Innocence Denied

I had a lot of fun, too, as a child. Because I was the first grandchild on Dad’s side of the family and the first female grandchild on my Mom’s side, having my way was a piece of cake. As a matter of fact, I had more toys and clothes than I could play with or wear (respectively). Grandma P (Dad’s mother) was a seamstress. She made me beautiful dresses for Easter and special holidays. The dresses had several rows of ruffled layers trimmed in white lace, with eyelet lace around the arm openings and the collar. There were hair ribbons to match and socks trimmed in lace as well. It made me feel special and beautiful like a princess in a fairy tale. If I close my eyes right now—which I did as I was writing—I can see those pink and yellow chiffon dresses as clearly as the day I wore them.
Both families were members of the same church: Gordon Chapel Methodist Church on Herman Street in Nashville. Both of my parents were raised in the church. Grandma P played the piano and sang in the choir. Grandma M worked with the children. Both were devoted church workers. The family—especially the children—attended on Sundays, as well as one or two other days during the week. Once my parents married, that practice was discontinued. No more church—going at anytime seemed to be their motto. My Mom started going with Grandma M (her mother) more frequently, in her mature years. Nevertheless to this day, Dad still doesn’t go. I’m not surprised.
I will never forget those happy early years of my childhood. My Mom’s sister had two boys, at the time; she later had about ten children. They would come up the hill to play with me nearly every day. My parents and I lived with Grandma P in the big white house at the top of the hill on Hermosa Street. Hermosa was a street that had a hill at each end and a deep valley—we called the bottom—in the middle. Grandma P and her family lived at one end and Washington Junior High School was at the other end. Grandma M and most of my Mom’s family lived down hill in the valley (bottom) section of the street. The neighboring opinion on status was partly decided by your location. Those located going up and on the hill felt their status was much higher than those living in the bottom.
My father had a younger brother, Cliff. He, my two cousins, and myself played together almost daily. We played marbles probably more than any other game. Some of the marbles were very colorful: a mixture of bright colors. Think of an abstract painting with bright orange, red, green, blue, and yellow colorings all intertwining with one another. That’s how I remember those glass-colored marbles. They came in different sizes; large ones (big joker), small ones (pee wee), and the regular-sized ones were just called marbles.
We were surrounded by empty fields with numerous fruit trees, bushes, and vines. There was always a berry or fruit available to grab, wipe off against your clothes, and eat at will. One such field was across the street from Grandma P’s house. We got apples and peaches there. Further down and up the street, we got blueberries and blackberries. Some trees reminded me of a Weeping Willow tree. Their branches drooped and there was a flat banana-shaped fruit hanging from the tree. Inside the fruit was a sweet, brownish, thick, pasty, filling. We bit it at one end, then squeezed and sucked at the same time. It tasted just like honey. We all loved those fig-like plants.
The real prize was the big, red, juicy strawberries that grew in Mr. Jimmy Johns’ backyard. He owned an ice cream shop on Herman Street—the street over from our house. His backyard was directly across the alley from Grandma P’s. You could see clusters of strawberries hanging over the top of the fence: this enhanced the temptation. My uncle and cousins weren’t going to let a little thing like a fence stop them. I agreed; the decision was unanimous. Whatever it took, we were going to eat some of those strawberries. Up I went to sit on two shoulders—as I was lifted up—to grab those strawberries and throw some down to the gang. We, narrowly, missed getting caught a few times. It’s a good thing we were fast and he was slow. He was a wise old man. He really liked me a lot. When a few of us would go into the ice cream shop—to buy ice cream of course—he would give me an extra scoop. He even made some of his own ice cream. No shop around had ice cream as good as Mr. Johns.
One year the boys built a “Skate Cart”—they called it. They pulled a pair of roller skates apart—the toe from the heel—and put one wheel under each corner of the cart when it was completed. A plywood board was used for the center piece. Then, long narrow pieces of wood were attached; one across the front end and one across the back end. Somehow, two pieces of rope were put through hand-made grooves on the front end. They were used to steer the cart. To ride, we all piled up on top. Then, two of them pushed to get us rolling along good. When the cart got to the very tip of the downward slope, they quickly jump on. The ride—from the top of the hill to the bottom—was exhilarating and scary at the same time. Down we went screaming, hollering, and laughing from sheer joy and excitement. Oh!!!!!!!!!!! What fun we had. We were too young to think about possible dangers—just little kids enjoying the innocence of play.
Then, the experience happened: one that began the “Denial of my childhood innocence.” Me, Holly, and Queenie slept together in the same bed. I slept at one end—to keep them from peeing on me—and the two of them slept at the opposite end together. A new arrival, Chattie, had been added to our family of girls. She slept in the front room, of the house, in a baby bed across from my parents’ bed. I was sound asleep when I felt someone shaking me. They were bending over me whispering in a low voice, “Wake up, wake up.” When I opened my eyes, it was Dad. “Get up, come on, I’ve got something to show you.” He motioned for me to follow him to their bedroom. Right away, I was afraid. Even though I was only eight years old, I knew in my heart this was not a good thing. As I walked behind him, my mind focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

“We have escaped like a bird out of the fowler’s snare; the snare has been broken, and we have escaped. Our help is in the name of the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” Ps. 124:7-8 (NIV)

P.S.: A fowler is someone that hunts and snares a bird. Prior to catching it, he observes and studies his behavior. Then he snares it based on what it typically does. In like manner, Satan is our fowler. He knows our cages and he convinces us that the doors are locked: that we can’t flee. The truth of the matter is that Satan is a liar. The doors to our cages (our fears) are open. We have been set free. We can fly anytime, anywhere: if we believe and have faith in God. Through His love—you and I are free.
As a child, I sometimes felt as if my home was like a cage and I was trapped with no way out. I was aware that my every move was being watched—by the fowler in my home.
Jesus has set us free; we no longer have to be bound [or caged] by sin. We have been given a choice. We no longer need to be defined by the trials of our past. That’s how big God is—compared to our past trials. As people of faith, love and joy, we are all “birds of paradise:” meant to spread our wings and freely soar. With God, the sky is the limit: go on, you can do it “fly . . . . fly . . . . fly.”

We have been UNCAGED . . . . FLY and RISE!!!