I Hate Windows...(Beating Children for Jesus)

...Or rather I hate seeing my reflection in windows. Every time, without exaggeration, every time I see my reflection in a window or a glass door, I remember.

I remember being a young boy between the ages of six and eight. We lived on Wren Drive, and we had a big backyard where I would spend most of my outdoor time (because we weren't allowed in the front yard). I had dragged out all these toys and chairs and carefully arranged them to form the bridge of my star-ship.

I was the captain of the universe embarking on a quest to explore the galaxy. I was dodging torpedoes and lasers and destroying enemy warships. Often I would glance up at the glass door and admire my reflection as I stood as the proud captain of an indomitable crew.

At one point I saw my father's silhouette, only just, beyond my reflection. I waved and he waved back, or so I thought. What I didn't see was that he was actually motioning for me to come inside. I continued to play, look at the reflection of my set up, and embarked on the excitement of saving the universe, all the while my father was waving me to come inside.

He must have decided that I was ignoring him because he opened the glass door and calmly called me over as he did that "come here" thing people do with their index finger. Unaware of the rage boiling under the surface, I cheerfully walked over to him. He grabbed me by my shirt and threw me across the living room and onto the couch. He stormed over and all I can remember is trying to protect myself from a combination of open handed and clenched fist blows. When it was over he sent me out to put away my mess, and go to my room.

When my mother found me, she, though I didn't understand it at the time, greatly feared the thought of sending me to school. She was afraid that my teacher might see the bruises on my face and report it. I got a week's vacation from school, and all I understood was that I wasn't to show or tell anyone about my face because I would be taken away from my family; after all it was my fault for upsetting him anyway.

One particularly peculiar moment I remember is that of a lady from our church, Calvary Chapel Hanford, who came over a day or so later while I was riding my bike in circles out back. I knew I wasn't supposed to let people see my face, so I awkwardly pulled my shirt up over the side with the worst bruising and kept riding as she and my mother talked outside. Some very deep part of me wanted her to see what I was doing as a flag being waived for help. I wanted the shirt to slip so she could see the bruises and ask me what happened.

She must have noticed something because my mom told her some story that allowed her to laugh off what she saw. I try often to remember her face, to remember who she was. I have a few suspicious, but all I know for certain is that she was slender, had a light complexion, and mid-shoulder length dark hair; and I think I remember her hair being curly. I hope to one day remember who she was that I might have the opportunity to ask her if she remembered that day.

Afterward, and I mean immediately afterward, whether my father was inside or not, anytime I was outside and I walked by the sliding glass door I would peer in out of fear. I would check to see if he was summoning me when I could not hear nor see. I did this up even until I moved out.

Over twenty years later and I still remember this moment clearly. I see my reflection in a window or a glass door and I am reminded. It used to bother me. It used to bring an overwhelming sense of shame to my heart. Not anymore.

The Lesson

My daughter is six years old now. She is the same age I was when my father was especially brutal towards his children. By remembering these things, no matter how much I would rather forget, I am reminded of the responsibilities the Lord charged me with as a father.

I am to lead my children in godly ways pointing them always to the Gospel. To be an example of Jesus for them. To love them -as short as I may fall- as God loves them and has shown mercy towards them in commanding all to come to repentance and faith.

I am to pray for them and watch over them. Correct and lead them along the path that they ought to go, so that when they grow older they will not soon depart that path.

I can do this, and I am enabled and empowered to do this through Christ. Though I look very much like my father, and though we share many similar traits and features, I am not my father. I could be him, but by the grace and mercy of God I am not him.

Confessedly, there are days when I fear that I may become that man because of the similarities between us. He has given to me for an inheritence his anger. But all that crap is bound up in the old man who is put to death in Christ. The chains that once enslaved me to sin are broken, and I have been brought from death to life.

In Christ I am a new creation, and the old things are gone, put out, and passed away. The new things are here; now. And I entrust to Christ Jesus the things of my past, for those things have been answered for at the cross. They have no power over me. They have no sway. And they certainly do not belong to me.

Our Lord, who died for the sins of the world as a ransom for many, called me to drink freely from his living waters. The wrath of the Father, Christ drank to the brine for me that I might be reconciled to Him.

It is these things that are my inheritence, and it is these things that I am to bring to my children.

Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.
-Proverbs 22:6