Because of Dad's job, we moved around a lot when I was growing up -- every 2-1/2 years on average. I believe it was 1955 when we moved from Sacramento to a new subdivision in Larkspur, a sleepy little town in Marin County, a few miles north of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. In the years since then, Marin County has become known as home for the "rich and famous." One of its residents is filmmaker George Lucas, creator of the Star Wars films. His Skywalker Ranch occupies almost 5,000 acres. When we bought our house Dad thinks it may have cost about $15,000. A few years ago I was shocked to discover that the market value of that little 3-bedroom house was a little more than $1 million.
A few blocks away from our home was a large swampy area full of reeds and cat-tails, an offshoot of San Francisco Bay. It became a favorite after-school playground where my friends and I would catch tadpoles and stickleback fish. Behind the homes that bordered the swamp was an area containing large mounds of dirt up to five or six feet high. They'd been dumped there when the land had been cleared for the new subdivision. It was among those mounds that I learned the painful reality of that old saying about "sticks and stones."
It happened one afternoon as I was playing around those dirt mounds with George, one of my 4th-grade classmates, and a girl who lived in the neighborhood. Trouble began when George disappeared behind one of the mounds and got the not-so-bright idea of tossing rocks in the direction of the girl and me. We called out for him to stop, but the barrage continued.
The mound was so high we couldn't see him in the act of throwing -- so we had to keep a sharp eye out for rocks headed our way, ducking when they got too close. Suddenly one rock seemed to come out of nowhere -- I sensed it coming, but the girl did not. It was about 2 inches in diameter, and it hit her in the head, just behind the ear. I will never forget the sound as it hit her skull. Blood immediately poured from the wound, and she screamed in pain. The blow left her dizzy, barely able to stand up. George quickly came to see what had happened. We were afraid she was going to pass out, so with the two of us as supports on each side, we walked her back home.
Before we even reached the house, her daughter's loud weeping brought the mother running out the door. She took her daughter into her arms, and when George was identified as the one who'd caused the injury, he received a severe tongue-lashing.
I often reflect on that experience when I read in the New Testament about Stephen, a devout follower of Christ who was sentenced to death by stoning for his testifying of the Savior (see Acts 7). That day, among the dirt mounds, I had seen and heard the pain and suffering caused by just a single stone. I couldn't imagine the pain suffered by Stephen, hit by countless stones of all sizes, striking him all over his body. A horrible way for anyone to die.
And so it was that in Larkspur I learned that physical stones can inflict a lot of pain. But there was another lesson frm Larkspur. I learned that the unkind words we hurl at others can hurt just as much as real stones.
We rode a school bus to the Larkspur-Corte Madera School. As I indicated earlier, we lived in a subdivision of new homes, and practically all the kids who rode that bus were from the middle-class homes in the neighborhood. But the bus had a few remaining stops -- at some older homes where the families weren't so well off.
At one of those stops three children boarded the bus. They came from one of those poorer families. They didn't dress as nicely as the rest of us and sometimes weren't as well-groomed. I hated to see the look on their faces as they boarded the bus -- there was dread in their eyes because every day they had to face the taunts and jeers of a few mean boys who said things like, "You can't sit by me!" or "Don't touch me -- you've got cooties!" Can you imagine how those children must have felt as they waited for the bus each day, knowing the verbal torture they had to face? One of the three, a boy, was in my 4th-grade class. I cannot count the number of times I wish I'd had the courage to stand up for him.
There was another boy on that bus. He was a year or two older than I -- nice-looking and rather quiet. He, too, was a target for those mean bullies. Why? Because his ears stuck out. Every time he got on the bus he was greeted with the cruel words, "Hey Dumbo!"
On the way home from school one day I was sitting in the front seat on the right-hand side. I was within touching distance of everyone as they got off the bus. When we arrived at this boy's stop, he began going down the stairs. On impulse -- because I wanted to get a laugh from the others or be "one of the guys" -- I said to him as he went down the stairs, " G'bye Dumbo."
He didn't say a word, but I saw pain in his eyes -- they seemed to be asking, "What did I ever do to you to deserve such a cruel comment?" And I knew the answer: "Nothing -- absolutely nothing." That is one of the most painful memories of my childhood, causing many tears of regret. I pray you will not be as unwise and uncaring as I was.
A few blocks away from our home was a large swampy area full of reeds and cat-tails, an offshoot of San Francisco Bay. It became a favorite after-school playground where my friends and I would catch tadpoles and stickleback fish. Behind the homes that bordered the swamp was an area containing large mounds of dirt up to five or six feet high. They'd been dumped there when the land had been cleared for the new subdivision. It was among those mounds that I learned the painful reality of that old saying about "sticks and stones."
It happened one afternoon as I was playing around those dirt mounds with George, one of my 4th-grade classmates, and a girl who lived in the neighborhood. Trouble began when George disappeared behind one of the mounds and got the not-so-bright idea of tossing rocks in the direction of the girl and me. We called out for him to stop, but the barrage continued.
The mound was so high we couldn't see him in the act of throwing -- so we had to keep a sharp eye out for rocks headed our way, ducking when they got too close. Suddenly one rock seemed to come out of nowhere -- I sensed it coming, but the girl did not. It was about 2 inches in diameter, and it hit her in the head, just behind the ear. I will never forget the sound as it hit her skull. Blood immediately poured from the wound, and she screamed in pain. The blow left her dizzy, barely able to stand up. George quickly came to see what had happened. We were afraid she was going to pass out, so with the two of us as supports on each side, we walked her back home.
Before we even reached the house, her daughter's loud weeping brought the mother running out the door. She took her daughter into her arms, and when George was identified as the one who'd caused the injury, he received a severe tongue-lashing.
I often reflect on that experience when I read in the New Testament about Stephen, a devout follower of Christ who was sentenced to death by stoning for his testifying of the Savior (see Acts 7). That day, among the dirt mounds, I had seen and heard the pain and suffering caused by just a single stone. I couldn't imagine the pain suffered by Stephen, hit by countless stones of all sizes, striking him all over his body. A horrible way for anyone to die.
And so it was that in Larkspur I learned that physical stones can inflict a lot of pain. But there was another lesson frm Larkspur. I learned that the unkind words we hurl at others can hurt just as much as real stones.
We rode a school bus to the Larkspur-Corte Madera School. As I indicated earlier, we lived in a subdivision of new homes, and practically all the kids who rode that bus were from the middle-class homes in the neighborhood. But the bus had a few remaining stops -- at some older homes where the families weren't so well off.
At one of those stops three children boarded the bus. They came from one of those poorer families. They didn't dress as nicely as the rest of us and sometimes weren't as well-groomed. I hated to see the look on their faces as they boarded the bus -- there was dread in their eyes because every day they had to face the taunts and jeers of a few mean boys who said things like, "You can't sit by me!" or "Don't touch me -- you've got cooties!" Can you imagine how those children must have felt as they waited for the bus each day, knowing the verbal torture they had to face? One of the three, a boy, was in my 4th-grade class. I cannot count the number of times I wish I'd had the courage to stand up for him.
There was another boy on that bus. He was a year or two older than I -- nice-looking and rather quiet. He, too, was a target for those mean bullies. Why? Because his ears stuck out. Every time he got on the bus he was greeted with the cruel words, "Hey Dumbo!"
On the way home from school one day I was sitting in the front seat on the right-hand side. I was within touching distance of everyone as they got off the bus. When we arrived at this boy's stop, he began going down the stairs. On impulse -- because I wanted to get a laugh from the others or be "one of the guys" -- I said to him as he went down the stairs, " G'bye Dumbo."
He didn't say a word, but I saw pain in his eyes -- they seemed to be asking, "What did I ever do to you to deserve such a cruel comment?" And I knew the answer: "Nothing -- absolutely nothing." That is one of the most painful memories of my childhood, causing many tears of regret. I pray you will not be as unwise and uncaring as I was.
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