An inward violence

Several years ago in a writers workshop, the facilitator gave us the exercise to remember and describe a vivid childhood incident.  It could be happy, traumatic, or funny—but it had to be vivid.  These types of exercises usually bring to mind important things I need to reflect about, and this memory was no exception.

Here’s the memory:  I was six years old, and our family was living in a low-cost housing development in central California—a group of duplexes arranged in a circle around a grassy area where the kids played.  I remember that our neighbors included a gang of older boys (they would have been between seven and ten years old).  They looked mean and scary.   I avoided them.

One afternoon I noticed this group of boys huddled in the common yard.  They were looking down at something, laughing and pushing.  I feared they might be tormenting some animal, so I cautiously approached.  One of the boys moved and I discovered that the object there in the middle was my little brother Tommy, who was lying on the ground and crying.  My fear instantly changed to fury, and I grabbed a board that just happened to be nearby and charged the group, yelling and swinging my weapon.

The boys reacted almost as quickly as I had and fled the scene.  I think I hit some of them before they got away, but the battle field cleared in a remarkably short time.  I helped Tommy to his feet and burst into tears myself.  Then we both ran for the safety of our house.  I don’t even remember my mother’s reaction.

I haven’t thought about this for years, but the memory is definitely vivid.  I learned a few things that day.  I learned that even though I was small, skinny and female, I had what it takes to confront obstacles larger and stronger and more numerous than me.  I also learned that violence works.

Obviously, this requires deeper reflection.  Thanks to the grace of God, I did not develop the violent side of my nature as I grew up.  I am an active peacemaker today by choice.  But I still need to confront the seeds of violence that are part of my nature. (That’s probably why the memory is so vivid.) They spring up every once in a while, for example, in the presence of injustice.  Unfortunately, this is usually some violation of my own rights, rather than a reaction to the plight of the poor or oppressed.  I feel concern for the latter, but rarely fury.  

I’ve learned to control the outward manifestations of my inner violence, but I have to admit its occasional presence. Even now as I’m living in the retirement center, an over-reaction to some situation or to some irritating person reveal to me that something on the inside still needs to be fixed.

Lots of questions:  Did I do the right thing in rescuing Tommy in that way?  (Something in me likes this memory.)  Are there more sophisticated, “adult” ways that I still attack problems by swinging a big stick? Unkind words? Ungracious thoughts?

Will I ever be old enough (mature enough) to live in perfect peace, both inwardly and on the outside? 

Dear Lord, give understanding. Have mercy. Keep working on me. Amen.