Hero Not Optional

When I was young, heroes were ubiquitous, and some were actually flesh and blood heroes, like my god-father and god-mother. Jerry and Linda could do no wrong in my eyes, and I worshiped them because they loved me and indulged me and made me feel special and seen.  My paternal grandparents, Vernon and Cap, were my heroes, too. I followed my bustling grandmother around her kitchen and garden, and my gruff, silent granddaddy climbed into the tents my grandmother would hang about the house and yard (replete with stuffed animal friends) when he came home from the field for lunch. My young uncle (only thirteen years separated us) and still childless aunt lavished attention on me as well. My mom and dad seemed larger than life and slightly removed at the time. They were often busy working and earning and learning, which allowed me to spend time with my “other” parents and family members.

The thing all these heroes of my young life had in common was a focus on me. I fully admit that I was a selfish creature, an only grandchild and godchild in the lives of people more than willing to give me the best of the time they had. I took every ounce of love and attention they poured into me and made myself the center of the world. It wasn’t until much later that I realized the problematic nature of this set-up.

When I was still young—five or six—my godparents divorced, effectively eliminating me from their lives. I had been part of the “us” for them. With no “us” remaining, our relationship almost ceased to exist.  I couldn’t have what I wanted most—them and their unlimited focus on me—because their own problems were overwhelming.

When I was seventeen I realized that my grandmother and grandfather had issues I had not been aware of in the obliviousness of my childhood. Granddaddy often withheld approval and money and trust in the running of the farm business from his sons, causing resentment that I began to notice. My grandmother didn’t approve of my mother (had never, really), and I began to notice the way she treated her (and others) didn’t correlate with the way she interacted with me. I saw my uncle still living at home as a 34-year-old, moving from job to job, complaining often about others. My aunt married when I was very young, and by then, she had her own children to lavish her attention upon and to love. My parents and I had conflicts over normal things—clean rooms, chores, curfews, boyfriends, and money. In short, no one was “perfect” any more. Even though I loved all of these wonderful people God had placed in my life, no one seemed truly heroic.

Then the reality of life hit me hard.

School—what do I study? How will I pay for it? Where should I attend? Homework. Study.

Work—how to pay for my own car to get me to a larger college when the time came. Insurance. Gas. Full-time student (slave-driving piano teacher), part-time employee—Wal-Mart’s work environment wasn’t always pleasant. Customers were often rude. Some fellow employees and supervisors weren’t much better. Another job as a choir director at a small church.

Personal life—got dumped by my boyfriend on a birthday date after dating for a year. I felt disconnected already in high school from my classmates. I didn’t feel that I fit.

It was at this point that I really needed a hero. I felt a little jaded. The people in my life weren’t living up to my expectations. Life wasn’t all I thought it should be.

So I pulled back. I withdrew into a shell of my own making. Every part of me screamed to protect the emotions, yet I craved more than the insulated little world I had created.

When there was no other place to look, I looked at myself and found I wasn’t very heroic either. I, too, failed to live up to heroic standards and began looking elsewhere.  After much floundering around, I finally remember to look in the one place I should have known to look first—the Bible. Ultimately, Christ is the standard for all heroes. He lived in the flesh. He died for what he believed. He lived without sin. He laid down his life for those he loved. This is what I had craved without realizing it for so long, and my understanding of a hero changed drastically.

As an adult, I no longer look for heroic people to save me—because of Christ in me, I don’t need that—but I do see heroes all around me, real heroes struggling to walk out their faith in a very broken world.

Walt, an elderly friend, has had two bouts with cancer and still finds life beautiful and loves leading other people to Christ through an organization called Fishers of Men.  My husband, Greg, loves to give to people—his time, his talent, his money, his heart.  My mother-in-law is selfless beyond my ability to describe her. My daughter loves to go to people in other countries sharing the gospel. My sister-in-law is a missionary living in a third-world country ministering to people many in America would dismiss. My mom overcame an unimaginable childhood full of privation and hardship. My friend Ashley willingly loves the small children and directs a preschool, a feat beyond my comprehension. Our former pastor Tom gives of his time freely, carving out enough to meet with upwards of 50 men each week, discipling them. Allen fixes things for people, and even though it is his job to do so, he sacrifices his time and rarely says no to anyone regardless of the time of day they call. Paulette joyfully spends time with her rather cynical father who is dying of cancer, and she faithfully prays for his salvation even though it seems he has rejected every attempt. I could go on, but you probably want me to stop at this point and get to the point!

Until I took of the glasses of discontentment, busyness, hardship, hurt, brokenness, and selfishness, I couldn’t see the fantastic heroes that surround me. Heroes are not optional in this broken world, but seeing them is.