The Pain
I would like to start this installment by thanking my brother in law, James Alvarado, for the inspiration. On his Facebook status this morning, 10/19/2011, he stated, “Sometimes we think that if we ignore our pain, it will go away. But sometimes God uses pain to change me. Pain causes me to change faster than anything I know.” My initial response was to rattle off my patented answer, consisting of repeating a saying I learned while in Master’s Commission: “I will never change until the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change.” [i][i] As I sat poised at my computer prepared to share this “deep” wisdom (which is a widely accepted and applauded viewpoint, particularly among those of us touched by the power of God’s ability to free a captive through recovery), I felt the tug on my heart and the still small voice whisper: “Is that still true, Olivia? Do you still need pain in order to change? And do you WANT that to be true?” I felt like a little girl, listening to her gentle father as he leans down to admonish her. I felt my spiritual pigtails brush my shoulders as I shook my head back and forth vehemently. No, I do NOT! But what is the truth? Does this mean that I have “matured” past the point of needing to change? Dear heavens, no! A thousand times no!
I desire to be continually transformed,
as Paul said: But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.[ii]
As an adult, I believe that one of the greatest gifts that my earthly father ever gave me was the gift of a well timed and, believe it or not, loving spanking.[iii] I was not a “problem” child. I was more of a quiet, self-entertainer who loved to read and imagine. I was, however, not without sin as a little girl. My indiscretions veered toward the sneaky, and in many cases were much more destructive to my character due to their hidden nature. It was not unheard of for me to take treats without asking, even when…or sadly, especially when…my parents had strictly forbidden it. It still shames me to admit I was known for my ability to lie to my mother so convincingly that she could not tell the truth from the lie. I thought that was pretty cool…and useful! Unfortunately, this unchecked sin made me cocky and rebellious to the point that as I grew, I began to disrespect and challenge my mother much more openly. I still remember my final spanking. I was in the fifth grade, and my parents had decided to try to home school me and my three younger siblings for one year. My older sister had been enrolled in a Christian junior high school, but the family finances didn’t allow for that option for all five of us. One morning, my mother brought us into the living room for morning devotions and worship. My 10-year-old attitude was riding high that morning, and I did NOT want to sing with them. My mom played an instrument called an Auto Harp, and I thought that was so dorky!
(Sorry, Mom! What I wouldn’t give to see that Auto Harp today!!)
Well, that day I stubbornly refused to participate. My mother tried everything: engaging me, encouraging me…and finally, time out. What she perhaps understood that I did not was that as an older sister, my moods and attitudes were likely to affect those of my three younger siblings. All I could see was that I was by myself, and I was MAD! I proceeded to do everything in my power to make her life miserable that day, which those of you with “tween” girls know is considerable.
When my dad came home that night, I found the power of parental unity. I knew exactly what was coming. While it had been about a year since my last spanking, I knew that this time I was deserving and there was no getting around the hurdle. Over the years, my parents had developed the custom of setting the time and place, and giving us some time to “prepare” for our spankings. The number of swats was agreed upon ahead of time, and we were allowed a few minutes to “bulk up” with layers and instructed to pick one of our father’s leather belts. At the appointed time, I found myself sitting on the edge of my parents’ King sized bed in their Western exposure master bedroom. The drapes were pulled to dim the intensity of the late afternoon California sun in the room, and likely so that my mother could nap my younger brother in that room earlier in the day. I was stiff from the many layers of underwear and stretchy pants that I had pulled on to protect my hindquarters. Dad was taking his time, perhaps praying or discussing the details of the infraction with my mom in the other room. My parents’ room was connected to the main bathroom by a separate door, and between the two rooms the architect had built a pass-through linen closet. My little brother and sisters were poking their heads through the doors, laughing at and taunting me (as siblings are often known to do) as I waited, palms sweaty, next to Dad’s leather belt on the bed. I had chosen carefully: not the studded leather, which stung like crazy. Not the hole-punched brown leather, which moved too quickly through the air and wrapped itself around the side of the leg. I settled on the same soft, worn black leather belt that I had chosen back when I was getting into more trouble. It had grown more pliable with age, which I was glad for; the softer the leather, the softer the sting.
[i][i] There are several authors attributed with this saying, but my research was inconclusive as to the true source. It is my preference to credit no one when this is the case, rather than give credit to the wrong source. Input welcome and valued!
[iii] I’m more than happy to debate spanking as a topic; of course, I welcome all viewpoints here. Please be aware that my standpoints will always be flavored by the Word of God, and that my faith in God and His Word are steadfast. Blessings!
