the little runaway

People say i run away, people say i'm running now. However, the only time i officially determined to “run away” from home was when i was in grade school.. i'm not sure exactly which year, maybe third or fourth at the latest, because we still lived in the Anaheim condo when i did it, and we moved from there before i was in fifth. i remember i had a small pink suitcase and i packed it with Pepsi and Hostess ding-dongs.. my dad saw me and asked what i was doing (i wasn't allowed to drink soda usually and was never allowed to help myself to either it or the ding-dongs without explicit permission), so i informed him that i was “running away.” He didn't say anything, and i left. i walked up the street to a nearby neighbors house and proceeded to eat my stolen goods with my friend. A few hours later their phone rang, and a few minutes later my friend's mom came in the room telling me that my dad just called and said it was time to come home. Without a moments hesitation i picked up my, probably then empty, suitcase and ran back home as fast as my legs could carry me, crying with relief.  My dad was awesome, to put it mildly, and he had an intuition about how to handle different situations.. sometimes he was tough, i had definitely been spanked, and sometimes he was sensitive and quiet. In this instance he was quiet, no anger, no lecture, i just walked in and he hugged me, and i think he said something about being glad i was home. i was so wracked with guilt over what i'd done and remember being in such awe that he wasn't mad at me.. he had no condemnation for me, only mercy.  i knew on some deeper level, without an external punishment that i never wanted to do that again.

This particular event stands out so vividly in my mind because it was the first time i remember feeling what i now know was conviction of the Spirit, my conscience smote me severely, i knew what i was doing was wrong. But i kept going.. moving against the tide of regret and remorse already beginning to wash over me. As i walked up the street i wasn't relishing in my new “freedom”, in fact it didn't feel ANYTHING like i expected it to, i felt guilty and ashamed. In theory it had been a thrill, in reality it was horrible; tears sprung to my eyes, and my stomach clenched up in knots and began this dull ache that stayed with me the rest of the afternoon. i ate them, but couldn't really enjoy the treats i'd brought with me because i felt too bad. 

i don't even really remember why i did it that day, nothing happened to instigate it; i had a happy home and loving parents and a fun, stable family that laughed a lot. i had absolutely no reason to do it. i think maybe i'd just heard or read about other kids running away and for some reason the idea sounded exciting or appealing for whatever reason. i had the kind of parents that made you eat dinner with the family, made you go to bed early (like 8pm -growl-) and were really strict about things like TV and junk-food; and i think freedom to corrupt my body and mind at will (though i obviously didn't realize THAT was what the restricted stuff was all about at the time) was likely the prime motivator. 

Thankfully i realized within minutes that i belonged at home. Unlike then, now i have more comprehension (like a tiny glimmer) of what -terrorized, dangerous, degrading sad-  :''((  life is actually like for runaways on the streets (Yah bless them), and i still stand in awe at the unearned and undeserved and largely unappreciated childhood i had. i find myself very grateful for my mom and dad, and the grace of Yah.

the outer relfection of the inner heart's cries

"In a perverse way i was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars.  What was the point in just hurting on the inside?  I though of the girl with the scar tattoos... She was right, it should bloody well show."  -Janet Fitch, White Oleander

 A young girl i'll call LittleRose injured her thumb.  The injury was minor, no more than a bruise.. but for some reason she felt compelled to wrap up her entire hand and wrist with a large bandage, layered so thick round about her limb, that it appeared the problem (?) was much worse.  

     Observing this behavior, what seemed an obvious cry for attention, i was reminded of my own childhood, when i wanted so much to become sick or injured.. i remember eyeing my classmates plaster-casts with a mild envy.  i didn't want a broken bone so badly that i was willing to go out of my way to get one, and to this day now in my 30's i've still never had one (and thankfully no longer want one!).   i did, however, occasionally "suffer" sprains.. basically milking them for all they were worth --bring on the wrappings, crutches, and exaggerated limp--.   i was inwardly thrilled when i saw some part of my extremity swollen and discolored; and though i often abhorred school i didn't want to stay home during those times-- i wanted to parade around!  Only somewhat annoyed the injury wasn't more severe, that i might have a cast.



my scar

   Eventually i grew out of that, after dabbling slightly with violent self-harm (usually called "cutting" i think) for which i have a whooping two scars (that's why i said slightly), of which only one remains fairly visible today.   i specify "violent" self-harm because i did get into plenty of other more passive forms of self-harm (like alcoholism, tobacco and drugs to name the main games i lost at for years).   It would be a long list if i tried to account for all the ways and behaviors i see in hindsight were various cries for attention. 




photo credit: unknown

   As i write this, barefoot and sweating in the mid-west summer humidity, the car parked to the side of me is a flashy Ford Mustang.. bright red with racing stripes and all the extra bells and whistles, aftermarket wheels and grills.. and it's really nothing more than an expensive cry for attention.  



© Joern Sackermann

   Looking around it's easy to see lots of people, young and old, silently crying for attention in some form or another, for some reason or another.  

   Meditating on my own past i see more clearly now what was going on then.. i was so painfully broken on the inside, subconsciously my soul wanted that brokenness, that hidden reality, reflected on the outside.  Somewhere, something in my immature mind knew i needed help; and that part of me was silently crying out.  i couldn't understand the language at the time, and i'm only just beginning to now: the outward signs of a spirit that's crying, "look at me, help me, i'm dying." 



photo credit: unknown

   There's a lot more that could be said about this subject.  There's a lot more i want to say, though i'm thinking this is enough for now.  i feel it's important to keep these posts/blog entries/whatever you want to call them, on the shorter side, if possible.  Most likely i'll be revisiting what has been started here in the future, sharing more about my own personal experiences finally facing the inner darkness where the demons dwelt, and my deliverance from the torment, and process of healing. 

Until then.. Glory to Yah

Shalom.


"...i waited patiently for Yahuah to help me, and He turned to me and heard my cry.  He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as i walked along.  He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our Alahim. Many will see what He has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in Yahuah."

Psalm 40:1-3



fried ants

One day when i was a young child, i had an experience that taught me something that remains relevant even to this day.  It was one of those moments of revelation about a fundamental and profound principle of existence that roots itself firmly in the essence of consciousness..  where its lesson extends, rippling through time, touching all future behavior.  

 

It was a warm day good for playing in the backyard, which we often did while at my grandparents house.  For some reason my dad got the idea to bring outside the large magnifying glass my Nana kept on her kitchen countertop for reading mail or the newspaper.   Curious, i watched with fascination as he used the sun, angled carefully through the glass, to make a fiery pinpoint of smoldering dirt on the ground.  Poof! a crinkly dried leaf when up in a brief smoky flash of flame and turned to ash.. then he started chasing a nearby ant on its way somewhere.. poof! the ant smoked and burned for a second or two, and was gone. 

 

i remember being pretty interested at this point, when he handed me the magnifying glass.  Concentrating, i lowered and raised the glass up and down adjusting the angle ever so slightly this way and that, practicing a bit until i too got the circular beam of sunlight to shrink into it's red-hot burning pinpoint.  Soon i was able to hold the point steady and i started chasing another nearby ant with it, halting him in his final scramble, watching him succumb, curl up and burn.  It only took a couple of seconds, and i could smell the faintest hint of burned something in the air.

 

Instantly a sick feeling rose in the pit of my stomach.  Despite the fact i was shown how to do this by my dad, in whom i found safety, and my authority figure, i knew without a trace of doubt that what i had just done was somehow wrong.  A new sense of justice was awakened and i knew in the deepest part of my being that torturing anything, even a little ant, was wrong.  It wasn't as fun as it had looked;  i hated it, i never wanted to and never did it again. 

 

i understand some may say that putting out an ant trap and letting the critters take poison back to their nests so they and all their relatives can die a slow, possibly painful, death is no different.. but i think there is something different about it.  Not so much a physical difference as a spiritual one.  Using the magnifying glass and zeroing in on the little guy as it frantically tried to escape the burning was a form of torture, and it was for entertainment, for a sheer demonstration of power over something, because i was bigger and i could.   

 

image credit: Aideon

Can it be fathomed a young immature child is more righteous, more compassionate or more benevolent than the Creator of life, the universe and everything??  If people would stop to reason with the Source of their being for a moment they'd realize that the only way we could possibly have a sense of justice, mercy, right or wrong, is because we were given them; and we could only be given them from One who had them first.  It doesn't take much logic to understand one cannot give what one does not have.  If you hand someone a dollar, it was possible because you had the dollar.   Simple.

 

The idea that the Creator will keep some of His creatures alive (conscious) for all eternity (endless time) in a place of agony and fiery torture, to endure infinite punishing for a finite life where they refused to love Him, is insanity at its core.