Bully Me

Carter was late.

Natasha and I had been sitting in the van on the street behind the school with the air conditioning full blast for ten minutes. I was hot. And I was starting to get angry. Had he stopped to play on the playground? Was he distracted by some friends Where was he?

 As I got out of the car to look for him, I saw him coming down the sidewalk, the top of his giant backpack bobbing along behind his blond head. "Carter, where have you been?" I began, and then I stopped. He was crying.

"What happened?" I asked, bending down to look him in the eyes.

"There was a bully," Carter explained, "He grabbed me and squeezed me really tightly. Then he threw me down and put sand down the back of my shirt."

Then Carter said, "One minute we were playing together and the next he was grabbing me. I thought he was my friend."

I put my arm around Carter and walked him to the car. Sometimes bullies come from unexpected places, I explained.

I could relate to Carter's feelings. It had been a rough day at work. During a meeting, several things had happened to make me feel insecure about my abilities. Then the negative self-talk began, "I can't do this. I don't know as much as they do. I shouldn't speak up. I'll just say something dumb. I have nothing to contribute."

Instead of banishing these thoughts immediately, I invited them in like old friends. Sit down and stay awhile. Would you like something to drink? A snack, perhaps?

Like Carter's friend turned bully, I become my own worst enemy. A frienemy.

Last fall my neighbor called me and told me that my son Cory and her son had been bullied at school by a kid who had been calling them names. "Did Cory tell you what happened?" No, he hadn't. He had come home and marched into the kitchen to get a snack just like every other day. I went to his room to find out what had happened. I'll never forget what he said, "Mom, what that kid said didn't hurt me. His words had no power over me. You can't be bullied unless you give someone power to hurt you."

Yet I hurt myself every day by allowing harmful lies to ramble around in my head. I can't blame it on other people. No one can make me feel insecure unless I let them. In a weird way, I'm bullying myself.

But then a different thought occurs to me.  When I believed in Jesus, God gave me the Holy Spirit. The Bible says that I am the temple, the dwelling place, of God. The God of the universe trusts me enough to come and live inside of me. Ephesians 1 says that when I believed in Jesus, God gave me the Holy Spirit as a seal that guarantees that I belong to God and that someday I will inherit eternal life. The Spirit marks me as his precious child. The God of the universe allows me to carry around his Spirit every day. He didn't wait to see if I could perform well enough. There wasn't a trial run to see if I could make the cut. He just lavished himself on me. God believes in me. He trusts me.

I know that I must believe in God, but rarely do I consider that God believes in me.

As I mediate on this, my insecurities start to melt away.  I want to pipe up in the meeting at work and say, "Excuse me, but the God of the universe is living inside of me right now." I can just imagine the looks I would get from the president of the company. Maybe I can't say it aloud, but I can say it to myself. I can slam the door when the negative thoughts come to call. I can turn the key in the lock and then sit down with my soulmate, the Holy Spirit, for an encouraging chat. I can remember that my security comes from Christ and not from my ability to perform as an employee, a mother, a wife, or even as a Christian.

It's time I instituted a zero-tolerance policy for bullies. And that includes myself.