From Bullied to Blessed

It was 1977. "Hey fat boy" were the words I remember being called walking around the playground at recess. Never really feeling there was hope for me. I had maybe one or two friends or maybe they were just nerds like me that felt rejected. But God had different plans. I was that kid that was always picked last in sports because I just didn’t look quite like an athlete. Very shy, chubby, and freckles was how I looked, and then I had to get glasses when I was about 13. That sure didn’t help me look very GQ. When puberty kicked in with pimples that only made it worse. I think I actually remember being called pizza face, four eyes, and fat boy all in one sentence once. Ouch! That’s gona leave a mark!

Our parents did the best they could being pastors in a small community in the cold farmlands of Wisconsin. It was a pretty strict upbringing for four children in the home of a Pentecostal minister. Our house was a large, old brick, two-story home that sat on three acres right outside town. We had an alfalfa field separating our lot from the forest where Dad, my brother Kevin, and I hunted. Some years, we cut down our own Christmas tree as the whitetail deer danced around. That part of being a kid was great.

There was also a great place to sled when the snow came. The window to the bedroom I shared with my brother Kevin frosted over in the winter, and the draft of the cold winter air seeped in as I lay there every night thinking about the next day at school. I constantly daydreamed about the life I hoped to have someday—one where I wasn’t fat and unaccepted, but muscular and well-liked by everyone.

Dad was a native of the dairy state and we were always Green Bay Packer fans. It was the most popular religion in Wisconsin, then Lutheran. Mom was a southern gal from Alabama who cooked better than anyone in the country—as far as I was concerned. I ate everything on my plate. Now I’m not sure if I did it because I was so hungry, Mom made me, or I was just trying to drown my fears, anger, and hurts. She insisted that we eat everything on our plate, but I never complained especially with her homemade bisquits and gravy.

Dad took me hunting and fishing, but mostly life was about church and doing God’s work. Our family went to the lake once in a while to my grandparents’ cabin, but we always made sure there was a church service going on during summer camping trips. God forbid we miss church, find ourselves in a night club drinking, or worse yet, a roller rink and roll our way straight to hell especially if the rapture happened. It may sound rough, but at the time that’s how I thought. Self-righteous legalism kills and steals your joy.

Living in the home of a Pentecostal preacher was not always easy, but overall, I had it pretty nice. I just didn’t always see it that way at the time. I had loving parents, food on the table, and fond memories of Christmas and birthdays in our home. The faith in God that was instilled has grown into something I never expected to flourish. I never realized when Dad preached about the kingdom of God that it was actually here on earth.

I felt different growing up from others due to our denomination. Legalism steals so much joy from people, where everything is sin. I constantly felt condemned to hell, which was depressing at times and felt like bullying. Now, I look back and realize how much more dysfunctional and unhealthy so many others I knew had it. I understand abused children and abused mothers have it much worse, but at the time there were a lot of negative emotions related to living this way. I look back now and am so thankful for my heritage and the values woven into our moral fiber. I wouldn’t trade any of my life with anyone I know and I wouldn’t want to be anyone else. As a matter of fact, I like who I am today because of the ethical, moral, and loving upbringing we enjoyed.