I begin with a reassurance of understanding of Nouwen’s words in which he rightfully calls the reader‘s attention to this point:
Making one’s own wounds a source of healing, therefore, does not call for a sharing of superficial personal pains but for a constant willingness to see one’s own pain and suffering as rising from the depth of the human condition which all me share (Wounded Healer, 88).
The intent of this section is not to boast of myself or to talk solely about the miraculous work and blessings that God has done in my life. The intent of this section is to recognize the sufferings of my own heart and to make that recognition the starting point of service for ministry
Both of my parents were police officers who had a passion for their jobs. As a young man growing up and due to the nature of my parents’ work, my weekends were mainly spent with my mother’s parents where I would often find myself ripped from the confines of a comfortable bed and drug to church every Sunday morning. I would go, attending Sunday school and church with them, and hearing Biblical stories that told of a caring, kind and compassionate God that desired happiness and peace for His sheep. After church we would go out to eat; then I would be dropped off at home where I lived a far different reality than what I heard talked about in church.
Returning to my home it was not uncommon to find my father intoxicated and my mother crying. My father was often very physically abusive toward my mother and me; he would take out his anger and rage from his stress-filled job on us. Most of my early childhood memories involve beatings, trips to the hospital, and numerous occasions of my mother packing and both of us leaving only to have us return hours or days later to endure the same abuse in some sort of insane cyclical pattern.
My thoughts would often wander to the message that was spoken at my grandparent’s church, and even as a young man I could not help but feel that the message of a kind, caring and compassionate God was something for other people, not me. This was simply the norm for me growing up, through elementary school and junior high. I lived in a household where I held my breath coming home, entering the door to see what I would find. “Be seen and not heard” was my imposed mantra as any words or mistimed actions would often lead to physical punishment for me or my mother.
This pattern continued for many years but one day something happened to break the cycle. When I was in eighth grade I can clearly remember getting a call to go to the principal’s office. This was not uncommon, lest the reader think too compassionately upon me, as I often found myself getting into trouble as a younger man. Through my rebellion of my home circumstances I would regularly skip school or classes, get involved with the “wrong crowd,” and experiment in drinking and marijuana use – you name it, I probably got caught doing it.
So heading to the principal’s office that day my only thoughts were of how severely punished I would be for getting caught in whatever I had done. Approaching the office that day and seeing the two guidance counselors, my grandparent’s pastor, a few police officers, my mom and the principal my heart sunk—I knew I was really in for it. Desperately searching my mind for what I had done, for what possible thing that I did that would warrant such an gathering of people, I was in for a surprise. They began to explain to me that earlier in the day my father had been shot and killed in a drug raid.
I can remember sitting in that chair and looking at my mom with a smile beginning to creep across my lips as this new reality began to set in. To others the reaction might have seemed strange, but to me through this death was newfound freedom that had been granted to my mother and me. We no longer had to face the reality of abuse and torture that we endured. Even in this time where God and church seemed to be a place of make believe and fantasy I could not help but join in with prayer that the pastor offered, one of a new reality and the promise of God not to leave or forsake us. In my childlike mind I truly believed that God had taken my father’s life to spare us the hurt and suffering that we endured for so many years.
I was free, or so I thought…