Clearing the Fog

I made it to the gate of the primary school.

So far, so good!

I quickly examined my uniform.

Everything is in order.

There was nothing I could see that would prompt the first graders to be mean to me.

Let's hope I'm right; heaven knows I've been wrong before. Sigh!

"Courage, Lou!" I muttered under my breath. I forced my feet to walk onward and plastered on a smile in an attempt to undo the worry lines which have creased my forehead ever since I started school. 

I was early -- the first one to arrive.

Yes!

I met the teacher.

What a gracious lady!

Things were beginning to look quite rosy for me.

This is good.

Then . . .

. . . other children started coming in en masse and, soon, the classroom was full. Upon quickly surveying my new classmates, loud and irregular thumps replaced my regular heart beats. They seemed bigger and older than the kindergarteners.

Uh, . . . anybody could've told you that, Lou. 
They seem bigger and older because they actually are.


 My palms began to sweat and my body was shaking. Would they be mean to someone younger than they? Would they befriend me?
I was nervous!

The teacher introduced me to the class. She explained how I spent only the first trimester in kindergarten before I was admitted to first grade. She expressed that it was an honor for her to have me in first grade. She proceeded to say how gifted I was and that a bright intellectual future awaited me. She went on and on in laudatory comments about me, scarcely knowing that she was digging my grave.

Well, they were mean to me. I was called atrocious names which need not be repeated. Ever. I was so despised during the 6-month span I endured with the first graders that I never became close to any of them. As a result, I developed this morose, melancholy inclination that further separated me from the world around me.  I kept myself busy doing things that would take my mind off of my troubles.

I devoured books.
I learned as many songs as was humanly possible.
I memorized poems.
I requested more chores.

But, I did not confide in anyone. I erroneously convinced myself that no one could ever understand. Worse yet, I refrained from going to the Source of all comfort.

I stopped praying.
I stopped paying attention to God's Word.
I stopped reading the Bible altogether.

No wonder life was so miserable back then. I did not understand the necessity of prayer for each impasse I faced. I did not appreciate the value of God's command for me to pray, to read and heed His Word. I did not realize that a prayerless life -- a life devoid of biblical meditation -- leaves a Christ-follower vulnerable, powerless, weak, harried, hassled, and demoralized. I did not see that my failure to stay close to God was the very thing that hindered me from seeing His hand at work even in the midst of my problems.

It wasn't until the summer following my stint in first grade that my mind was, once again, renewed by God. It was then that a new path was paved before me.

And I walked in it.

Dear Father, grant that I will not shy away from following You completely. Your way is always the right one. Your way invites me to cling to You, to remain connected through prayer and the reading of Your Word. Remind me that You cherish my prayers and that You keep them in precious bowls in heaven (Revelation 5:8) as a fragrant aroma to Your nostrils. Infuse my mind with an increasing fullness of Your Word so that nothing will hinder me from knowing Your will, Your priorities, and Your direction. Teach me Your way and I will walk in Your truth. Amen!

O Sleep, Why Dost Thou Leave Me?

"I will lie down and sleep in peace,

for You alone, O Lord,

make me dwell in safety."

Psalm 4:8, NIV

I went to bed.
I waited.
I tossed and turned.
Again, I waited.
I shut my eyes, inhaled, and slowly exhaled,
. . . and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . .

Despite all the waiting, tossing, and turning, I simply did not sleep a wink that night. Sleep fled the scene because apprehension and concern overwhelmed my senses.

I slid out of bed when, at long last, Manmie lit the kerosene lamp signifying thereby the time for our family devotion had arrived. On that windy morning in January of 1981, the whole family gathered, singing and praying and reading God's Word together. Try as I may, the exact songs and readings have long slipped out of my memory bank. However, the emotion that gripped my heart is as palpable now as it was then.

Fear.

Long after the final Amen was uttered and my siblings had vacated the middle room of our small house, I sat erect and motionless on my chair, dreading the day that lay ahead of me. Manmie, who stayed behind to talk to me, took my face in her cool hands.

"Sa w genyen, ti Lou?" (What's the matter, dear Lou?)

"Do I really have to start first grade today, Manmie?"

"Yes," said she with great tenderness and admiration. "Papi and I are so proud of you!"

I could not bear to receive her compliments right then. So, I clumsily expressed, "I'm afraid, Manmie. I'm afraid the first graders won't like me. I'm afraid they'll call me names and bully me."

"What do you mean, Lou? What names?"

Her questions made me realize I still had not talked to my parents about the bullying and tormenting I endured at school. Deep down, I really wanted to recount to her the horrid tales of my unfortunate young life outside my home. I was dying to reveal to her the terrible aching of my crushed heart and depressed spirit. Nonetheless, I was too afraid to share the intimate notions of my inner self. I made up my mind to lie my way out of that hole. And I did lie, unfortunately, though I cannot remember what fanciful whims I fabricated that morning.

My decision to skirt around the issue was primarily due to my coming face to face with another emotion that had just firmly gotten hold of my heart.

Shame.

For the first time, I realized utter shame coursed through my veins. Barely six years old, shame over my inability to simply tell the truth to my parents had already taken center stage in the drama of my life. I was ashamed of "whatever it was" that inspired the students to bully me. I was ashamed of my uncanny ability to keep those closest to me in the dark regarding the cancer that was ravaging my soul.

Though I knew it not, the deep shame nursed within added yet another emotion to my repertoire.

Loneliness.

I felt lonely.
I felt sickeningly lonely.
I was not alone, but I was lonely in my heart.
I had loving parents, loving siblings, and loving relatives, but I could not get myself to talk to them about my emotions.
I simply did not know how to let them in.
Though what I wanted most was to be known, it was much too vulnerable a choice for me to make.

So, laden with fear, shame, and loneliness, I headed out to L'Ecole Primaire Mixte Bethanie and braced myself for my future in First Grade.

Father, it needed not be that dreadful because You were always there with me. You provided everything I needed but I was so blinded by my fear, shame, and loneliness I failed to look up to Your light placed in front of me to guide my steps. Please strengthen and illumine all Your followers so we will choose faith over fear, Your righteousness over our shame, and Your intimacy over our loneliness. May this follower rejoice in You daily because of the transformation he has been undergoing on this journey of faith! 

Something New

"I am the Lord; that is my name!

I will not give my glory to another or my praise to idols.

See, the former things have taken place,

and new things I declare;

before they spring into being I announce them to you."

Isaiah 42:8-9, NIV

The above verses were too profound for the brain of a 6-year old boy but, in hindsight, they brought great clarity to an event that took place in my life on December 18, 1980. That morning, all students attending L'Ecole Primaire Mixte Bethanie gathered on the school playground for the crowning event of the trimester -- le jour du carnet.

Privacy not being a real option when I was growing up in Haiti, le jour du carnet was known as the day when whoever wished to attend the event could hear school principals read out loud the full content of each student's report card.

Let that sink in . . .

On such a day, not only did those in attendance find out whether or not a student passed or failed a class, they also became privy to the student's exact scores for academics, attitude, and aptitude. It often glorified the brilliant students and humiliated others who did not perform as well.

As a kindergartener who already knew how to read before attending school, I was not very worried about my academic standing. However, I was quite uncomfortable with the idea of everyone knowing the minutiae of my report card.

I became quite worried when, after reading the names of all the kindergarteners, the principal stopped. It was clear to all present my name was not mentioned. What could this mean? Did my parents owe money? Did I not pass the trimester?

Then, he looked at me, with a big smile on his face, and loudly proclaimed:

"LOUIMA LILITE. Admis en 1ere annee!" (LOUIMA LILITE -- Admitted to First Grade)

What? What could be the meaning of this?

After three months in Kindergarten, the teacher felt I had already acquired all I needed to learn in kindergarten and it would be a waste of time and money for me to finish the year. So, I was to start the second trimester (January-March) in First Grade. 

"Felicitations!" He congratulated me and shook my hand.

Once again, all eyes were on me. Everyone looked proud of me. They seemed excited about my achievements. Yet all I could get myself to think about was the crumbling of this idolatrous shrine I had erected through my singing, good attitude, and charm. Human approval or praise was so important to me I was deathly afraid of the unknown -- the fear of starting school all over again with a new teacher, a new curriculum, a new group of kids, a new set of unknowns. All I could feel was a sense of loss -- losing the familiarity of my kindergarten teacher, losing the hard-earned acceptance of the other kindergarteners, losing the sense of belonging I had grown to associate with my classmates. 

I felt like I was picked unripe from the vine. 

Little did I know then the path of faith is not one of ease or cheap comfort. God loved me too much to let me rot in a comfortable environment. Had I stayed there, I would have been content to rely on my own idols -- my voice, my academics, my attitude, or my aptitude. Gratefully, God wanted me to experience new relationships, to face new trials, to pass new tests, and to overcome new temptations. After all, He knew I would never grow without the hard things that were awaiting me through the first graders of that year.

I could not have written a better scenario. 

Yes, God's hand is always best!

Thank You for Your gracious and loving hand, O Father, which but opens and readily prunes the unnecessary attachments of our lives to make room for new growth. As I continue on my journey, help me to embrace each surprise, each bump on the road, or each detour with joy and faith because it is a new thing You declare. May this follower always see You have newness awaiting him in the unknown! Amen. 

The "Restavek" Next Door

A few days before December of 1980, I was almost home from school when some activity in the house next door captivated me. It sounded as though our neighbors, who were childless for a long time, were talking to a young person. I stopped and listened for a bit. Sure enough, the voice of a girl wafted from inside their house to my ear.

Huh! Could it be they have finally adopted a child?

My mind started going seventy miles an hour. I had been longing for a close friend for a long time and, all of a sudden, there was someone right next door with whom I could talk and play. I quickly raced inside my own house to share the news with my family.

Well, I waited all afternoon to catch a glimpse of her -- to no avail.

Early the next morning, which was a Saturday, I quickly got dressed and started keeping watch by the window which faced the neighbor's house. At long last, I saw her.

Her sight surprised me.

She seemed to be 12 or 13. Her hair was extremely short, tightly curled like pre-ground pepper. Her eyes seemed penetrating and careful. It was barely 8 o'clock in the morning yet her forehead was singularly dotted with sweat drops. Her lips looked parched. Her dress, dingy and dirty, was a forlorn and washed out green that had seen better days. She was bow-legged and her shoes -- if one could give them that name -- were falling apart, revealing mud-caked feet.

As repulsion invaded my heart and eyes, she looked up and spotted my looking at her from the window. Her lips parted in a smile which revealed yellowish teeth with signs of gingivitis.

A quick bonjou (Good morning!) was all I managed to croak out of my throat. She replied with a friendliness, an exuberance, and a joie de vivre that truly shook me to the core.

How could a girl like her exude so much joy?
How could she be so accepting of me?
How could her appearance not affect her self-worth?

A conversation with Manmie soon informed me the girl next door is a Restavek. A creole word that literally translates into "stay with," Restavek is a fancy name for what one would call a modern slave. Households that have a restavek enjoy the benefits of house cleaning, floor and yard sweeping, cooking, washing, water fetching, grocery shopping, and so much more -- all for the price of nada. What is even worse is that a restavek often goes without a meal, affection, or recognition. A restavek is often considered the scum of Haitian society.

All of that sank into my 6-year old brain and I realized, with all the rejection and ridicule I had endured, this girl and I had a lot in common.

We soon became fast friends. When her services were not needed at night, she and I would often sit in the alley shared between our two houses. She told me story after story, sang with me, and comforted me with her encouraging words. She was one of the wisest voices that entered my young brain.

And I loved her.

And I learned much from her. She taught me it is often the rejected, the ridiculed, the oppressed, the dejected who most understand compassion and love. She persuaded me to keep room in my heart for inner strength and patient forgiveness to develop. She helped me realize those who are heavily mistreated can only survive if they cling to a deep faith in their hearts because that is all they have. She painted suffering in a new way and presented adversity in a new light -- they represent the journey that takes us to a place where full joy resides.

Wow! Such powerful truths!

God used the uneducated one to offer instruction to my young learned brain.
God employed the dirty one to tender the scouring and cleansing of my prejudices.
God led the enslaved one to point me to freedom from the snares of real and perceived offenses.

The choice was clear.

I chose to listen to her even when others felt it was degrading for me to spend time with a restavek. I chose to listen and learn. I chose to enter her world of humiliation in order to experience the love that is available through humility. I chose to follow the path of faith.

I thank You, dear Master, for the Restavek next door. Thank You for bringing her into my life to teach me the beauty of compassion, acceptance, and love. Thank You for showing me all the tests and trials of life come my way out of Your deepest love and desire to strengthen, mature, and complete me. May I follow You in every circumstance! Amen.

Missing Papi

"As the deer pants for streams of water

so my soul longs after You, O God."

Psalm 42:1, NIV

In November of 1980, my siblings and I were talking in the gallerie (the front porch) of our small house when the topic changed to a single word:

Papi. 

I heavily sighed, "I miss Papi."

That sentiment was echoed by all of us. We all wished he could have been home at that very moment. We all wished he could have laughed and hung out with us on that exact day.

Yet, the truth was, Papi was not home that day. In fact, he was not home all that often during those early years of my life because he was chosen as a missionary by UEBH (Union of Evangelical Baptists of Haiti) to take the good news of Christ to a remote, mountainous village in northern Haiti known as Bas-Molas.

Bas-Molas was then characterized by a rocky landscape, a creek named Mazanbek, serpentine trails for walking, a strong voodoo presence, no roads for vehicle transportation, no electricity, no running water, no civilization. When Papi had first set foot in that area six years earlier, he found most everyone there either uneducated, poor, or dirty. He eventually opened a primary school, planted a church, and counseled families in crisis. All of the above services and more were rendered; in return, he was given the miniscule remunition of $30 a month.

The people of Bas-Molas came to love Papi a great deal because he was much more than a missionary to them. He was a friend, pastor, teacher, counselor, employer, disciplinarian, provider, confidant -- he was everything that pointed them to Christ, the Source of all comfort.

For us, his family, we certainly viewed Bas-Molas as a huge blessing because it provided Papi with ample opportunities to work in the fields -- gardening and farming -- in order to supplement what his meager income could not supply.

So, Papi lived away from the family for the greater part of a month and would come see us about once a month. His visits consisted of bringing food and charcoal for our survival in Port-au-Prince, hugging and kissing his children, spending time with Manmie, and encouraging us with God's Word.

There were also moments I dreaded about his visits -- like the tough disciplinary issues Manmie would, on rare occasions, wait until Papi came home to address with me. Wanting to raise the perfect little boy, he would be unmistakably stern and strict with me. And I, not wanting to disappoint him in any way, was often terrified I would mess up. There were also the times when I needed to ask for money (begging is not my forte) or the times when he was genuinely busy -- reading his Bible or working on a sermon.

For the most part, however, it was the "missing" that characterized our relationship.

I missed him.
I missed seeing him.
I missed hearing him sing.
I missed watching him kiss Manmie.
I missed receiving his words of advice to my older siblings.

I missed not being able to share my hurts, fears, doubts, concerns, wishes, and dreams with him. I missed his hand rumpling my hair, his rough fingers touching my face, his deep voice talking and singing to me, his stubbly face prickling my lips when saying good night, his words of approval spurring me on, and his not being there for hoped-for father and son events.

I missed him.
I longed for his presence.
I desired to have his guidance.

I wanted to have the tangible joys that result from having direct access to a caring yet earthly dad. But, in the end, he was earthly; he couldn't be in two places at once. Though I did not realize it then, I was really looking for God. In Papi, I was seeking the Father in whom are housed all that I will ever need as a beloved son. Only the God of heaven is omnipresent, omnibenevolent, omnipotent, and omniscient. He alone is the Father who can fulfill and satisfy me completely!

Heavenly Father, thank You for drawing me to You through the absence of my earthly father in my early childhood. Draw this follower, this child of Yours closer to You each and every day!

I Have A Voice? Or, Is It A Void?

“In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice . . .”

Psalm 5:3a

“I will sing and make music to the Lord.”

Psalm 27:6b

I grew up in a musical family.
Manmie and Papi sang to us all the time.
My siblings and I sang as we worked on chores.
Singing was no more special than reading out loud or poetry reading.
It was simply one of many activities we did together like laughing, storytelling, and playing.

Well, at the beginning of my third week at L'Ecole Primaire Mixte Bethanie, my singing voice was discovered and singled out. There was to be a special Christmas program at the end of the trimester (October-December) and the kids in my class -- prompted by our teacher who was secretly auditioning us -- took turns singing one stanza from Il est né le divin enfant ("He Is Born the Holy Child”). Had it been announced as an audition, I probably would have kept quiet, so intense was my desire to remain invisible and unnoticed. Under the circumstances, I had no choice but to comply since refusing would have brought more eyes on me than I could have handled.

So, I sighed a quick Help me, Lord!, took a breath, and sang -- painstakingly fixing my eyes on the words in front of me. I dared not look up after finishing the stanza because I was afraid that I had, once again, embarrassed myself in front of my peers. I braced myself for the hysterical laughter that had, up to that point, met everything I did at school.

Silence!

The teacher said nothing.
The students stopped fidgeting.
There was no sound around me -- nothing.

I slowly looked up and all eyes were on me. There was this awed sense of wonder in the classroom as I looked around and saw a different, a new kind of expression on the faces of the other children. Then and there, I could tell my voice had miraculously cracked the shell of superiority in which they had heretofore cocooned themselves.

I looked at the teacher with pleading eyes, begging her to end the tense silence.

"Ou gen yon bèl vwa, ti gason!," said she in Haitian Creole, which meant, "You have a beautiful voice, little boy!"

Her breaking into Haitian Creole touched me a great deal because it meant that she was so moved by my singing that she forwent the official French language, preferring instead to respond in the language of her heart. That bold choice did not escape the attention of my peers either. They were clearly more accepting of me.

I was grateful.
I passed the test.
I made it into the inner circle.
I was one of the normal kids.

Within three weeks, I had gone from being trash to becoming treasure in the eyes of my classmates. The empowerment I experienced through the discovery of my singing voice was euphoric; it was like a drug to my system.

I sang.
I sang constantly.
I sang to young and old.
I sang until my siblings begged me to stop.

Everyone in the neighborhood came to recognize my voice. They talked to me. They talked to my parents about it. They talked to each other about it. I was noticed but not ridiculed. I was noticed and I was praised.

And I liked it.
I liked it a whole lot.

So, barely six years old, I discovered the thrill of human praise and it grew within me at an alarming rate. I soon found I craved human attention as intensely as I resented the bullying I endured. I felt like I no longer needed God. I suffered through the devotions held at home, went through the motions, but knew there were people who loved me because of my voice. That was enough for me.

Or, was it?

It did not take long for this access to power and recognition afforded me by my voice to become suffocating to me. There I was receiving human praise and feeling important, and yet there was this void inside of me. It dawned on me what I really wanted was real intimacy. It was then, as a mere little boy, this important truth was revealed to me -- all I ever want is to know and to be known.

I was grasping but it was all in the wrong direction.

The more I played the "voice" card, the more empty I became. I came to secretly despise my voice because it did not fulfill the deepest desire of my heart.

O God, how could I have failed to see You were using my voice as a means to show me only You can fill the void within me? As I continue to follow You, grant that I no longer seek to stuff myself with cheap filling. Instead, guide me to desire the fullness of Your presence for the remainder of my days. Amen!

It Takes Just One

“Be strong and courageous.
The Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

Joshua 1:9, NIV

"How was school?"

Manmie greeted me with a warm smile and joyful eyes full of love.

"Oh, it was fine," said I.

As soon as the words fell out of my mouth, I realized I had lied in the presence of God to Manmie and to my own conscience. Yet, somehow, I could not get myself to reveal to my precious mother the day felt like a complete disaster to me. She paused, looked at me, and knew I was hiding something. Surprisingly, she did not press the issue.

For the rest of the day, I kept hoping she would ask me in private. However, sharing a small house with five other siblings left no room for privacy. I finally fell asleep comforting myself with the thought that, perhaps, the scornful treatment I received at school that morning was purely the result of my wild imagination.

I went to school the next day half convinced I had simply imagined the horrible events of the previous day. I took but one step outside of the classroom during recess and harsh reality brought me back to the cruelty of the world outside my home.

Kids were already snickering.
Left and right, heads were turning.
I was to be their choice entertainment.

A moment later, three boys escorted me to the end of the playground. They shoved, teased, and roared with laughter at my flowing but silent tears while the ringleader grabbed my lunch box and ate my peanut butter and pineapple jelly sandwich. Upon finishing the juice I carried, he leaned toward my right ear and released the loudest belching sound known to humanity. The smell of his unwashed body completely overwhelmed my famished system. I begged to be released.

With his most superior tone, he ordered his minions,

"Let the sissy go."

Sissy? I have got to know what that word means, I mentally logged.

To my utter relief, they left and dumped the lunch box on the ground. As I bent over to pick it up, I noticed the presence of other students standing not too far away, seemingly aloof yet terribly interested in what had just taken place. Not one of them lifted a finger to help me.

Carefully, I studied the whole lot of them and spotted one little girl whose eyes registered concern for me.

That was all it took to give me the courage to find hope. There was at least one person who cared. She was not yet brave to speak or lift a finger but she loved me through her eyes of compassion, care, understanding, and mercy.

Indeed, she reminded me of yet another who has always cared, who understands, and who extends mercy . . .

Thank You, Lord, for the lone courageous One who dared to face the atrocities of humanity to save souls. May this follower be, at least, one bright light for those in darkness! Amen.

Rejected and Ridiculed

"They ridiculed me over and over again,

like godless people would do,

grinding their teeth at me."

Ps 35:16, CEB

Summer of 1980

I spent the last few days of the summer vacation in utter bliss. I smiled constantly, giggled often, and enjoyed all the preparations for the upcoming school year -- the first one outside my family's bubble. I felt at peace with God and felt confident that, after the year I spent at home with Manmie, school life was going to be easy, fun, and exciting.

Thoughts of future friends, fun projects, exciting games, and new discoveries flooded my mind. I soon found myself only daydreaming and eagerly anticipating the first day of school.

First Day of School

After praying that God would help me shine for Him, I kissed Manmie goodbye and shouted out that it was going to be a really, really good day at school.

How could I have ever been so mistaken?

Not a soul prepared me for what I faced on that first day of school. The best way I can describe it is this: Alexander and I switched places in Judith Viorst's story Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. The only difference is, I was trapped in Haiti and could not even think of moving to Australia.

The weather was gloomy. Dogs were barking. The pile of refuse seemed a bit larger than before. It was as if everything missed the memo that this was supposed to be an exciting day for me. Nevertheless, I resolutely walked to school sporting a generous grin and eagerly looking for friendly faces on the road . . .

There were none.

At L'Ecole Primaire Mixte Bethanie (the school I was to attend), as if on cue, friendliness took a rain check that morning. Everywhere I looked, numerous pairs of eyes were looking at me as though I had just landed from Mars or the Moon, except it felt more like I was cow dung judging from the disgusted expressions on the faces of the other children.

Why are they looking at me like that?
Did I forget to wipe food particles off my mouth?
Am I ugly?
Is my uniform ill-fitting?
What could be wrong with me?
Lord, please help me!

Those were troubling thoughts for an almost 6-year old boy. Not being accustomed to spending time with a lot of children, I counseled myself this ordeal would simply take a few minutes and those kids would soon want to talk to me and play with me.

Again, I could not have been more wrong!

When the bell rang for recess, it took seconds for the class to be emptied of little bodies. I soon joined them on the playground but nobody would talk to me. Then, the inevitable happened.

I opened my mouth, said hello, and introduced myself.

Quick as lightning, bona fide laughter from a trio of boys met my attempt at friendship and a nasty grin replaced the scowling face worn by a fourth boy who looked like a ringleader.

"We have no room for sissies around here," he angrily spat.

Sissies?

I quickly accessed my brain for that piece of data and found I didn't know the meaning of that word. Humiliated, I turned and walked away to the sound of their hooting and howling behind my back. I attempted conversation with three more groups of children and, though they were not as nasty as the first four boys, they still treated me as though I was the weirdest freak on the planet.

Everywhere I turned, there was an overtly zealous hand blocking me from inclusion and intimacy.

I found a shady spot and stayed there, rejected and heartbroken. On that fateful day, I was no longer a child; I grew up instantaneously. I became an abused grownup trapped in a child's body. I became a survivor and as such, thought it might be best not to love those kids. Then, Christ reminded me I was His follower and had waved lovelessness a hearty farewell.

So, I silently prayed, "Lord, what is wrong with me? Why do those kids hate me so much? You say I need to follow You but how can I ever love my classmates when they act so beastly toward me? I want to go back to the comfort of home and to that which is familiar and nice. Help me, Lord; help me now! Give me Your strength!"

I wish I could say it was the last time I prayed that prayer. I did not get an answer that day but I was given a glimpse of Christ's sufferings on the cross for me when . . .

"He was despised and rejected by people, 

A man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering; 

Like one from whom people hide their faces, 

He was despised and we esteemed Him not." 

(Isaiah 53:3)

O Lord, may this follower never forget the intimacy of partaking in Your sufferings! May rejection and ridicule become sweet to my taste and dimmed by the light of Your glory and grace! Amen.