, but I remained apprehensive. Their familiarity with physical aggression was unsettling to me. I felt like a foreigner in a dangerous land, unprepared and unarmed. Their toughness only magnified my insecurities. Growing up in a sheltered environment, I doubted whether I had anything to offer to these children that live in the face of constant danger.
Another little girl, seeing my discomfort grabbed my hand and asked me to play a game with her. As she beat me at Go Fish, for the tenth time and cackled like a hen at her own cunning, she turned and looked in my eyes. “Don’t worry about that mean boy. I like you. Will you come back and read to me again? We can be friends.”
“Ok, I said. “Friends.”
The child’s wisdom is this…there are no simple answers for what seems like an insurmountable crisis in our society. So, you do the best you can and hold on to God with double fisted faith. You survive. And in the presence of evil, you find a friend and beat them at Go Fish.
[1] Mary Dutton et al., Characteristics of Help-Seeking Behaviors, Resources, and Services Needs of Battered Immigrant Latinas: Legal and Policy Implications, 7 Geo. J. on Poverty L. and Poly 245 (2000).
