Injustice is a cruel knife, twisted in our souls.  The experience of it rankles in our memories, and cries out for resolution.  Worse, perhaps, is having to watch it and feeling helpless to bring it to its rightful end.  How much more so for God, who desires justice for all men.  From His vantage point, what anger must be spurred to boiling point at the way men treat other men!  And kids can be quite cruel, packing barbed punches, meant to inflict the greatest pain possible, inside, where the scars cannot be seen.

          My first experience with injustice was accompanied by betrayal, twin threads in a noose about my neck.  If I already felt like a loser, this assured me that I was right.  The setting was the school yard.  The time, the sixth grade.  And I am thankful that the experience still galls.  It reminds me to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves, for whatever reason.  In my case, it was the betrayal that immobilized me.

          Lynn and I had been friends.  We spent time at each other’s houses.  We shared secrets, laughed and got into trouble together.  She introduced me to ideas that ought not to live in a young girl’s mind, but, that aside, the connection bound us together.  I trusted her.  In retrospect, I trusted too easily, a legacy passed down by my mother.  There is a solid ground between foolish trust and founded trust.  The key is character.  And in this, God led me away from Lynn, though I did not think to do so myself. 

          There was another girl, Becky.  Hispanic, pretty.  Twice my size and full of street-wise.  And, as I found out, full of anger.  One day, in the school cafeteria, I tucked my chin over my left shoulder and commented to my friend about something benign.  I don’t remember what.  It was insignificant.  Twenty seconds later, Becky had me pinned to the table I currently passed on my way out to the play yard.

          In my face, she snarled, “You better be more careful what you say about me!”  Her eyes glowed red with an anger I had only seen in my step-father.  And I was afraid.  More of him than of her, but in that moment, I was afraid.  I could even say that my miserable life flashed before my eyes.  That kind of afraid.  My tongue stuck in my mouth like a dead fish, unable to fend for me.  When I did not speak, she shoved harder.  “Do you hear me?”

          “I didn’t say anything about you,” I tried, when the dead fish finally resurrected. 

          “Liar!”  Her conviction flung another shovel full of dirt out of the grave her hatred dug for me.  Sometimes, people want to believe the lie.  Sometimes they need to believe the lie in order to keep hating, because the hatred reminds them that they are still alive.  It gives them the illusion of control, else they fear that the grave they dig will be their own.

          I ran.  The minute she let go of me, I ran.  My mistake.  I ran to the end of the school yard, where no other students were, except for the friend I had originally spoken to, Lisa.  She did not desert me, even though Becky and about five or six other girls followed in hot pursuit.  They were like the flames of a fast moving fire, devouring everything in its path, gaining on me.

          When they caught up, I knew I was about to die.  Becky paced behind me where I sat on a bench behind the backstop.  She railed at me, though I remember little of what she said.  She ran, full force with the heel of her hands, into my back.  I jerked forward with the impact, my neck snapped back and fear cinched around my throat.  I glanced up at Lynn.  She stood, off to the side, granting her tacit consent to this abuse.  I knew, in that moment, that she could have stopped the assault.  Though Becky’s anger would not be assuaged, Lynn could have deterred the barrage of insults and the beating that followed.  There were two of us, six of them.  All I wanted was for someone to save me.  I had done nothing wrong.  But the abuse of my step-father had taught me to be silent.  It had taught me that I had no power to stand up for myself.  Doing so would only make the situation worse. 

          So I sat and took the abuse, silent.  Lisa sat beside me and even took a hit for me.  She finally stood up and yelled at Becky in my defense.  But I could not take my eyes off Lynn.  Though Becky hit me again, it was Lynn who did the damage.  I still remember the flaccid expression on her face.  Only once did she look away, a hint of guilt in those accusing eyes.  A jury of my peers who acted without a trial.  By the time the bell rang for the next class, I suffocated on my grief.

          When I was questioned by the Vice Principle later, I still could not speak.  All I could do was cry.  And Becky got off, Scott free, because I did not speak up.  Lynn, well, Lynn revealed to me years later that she was afraid of Becky too.  And that’s why she did not stand up for me.  But I no longer trusted her.  I did not believe her, but I forgave her.  By that time, I understood that God hated injustice.  And I had begun to understand the value of strong, unbending character, the kind that does what is right, no matter what wrong is done by others.

          In Junior High, Becky received a severe punishment for some thing that was never revealed to me.  I suspected that she was pregnant, because I found her, during class, throwing up in the girls’ bathroom.  She was reduced to four classes a day and was then required to go home.  She was sullen and still intensely angry.  I asked her, in the girls’ bathroom, if I could help her.  She turned me down, no recognition of our previous encounter in the school yard.  After that year, I never saw her again.

          Lynn went into the military.  Shortly after, she sent me a desperate letter, wanting to know what had given me such peace about my life.  I sent her letters, after that, time and time again, but I think they were intercepted because I never heard back from her.  I was afraid that she thought I had not responded to her plea for help.  And off Lynn went into a distant somewhere, like Becky, never to be seen again.

          My journey toward wholeness is still in process.  I often laughingly identify with Toby, my black Lab-type dog.  He was beaten as a puppy and has one ear that flops over, endearingly, since the cartilage was broken by some ruthless owner.  He must wear a collar with spikes because, for some odd reason, all the other dogs smell ‘beat-dog’ on him and immediately attack.  He often looks at us as if to ask what punishment is coming his way.  Surely he must have done something wrong.  I’m still on my journey and, thankfully, not stuck in that same place in the schoolyard.  And as I look back, I see that God can take such difficult circumstances and turn them into something good, whether for me or for others.  The flames serve to refine us, to move us on to a better understanding, so that we can reach out to others who are still living in the heat of the flames.