How Silencing the Lies of Our Past Helps Free Us

“How about a hand for the winning team over here!” I yelled above the zipping backpacks and moving desks,

Students clapped politely, and with five minutes left in class, the review games were over. Christmas vacation was a few exam days away.

“Are there any more questions about the exam?” One hand popped up. “Yes Kyle.”

A blonde-haired kid in the back had a furrowed brow. He was a wild card. One comment from him could either bring depth or deflate an entire discussion.

This time, he had no filter.

“How can we get motivated for this exam if you take forever to enter grades.” He wasn’t smiling.

All eyes shifted to me. The sounds of zippers and side conversations ceased.

Let me pause to say that the phrase “never let them see you sweat” is especially true for teachers. There are days I feel like a minnow in a shark tank, when one tremulous ripple of fear could create a wild frenzy. Students have cussed at me, threatened to kill me, and one kid threw his body against the door to keep me from calling his mom, but as strange as it might seem, none of that got to me like Kyle’s words.

I paused, took a breath, and responded.

“Kyle, I spend 20 minutes on every essay,” I said, gritting my teeth.  “If you multiply that by 150, it equals a lot of time. I do that because I care about you, but I also have 3 kids, exams to create, and lesson plans to write. I’ll enter grades, but you—you should be motivated regardless.”

I was mad.  Everyone, including me, wanted to leave, and the bell rang. It was the last class before exams and a horrible way to end.

But what made that moment even worse was a lie in my heart that started in 7^th grade.

The memory of that junior high year—so full of acne and painful rejection—still haunts me. The only solace I could find was in locker decorations. I found a great picture of John Elway holding his helmet and smiling, so I taped him with pride in my skinny metal home. 

I was happy, but storms were brewing.

One day Mr. Elway wasn’t holding his helmet; he was holding his head. Some snickering 9th graders, twice my height and weight, gave themselves away. I did nothing, and the boys, grown men to me, loved watching me wallow in weakness.

A few days later, reaching up for my math book, I felt the awful closeness of those same snickering 9th graders. “Hey buddy. What’s up?” one asked.

Another walked up behind me, and I was stuck. Arms wrapped around my chest, and someone grabbed my feet. They lifted me in the air, and then the room was spinning. The one holding my feet was the hub, and I was the spinning spoke of the wheel. The laughter and gasps proved there was a crowd.

I felt all alone.

Change fell from my pocket, the “hub’s” girlfriend smiled awkwardly, and then my spinning ride came to an end on the hallway floor.

Hot shame pulsed through my body while the crowd watched me scramble to my feet. And a lie was etched on my 7th grade heart: “You’re too weak to be an effective leader.”  Any sense of strength flickering in my adolescent body was extinguished by that lie.

This lie still finds its way to the surface of my heart even as an adult.

Thirty years later, I drove home; Kyle’s words hung over me like a dark cloud. The house was empty, and I was a 42-year-old man dealing with a 7th grader’s insecurity still lingering inside.

Dropping my keys on the counter, I collapsed onto a bar stool. Deb and the kids had gotten out our Christmas decorations to do repairs.

Wise men and shepherds looked at me, some chipped and some with broken pieces next to them.

I felt like that Nativity set, chipped and broken.

But in the quiet, as I picked up the glue and worked at repairing the shepherd’s face, God was doing something. A subtle foreshadowing was taking place. I held symbols of God’s entrance into our world, of the moment in time when He became Emmanuel, God with us, and with each dab of glue, He was speaking truth.

The Author was writing a beautiful page in my story, and He was helping me see it.

When my family arrived, we ate dinner, and then I headed back to school to finish an exam. Stepping out of my car, I looked up at the stars and prayed, “Lord, I can’t resolve what I’m feeling. You need to do it.”  My heart was broken. There were pieces laying around me, and I had no idea how to glue them back. I slipped on some headphones, staring at my computer, and got lost in music and multiple-choice questions.

About an hour into it, in the midst of processing Kyle’s words and whether or not to include one more grammar question, Jadon Lavik’s version of This is My Father’s World started to play.

It was God’s glue!

Truth broke through every word: “This is my Father’s world. And let me ne’er forget that though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.”

A thought came to mind.  Whose world is it, Kyle’s or God’s? If I was really living in my Father’s world, it’s His voice, not Kyle’s, that has authority to speak into my life.

The One who “conveniently” placed those ceramic figures in front of me sent His son to pick up my broken pieces.

He called out strength from deep in my heart and silenced the power of a lie. The tears came. Test-making had ceased, and I was wrapped up in the arms of a God who I knew loved me. He had done what I told Him only He could do.

Like the shepherds and wise men on my counter, I had been pieced back together, and I left my office that night healed.

Erin Ahnfeldt has the great privilege of discussing authors and stories with 140 teenagers in his English classes.  He’s also a storyteller who loves writing about the evidence of God’s creative handiwork in the pages of our lives.  If you are interested in receiving his honest stories of hope in a public-school classroom, please click here.