Note: If you are being bullied, tell a trusted adult who can help you prevent it from happening again. If you suspect you may be in danger of physical harm or emotional trauma, contact a local counselor or the police. See also: the LL Blog Posts about dealing with bullying and learning to forgive.
I continuously hear from people who've heard my speeches, met me in person or follow my social networks that I am a light to them, a "breath of fresh air" and a wholesome role model for many. I'm so honored and humbled by these compliments and others, and I am blessed to spread my light, but one thing that happens often when I'm about to speak, is I have flashbacks to the events that helped fortify me along the way.
It's not something I talk in detail about publicly, but when I was growing up, I endured intense bullying. It wasn't your usual "they gave me a wedgie", "give me your lunch money" or "four-eyes" bullying story; it was a whole other level. Said discretely, I wasn't called "four-eyes" or "weirdo" or "freak". I can't say anything more for privacy reasons and in order to keep from saying beyond what's profitable to disclose for the sake of helping others, but I hope you understand that today, both the bully and I have healed greatly. I will say though that my parents were very caring and helpful in this situation, bringing me to counseling and ensuring I wasn't physically harmed. Although I received healthy, ongoing help and love from professionals and loved ones, the bullying couldn't be stopped completely, and it continued for years on end. It did some definite damage to my self-esteem and sense of identity, and I still have emotional scars from it.
Understandably, anger rose up on account of the way I was being treated, and I buried it, willed it to go away, even by the time I fully told my parents at the age of 11. But this person was inevitably a part of my life and I had to learn really quickly how to forgive and give the emotional pain to God. I sobbed, I screamed, I even bit my arm until it bled, in anger. I thought maybe it wasn't right for me to be so angry, but surely The Lord knew my reasons. A Biblical teacher of mine once said in regards to dealing with difficult people, "You don't have to like them, but you always have to love them." Unsure of what that meant exactly, it was years following the onset of the ordeal that my dear friend, Dylan taught on "guarding your heart" at a Bible meeting. Philippians 4:7, ESV reads: "And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
The peace of God surpasses all understanding, and will guard my heart. It struck a cord in the very depth of my heart that sent eucalyptus chills down my spine and made my eyes glassy with tears. I was lightheaded by the peace that was cascading over me in that moment. I was around 6 when the bullying started and this was ten years later. After the teaching, I took Dylan aside and with a shaky joyful voice began to tell him of how God was stitching up the wounds each time one appeared. I held his hand and felt immeasurable release and empowerment, confidence in the truth that I could and would always love the person who was bullying me. But although I would love them unconditionally, I did not need to defend their behavior as acceptable, or think I somehow deserved it.
Following the meeting, I endured countless convulsive episodes. My friends laid me on the floor, held my hands, stroked my hair, even sang songs. I was spitting up and contorting before them, yet they stayed composed and the Reverend encouraged them to pray. They moved me to the couch where I convulsed over and over and over again, using the little droplets of strength I had between each episode to give a tiny smile and giggle at the jokes they'd tell me until another set of convulsions fell over my body. One of my friends smoothed my hair under his palm and soothed, "not a worry in the world," and my heart imploded trying to hold in the tears.
I convulsed in the back seat of my Reverend's van for the entire 45 minute drive home, and my friends were praying over me, calming me, giving me sips of water through a straw in the periods of time that my body relaxed. Dylan popped a teaching recording up on his player and bowed his forehead against my hand, silently praying, occasionally telling me to breathe and listen to the teaching as best I could. Again, I felt the urge to swing my arms around his neck and embrace him, as I was exhausted and so thankful for the kindness and love of God he was showing me.
That night, I entered my bedroom having fully recovered from the seizures. I was crawling. I was in high school and still crawling. A year before, I almost succeeded in taking my life. I had lost one of my dearest friends without a goodbye, and had become practically wheelchair-bound from sudden muscle paralysis in my right foot and ankle. It seemed to me that my life was exploding all around me and the shrapnel was embedding thickly into my heart, no mercy. When I closed my bedroom door, my elbows collapsed and the tears just showered. A scream ripped up the back of my throat like a fire-fountain, and crashed against the backside of my teeth, clenched and grinding. I let my head fall down without a fight and enveloped my vision in the dark of the carpet beneath my face. I had made Christ Lord just six months before this, and kneeling back on my heels, squeezed my temples and wailed, "You [God] did not cause this, I know that, so please take this agony from me!" As a quiet breeze sways over the land, the the verse of John 14:27 came into remembrance. "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid."
There've been times that my experiences in the hospital have weakened my walls. Surgeries, procedures, a seven-day confinement to a hospital bed, having male nurses assist in personal care, tests after tests after tests... These experiences have brought me to shaking sobs. As my mother would dry my tears with a tissue and my nurse would whisper, "Don't cry, lovely...", my face would redden with the tears and I'd crank my head back in frustration, desperately wanting to tear the nasal tube out, or rip the electrodes from my head, throw up my hands, and swing a white gosh dang flag from a mountain top. I'd want to throw my legs over the edge of the bed and flee. Flee not merely from the hospital, but from my body that was so ill, so tired, so tense.
I'd be flopping like a fish on my bedroom rug trying to hoist my pants up with one hand, and get tangled so badly I'd fall back in exhaustion and cry, "Mom... Mom... Maaaammma... MOOOMM!" and she'd find my chest heaving from effort. She'd rearrange my clothing, get me to the bed and lift me to standing, so as to finish for me.
Jesus wept; he was human. There is no shame in crying, and it was an expression of hurt I had to learn to allow. Without it, my mind would stay cluttered to the end that I would struggle to renew it. Suicide Prevention Speaker, Arielle Caputo sees crying as "...watering the seeds of [your] future happiness." (@ariellecaputo, Instagram) How true. By shedding the overcast of your heart via your tears, you are providing yourself the opportunity to fortify and absorb fully the light within you that will triumph in a clear sky.
And so, you sit as an audience member at one of my speeches, or you acquaint yourself with me over lunch. You will hear me greet you with a song on my tongue. I won't be vibrating in terror of the stage or mic, instead I'll be "surprisingly content". Following events, a reporter may ask for a Q&A and so will another and another, a photographer may desire a photo, and you make your way to me and ask, "How are you so jubilant? You always have a smile on your face."
Appreciative of these words, I'll reply with a chuckle, "You're not there everyday." Like anyone, I've had my moments, my days, my years of heartache and sorrow - more than some. Behind my little body and young voice is a heart that's been ripped apart, shattered, and pained. But one thing's for sure that if you were to sweep up the glass dust of my porcelain heart, and let it spill downward through your fingers, it would rain shimmers and glisten by the light of The Lord casting upon it and bringing out the beauty in it. The greatest doctor ever has been delicately, gingerly piecing me together all over again, stitching the wounds and dressing them with care. God's always there to pick me up after a stumble, hold my hands as I walk and say, "I got this."
This is why I can do what I do. This is why I can speak into a mic, in front of a camera or on my blog. It's because after all I've been through, I've found identity in Christ - my reason to keep going, to smile, to laugh, to breathe and be, and live and LOVE.
In the beautiful words of Louie Giglio, "... When you think you can't take one. More. Breath... [God says] I'll give you enough to keep going on, and enough to keep going on, and enough to keep going on, and to keep going, and to keep going... You keep hoping, and I'll keep causing strength to rise when you hope. And you'll feel like you have been swept up on the wings of eagles, and you will run and not get weary, and walk. Through. It. All... And not faint... I will hold you." ("How Great Is Our God" Tour, YouTube)
Let Him hold you.