Wounded by God's People Read Online Free Page B

fifth-grade teacher was a retired Presbyterian missionary. She was what my younger sister and I described at the time as an “old maid.” She looked like she came from central casting — gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, granite-like face seamed with wrinkles and carved into a disapproving frown, mouth tightened in a constant grimace, sharp eyes that missed nothing — and she did not like me. Her stern demeanor, our dark classroom, and lessons that seemed to drag on forever were a deadly combination for an energetic child. So from time to time, a deep and spontaneous sigh escaped from my lips. She glaringly told me one afternoon in no uncertain terms that if I sighed one more time in class, she would slap my face! I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and, believe you me, silently. My mother never understood why it was so hard for me to view missionaries as she did, as the aristocracy of heaven. If that were actually true, I surmised, I’d be very happy to remain a peasant.
    As I remember my own childhood, it’s sobering to contemplate the impact that a stern, unattractive, unloving, unkind adult can have on a child. Especially if that person is also considered to be a mature Christian. Had my fifth-grade teacher’s demeanor and actions not been more than offset by my own deeply spiritual mother, whosebeauty, wit, grace, and compassion were so charming, I’m sure I would never have had such a strong desire to be a mature Christian myself.
    But the first time I remember being more seriously wounded by those who called themselves Christians was in ninth grade. My parents had sent me off to a Christian boarding school where my older sister was also in attendance. While my sister was practically a poster child for the school, seated at the head table during meal times and introduced to any and every visiting dignitary, I was shuffled to the periphery. I was criticized and yelled at for no reason that I was aware of. When I developed a close friendship with another student as a buffer to the mistreatment, the headmistress actually accused me of having homosexual tendencies. I didn’t even know what a homosexual was. I remember looking up the word in the dictionary and still not comprehending what it meant or how it could possibly apply to me. But one thing was clear. I was definitely on the outside of any inner circle. Within three months, I had been reprimanded for talking back to the headmistress, made something of a reputation for myself as a rebel, and landed in the infirmary with a persistent illness. And I learned the hard way that wounds inflicted on us, even if they are only wounds resulting from the laceration of words, can make us physically ill. My mother removed me from the school for several months so I could recover at home, but then sent me back to finish out the year. At the end of that first school year, I was transferred from the boarding school to the public high school in our mountain county in Western North Carolina, where I thrived.
    A couple of years later, I became interested in fashion modeling, and my mother helped arrange some low-key but fun jobs for me in nearby Asheville. As a result, I began wearing makeup, bleached myhair, and one Sunday morning had the audacity to wear a man’s hat, such as I had seen on a
Vogue
model, to the little Presbyterian church we were members of in Montreat. I can still remember sitting in the fourth row of the church with my mother and siblings, waiting for the service to begin. I watched as a distinguished elderly lady rose from her seat, walked stiffly over to my mother, and with a stern look pronounced judgment on me — and on my mother for allowing me to wear a man’s hat, especially to church. “And, by the way,” she added, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Ruth, about the way you’ve allowed Anne to bleach her hair and wear makeup like that.” My mother smiled, thanked the lady for