This week's Theme: Perfect Love
Day 1: No Fear in Love
I was the biggest coward at my elementary school. We-ll-ll-ll, I can’t be sure that someone else who will remain unnamed didn’t have the slight edge—but this I know for certain, we were both terrified of the “the strap”.
The broad, brown leather instrument of torment constantly darted and flashed and landed—on backs, on buttocks, on outstretched hands. It commanded an unholy respect— “ordinary” dread was amplified and solidified in rumors that the leather had been soaked in “stale pee” to create extra sting.
In an environment where education was the only way out of poverty for most, and into a better life for all, the strap was custodian, stimulator, enforcer. It governed judicious application, caprice, and whim in equal measure; and sometimes uncovered caches of ignorance and cruelty.
Corporal punishment was meted out for everything—from lateness to “hard-headed”-ness (learning difficulties) to “skylarking” (goofing off). And then there were “Tables”.
Several times a week after lunch, we were herded out of the sweltering heat of the low, one-story, galvanized school building and into the shade of the school yard trees. The spreading branches of the Galba, Shak-Shak, and Poui trees provided welcome relief from the noisy, overcrowded classrooms separated only by portable blackboard screens.
But any relief from the heat would soon be overshadowed by the terror of the relentless drill that would invariably leave me tongue-tied, paralyzed, chastised, and traumatized. It wasn’t that I didn’t know my “Times Tables”—I was generally a conscientious student and worked hard at my assignments.
The multiplication tables were neatly displayed on the back of each standard-issue exercise book, and I studied them dutifully, diligently, until I was sure I knew them by heart. But I could never command recall when the vicious brown harbinger of doom flicked my way with the authoritative demand, “Seven times eight?”
Delay of more than one or two seconds was not brooked, and my fear-riddled brain insisted on processing sequentially instead of pivoting automatically to the random number requested. “Seven times one, seven, Seven times two, fourteen, Seven times three twenty-one…” Too late!
“Hold out your hand!” The stern command would begin a long, drawn-out uneven dance—sheer terror on my side, escalating anger and impatience on the other. Each faltering attempt I made to hold out my hand would end with it repositioned even more firmly at my side as the menacing strap twisted, circled—undaunted by my pitiful stalling. How I envied the valiant who never tasted of [its] death but once! For in the end, I only succeeded in delaying the inevitable.
Perhaps because of my firsthand experiences of tangled fear and punishment, I find deep personal meaning in the words of Scripture, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love” (1 John 4:18).
And yet, the practical application of living in perfect love is part of a lifelong journey of renewal and growth. As with all areas of our past that become prisms through which we view and interpret life, it takes time to unlearn old responses and learn new ones. Besides, not even the best of our human experiences could compare to a perfect God who loves us with perfect love.
I still have miles to go in learning to be brave. But I don't want to be a spiritual coward. So I pray for new strength and courage to pry loose my feeble hands from my side and hold them out—not in unholy fear or respect, but in holy reverence—with full trust, full obedience, full surrender.
