Undaunted Joy #199

Of Ninjas, Obedience and the Life You Save May Be Your Own

Photo by Abolfazl eslami on Unsplash

When my youngest son was in kindergarten, his teacher asked me to stay after school to talk about something he had drawn in class.

When I saw the picture, I could tell it was me. He always drew me wearing glasses but with long eyelashes (I wish) and often with a coffee cup in my hands (fair). But this time, I didn’t have a coffee cup. I stood in the center of a circle of ninjas.

The ninjas were dressed in black with scarves tied across their foreheads. Their faces held in perpetual grimace. I stood in the center, my too-long arms extended to reach the ninjas surrounding me. It was then I realized their hands were not drawn in the same black crayon as their bodies but with red, blood dripping down to the floor, for none had fingers.

When asked about the drawing, my son had proudly explained to his teacher that his mother had ripped off the fingers of all the ninjas. I then saw that they stood grimacing, not in anger but in pain.

Most see me as winsome soul. A woman with a cheerful anecdote and a word of encouragement. But those who know me of old, the ones who remember where I came from, the only redheaded, translucent girl who grew up in an alley behind Chet Holifield Park in East LA, know what is always sizzling under the surface: if pressed I will mess you up.

Not to say, I am always looking for a fight. The truth is, I simply don’t care enough.

This is one of my greatest faults, as a woman, human and Christian: I am not a compassionate person.

I simply don’t care about someone’s opinion of me or the world or what they do with themselves or their lives. And if I really think about it, I simply do not love people that much.

But if you come after the people I love or try to tell me who you think I am…its going down. Deep down, I am still the woman who had to scrap and scrape for each bit of ground.

I like to think I have mellowed through the years. I perceive myself as a sort of Katherina, in which my own Petruchio as tamed with marriage, protection and love. I have tried to sink into my new role, as,

I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

The Taming of the Shrew - Act 5, Scene 2.

I want to care more. I want to be more compassionate. I want to serve and love and obey. Yes, I know that is a hard word for many, especially if they lack a Y chromosome.

And yet, obedience, to voluntary submit one’s will to rightful authority, not as mere compliance but because of love, is a virtue.

If I love my husband and I love my God, I should obey them. And certainly, if I was to obey them, I would love other people more. I would be more compassionate.

Just last week, I am walking arm in arm with my youngest, who is now 6’6” at fifteen years old on a downtown urban sidewalk. I thought how he can now protect me, not just for his size but his Jutitsu training and said aloud “One day you might have to use Jutitsu to save me from an attacker.”

Without hesitation he answered, “One day I might need to use Jutitsu to save you from attacking someone.”

One day, he may need to save me, from myself.

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