If you’ve been following me for any length of time now, you probably know that I’m a Maryland girl through and through. What you might not know, though, is that my roots are actually a bit North of the Old Line State and are planted deep in New Jersey. Yes, my mother is a Jersey girl, through and through. Along with those Jersey roots come a healthy love for cheesesteaks, the “shore,” and a slight “live with your dukes up” attitude.
So much so that my favorite childhood story involves the time she taught my brother how to throw a punch. Stick around, it’s a good one…
My brother was a big kid. He stood head and shoulders above everyone his age and was eye to eye with the older kids. But he never really realized this. He was a gentle giant, much more likely to cry with compassion or injury than to walk through life owning his size. I’m not going to say he was weak. I’m just going to say he was soft. In, like, the best way possible. But like boys are wont to do, one of the neighborhood bullies picked up on this softness like a shark smelling blood and challenged my brother to a fight at the bus stop.
Imagine this as a scene from a John Hughes movie and you’ve got the right setting and tone.
I’m not sure if this even happens anymore, at least it hasn’t yet to my kids, but back in the day (meaning the 80’s when childhood was a little more free and a lot more awesome) we had a bus stop at the top of our street that was the designated fight stop. And boys actually fought back then. There was no parent intervention. There was no “my mom is going to text your mom and we’re going to talk about this rationally.” Nope. There was “let’s meet at the bus stop and duke this out like men.”
And that was it.
Except this challenge scared the living daylights out of my brother. I’m not sure he felt “like a man” at this point. In fact, I’d venture to guess he didn’t even realize that he was the same size as this kid. He was still suffering under the childhood misconception that age>size and didn’t quite understand that he could go toe to toe with this older boy and hold his own. He was terrified to get his butt kicked.
So my mom did what any good old Jersey mom would do. Well, first, she approached my dad and asked him to step in. Keep in mind, once again, this was the 80’s and by stepping in she did not mean talk with the bully’s dad and work it all out. What she meant was “go downstairs and teach your son how to throw a punch.” This was no “Kumbaya” conversation, y’all.
But my dad, having spent the first half of his life in bar fights and conflict, was a pacifist at this point (#truestory) and he refused. I distinctly remember him saying, like a sage old philosopher, that nothing good ever comes of fighting and he would not, under any circumstances, play the part of Micky to my brother’s Rocky.
**If you don’t get this reference stop RIGHT NOW and go watch Rocky because you are missing out on about 1 million relevant pop culture references and I’m sad for you**
So my mom, in all of her Jersey rage and angst, took my giant of a brother downstairs and taught him, in the only way she knew how, how to fight back against the bus stop bully. She knew on some level (let’s call this level “Jersey street smarts”) he had to fight, he couldn’t avoid it forever and somehow, someway, this was a rite of passage for him. He had to go through this; he had to stand up for himself and fight. It was the only way for him, and she knew this.
Y’all….my MOM, all 5 foot 6 inches and 100 nothing pounds, taught my brother how to fight. Let this sink in. It’s hysterical.
I’m only remembering this in technicolor right now because, lately, in my own life I feel like I’ve been facing bus stop bully after bus stop bully. I feel like we’ve been under attack, with both little and big things going wrong and falling apart and, this last time, hitting us in right in the face.
Literally.
This last time when my son ended up in the ER with a severe concussion and major facial trauma from an accident that probably could have been prevented. An accident, yes, but one with legs and roots that are hard for this battle-weary mom to swallow.
And I just don’t know the line, y’all. I don’t know the line between Grace and New Jersey. Grace tells us to turn the other cheek. New Jersey tells us to stand up for ourselves. Grace, the gift bestowed upon me in all of my sin and shame that I DO NOT deserve, tells me to forgive not once, not twice, but, like, forever.
New Jersey tells me to put my dukes up and fight for my kid.
This delicate line is hard for me to walk right now. It’s swallowing me up whole and spitting me out in pieces. The normal me, not the one wallowing in my own self-pity and drowning in a sea of “whys”, is much more like my father, inclined to peace and people-pleasing at all costs. I see grace and know that’s how I want to live, how I have to live. Yet the Jersey in me is spitting mad.
How do we walk this line of grace when things aren’t going well and we are rightfully filled with indignation and anger? When is it our battle to fight and when is it time to lay down our arms and give grace, sweet sweet grace, even when it’s undeserved?
I don’t know the answer. I really don’t. I have every right to be furious right now. I can nurture this anger and take it on down to the basement and prepare it for a fight. I can teach it to throw a punch and knock out the bully. I would not be wrong, I promise you. It takes just one look at my son’s face and a few seconds of backstory to see.
But my heart knows I wouldn’t be right, either.
GRACE always wins, friends. Grace means taking the gloves off and coming out of the basement. It’s not very nice down there, anyway. Grace knows that the fight will leave me with scars and wounds, too, even if I win. Fighting this fight and nurturing this anger will leave me with bitterness and resentment that will cost more than the victory is worth.
And this is where the darkness sits.
Grace is costly. It’s not free. Yet it purchases us space and light to breathe. I can live with grace because it tells me that not every fight is mine to win. It’s not losing to walk away and extend a hand of peace. It’s winning. Grace values the state of our hearts more than it values the moral right or wrong. It’s beyond that, it’s above it.
Grace is always the bravest choice.
It’s braver than putting up your dukes. It’s braver than meeting at the bus stop. It’s braver than living bitter and resentful and righteously indignant. It’s braver and it’s harder and it’s a choice, minute by minute, day by day.
Just in case you’re wondering, my brother won the fight. He took a few swings and knocked the bully to the ground. In my mind, it was a very dramatic scene with fists flying and blood flowing, but I really don’t think it was. Nevertheless, he won this bus stop battle and GET THIS, he was NEVER challenged again. By any bully. At any bus stop.
Isn’t it funny how life works that way sometimes?
But that might not be how this story ends. My battles might not be over and a few more things might go wrong before they go right. I know this. Yet I’m still learning to walk this line and trying to let grace wrap its arms of comfort around my weary heart. I’m leaning into this choice and praying for grace minute by minute, hour by hour.
We’re never given the full script to the play of our lives. We’re just thrown into the scene like we’re on the set of Saturday Night Live but somehow missed rehearsals. But we know the Director, right? We trust Him. He calls us to grace and He has us in His hands. We might be in battle, but He’s with us too. And I rest in that. I rest in Him. He’s a Good, Good Father that way.
This I know.
Welcome to BurntToast! My name is Meaghan, and this is my safe space, a place where we can share stories, share recipes and share life. It’s my dream that you can come here, kick your shoes off and pour yourself a glass of wine while you read, laugh, and maybe even hop into the kitchen. This is my heart, for all of you to see. And ALL are welcome here.