"Stories on the Sabbath"

                                                            It didn't Hurt a Bit!

Billy wound up and faked a throw.  Some of the less sophisticated kids scrambled four or five steps in the wrong direction until they realized the coins had not left Billy's hands.  Then they scurried back pleading for him to really throw the money.  Billy would cackle and then conduct another theatrical windup, which might or might not produce the sprinkling of silver.

I grew up with Billy.  He was in my elementary school class almost every year.  Billy was the kind of boy everyone knew, but nobody liked.  He tried hard, but many of his actions were self-defeating and made him unpleasant to be around.  His family life was the major source of his problems.  He was the product of a broken home and his low self-esteem and behavior problems were accentuated by no father and an alcoholic mother.

I distinctly remember the year he resorted to throwing money on the play ground.  Day after day Billy would bring pockets full of change and stand in the middle of the enthusiastic throng.  He quickly created a long, drawn out ritual which allowed him to bask a little longer in the spot light.  He would wait until the clamoring crowd paid him the appropriate homage, then he would begin the false flings. 
By using this method he created and controlled a small universe.  Billy became the center of attention.  His artificially adoring subjects circled him, feigning compliments and urging him to impart of his lunch money or allowance, or pilfering from his mother's purse.  In this sad ritual he found the measure of attention only pocket change could buy.  Of course, when the money was gone, the crowd and their adulations quickly evaporated too and Billy became again the boy that had no friends.

Not long after this episode of money throwing, Billy was absent for an extended period of time.  On one of these days, our fifth grade teacher talked to us about Billy.  I believe her words were intended to be a lecture, but she could not berate us.  Instead, as tears welled in her eyes, she vented her feelings of frustration for children unloved and a world unfeeling.  I never forgot her plea, or the fountain of sympathy that swelled in me towards Billy in response to her words.

When we were in eighth grade, Billy was still with us but the great social sifting which occurs in adolescence had started.  Birds of a feather flocked together.  Our paths drastically diverged.  He began his descent into the social strata where people with similar backgrounds tended to gravitate.  He found friends whose lives mirrored his own upbringing and I found friends who mimicked my reflection.  And although we never talked, I still harbored those deep feelings spawned by my fifth grade teacher.

It was those feelings that lead to a great lesson one day.  The bell had just rung releasing a swarm of students heading for their next class.  Billy's leg was in a cast and he was using crutches.  He had been released early so he could make it to his next class on time.  I had just started down the down-staircase when I saw Billy on the landing.  I got there just as two older boys skipped down the last flight of steps.  I do not know for certain what happened, but it was easy to guess. 

Billy lay sprawled on the landing.  He was crying and trying to get up using his one good leg, while also trying to reach his crutches, one of which lay on the landing and the other on the stairs.  He was hurting and fighting mad.  Something clicked in me at that moment.  The seed which had been long dormant in my heart for Billy suddenly, bloomed.  Hadn't we known each other for years?  If anybody should come to his aid, shouldn't it be me?  Here was my chance to help Billy.

Dropping my books, I ran to him.  He had managed to get up on one leg and was hopping about, trying to stand up.  His tears flowed hot and angry.  I grabbed his arm and slipped it around my shoulder to support him.  What happened next is as clear to me now as when it occurred 25 years ago.  As I straightened up to take some of the weight off his leg, he swung his free fist as hard as his frustration would let him into my stomach.  I ducked and quickly backed out of the grasp.  I was stunned at this reaction to my noble gesture.  Here I had finally discovered a way to demonstrate my compassion and provide a service to Billy, and I was treated like an enemy.  I was totally bewildered.

Over the years I have come to some level of understanding.  I know what motivated me to run to his side and I know now why Billy reacted the way he did.  I have drawn solid conclusions about every aspect of that situation except one...the feel of his fist.  Billy was a big boy, and a punch like the one he delivered to my skinny, pre-pubescent frame should have folded me in half with pain, but it didn't.  Though his fist was clenched hard and he swung with all the fury an angry, frustrated eight grader could muster, I felt absolutely nothing.  No loss of wind, no pain, no groan, no doubling over.  Nothing!  Though he would not, or could not be served, the fruits of my attempt were as sweet as a pat on the back.

Herein I think, is the lesson.  Sometimes in our lives we may offer service where it is misunderstood, ignored or rejected.  We may find ourselves wondering if we have wasted valuable time and energy.  Yet when we serve where there is no hope of appreciation or recognition, the Lord softens the blows and sweetens the reactions.  He intercedes, blesses and sanctions our attempt. 

Christ offered a lifetime of unrecognized service to those who would have no part of it.  He was rejected not only by his peers, but by every generation that has followed.  He alone has had to view the heart rending history of this earth and seen his sacrifice trampled by mankind's children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.  Yet in response to rejection, he gently suggests we turn the other cheek.  He did not state the reward for doing so.  That is left to be discovered by those who practice the principle.  However, I for one can testify of its sweetness, for I felt it, and it didn't hurt a bit.

                          


                    --Andrew Martel Anderson, Free lance writer for the Beehive Newspape
                                   (Out of Small Things by Michele Romney Garvin)