To The Untamed Heart.

We moved the summer before my sixth grade year.

At my old school, I wouldn’t necessarily say that I was super well-liked by all, with the good memories being singed by that of my fifth grade year when the crowds had begun to become more defined. But those challenges of being unwanted in quiet ways were definitely easier than what I had faced when I had switched schools and met a popular crowd with lesser moral boundaries.

I was bullied in a pretty vocal way that year, unable to get away from it until I was in the confines of my cellphone-less home. My bus ride was forty minutes, but I don’t remember the girl who used to sit in the seat behind me purposely to use me as a punching board, screaming how much she hated me and wanted to punch me in the face getting off before me. Maybe she did, but the unsettling knot in my stomach didn’t. It remained, following me home to dread it the next day.

My mom didn’t know for a long time, but I remember the day it all came crashing down. I was in the last period, some music theory class. We were watching a movie and my stomach hurt so badly I couldn’t even sit up straight in my chair. Next thing you know my teacher was hugging me and taking me to the guidance counselor. The lights came on and suddenly my mom knew. It wasn’t my problem anymore.

My mom had a zero tolerance policy when it came to crossing her children. She wasn’t a silent advice type of person. She was an I am taking care of this and it will N E V E R happen again kind of person.

Thanks to my mom, I didn’t have to protect myself. I didn’t have to defend myself to bullies- and I didn’t. I believed the best in people.

I’m not sure where it all changed. But somewhere it did. At some point in the history of me, I got this idea in my head that I had to look out for myself so that others wouldn’t take advantage of me. I decided I had to defend myself and place thick boundaries around me so others could not hurt me. They couldn’t touch me because I wouldn’t let them. Because if I didn’t look out for myself, who would look out for me? I didn’t live with my mom anymore. I need to step up and do the dirty work. Pay attention to your surroundings, as my mom would chide.

I see it seep into my relationships and my attitude towards being generous and selfless. How can I be generous and selfless when I am so afraid of being taken advantage of? I carry the bitterness like a shield, ready to hold it in front of me in a second’s notice. To take care of myself.

Recently the Father highlighted this to me. I’ve been trying to curb my speech when the word vomit starts to rise. He’s been giving me time before speaking to be able to reflect on what’s about to come out so that it doesn’t. So that I can leave it with him.

Isaiah 46:4 in The Passion Translation says,

“Even as you grow old and your hair turns gray, I’ll keep carrying you! I am your Maker and your Caregiver. I will carry you and be your Savior.”

And while I set my shield down, I’m running to my answer. Because my Father says, “When did I not protect you? When did I not care for you?” And I cannot think of a time. At my worst, lowest moments, he has been my caretaker, keeping me safe and healing my heart. He has carried me. More than my mother, my husband, or myself could ever be capable of doing.

So he and I are sitting with this, and I can feel the warmth of his love and the counsel of His Spirit healing me. And that is the beauty- not the shield, but in the fact he can make all things new. So we can just love and not worry about the response. We can trust our ever-present Father to save us, remake us, and heal us.