“Manda, did you draw this?” My mother was sitting on the toilet. Bathroom light off; there was always enough sunlight in the Arizona afternoon that flooded into the double-wide trailer house. The bathroom was bright, I remember that. The floor tile was white, as well as the countertops. I don’t remember a shower curtain; but if I were to make one up, it would be white too. And my mom was just sitting on the toilet with a white piece of paper in her hand.
I got a glimpse of the drawing. I couldn’t look at her in the eyes. Even as a kindergartner, I knew when consequences were coming.
“It’s a very good drawing. And I’m glad you’re discovering things about your new baby brother, but you really shouldn’t draw this at school….Okay?” I could tell she was sincere. She may have been lying, but my 5-year heart believed everything she said.
“Okay,” I whispered, hanging my head low and walking out of the bathroom. I never saw the drawing again. That was consequence enough.
Maybe my mom was right--it WAS a good drawing, but certainly not acceptable in a Christian school. Every free-time during class, I would draw, mostly swing-sets, and by now I was getting pretty good at drawing them. I knew how to draw two “A”s on opposite sides of the paper, then draw a horizontal line connecting the points. Two vertical lines for the chains, then a crescent for the swing. I already knew how to write “A”s, considering my name had three of them. The difficult part was keeping a steady hand to draw straight lines. When I wanted to make a really good swing-set, I stuck my tongue out a little. This seemed to help me concentrate.
That drawing was my best swing-set yet. The “A”s so perfect, the lines so straight. I’m sure by the end of the drawing, my tongue was touching the bottom of my chin. Although I was a near veteran at drawing swing-sets, I was new at drawing a boy’s body. My little brother, Jonny, had just recently been born and he was so different physically from my sister and me. I had discovered something new that I wanted to draw. I started drawing the swing-set then I decided to fill the swing. I drew my brother’s naked body and included all the parts. Once satisfied with that, I drew myself beside him. I always drew myself happy. My brother was content, too. It was a sweet drawing, innocent, and playful. But not acceptable.
I had sinned with my hand.
I’m sure before and after that incident there were the usual occurrences of taking toys from friends or siblings, but the second major sin I remember with my hand came just about a year later. By now Jonny was a little over one. He had blonde, blonde hair that curled at the ends, just like my dad’s. His huge blue eyes sparkled in his pasty round face. He could already smile with a smirk. He was clearly trouble. My family of five was visiting Oregon for a relative’s wedding. Summer weather. Sun shining. Slight cool breeze, green grass and green trees. The perfect day for a stroller walk, I thought. My brother had a blue stroller, with primary colors filling basic geometric shapes where he was supposed to sit. Before he was born, I used it to push my dolls around. My dolls always obeyed me. I imagined the walk going perfectly: I would push him around the block and he would fall asleep. I came across one obstacle in making this stroller ride perfect: my brother wouldn’t lie down. Being the six year old mother that I was, I warned him.
“Jonny, no. Lay down!” I insisted as I gently pushed his shoulders back. He stayed for one second and by the time I got around to the back of the stroller again, I noticed he was sitting up, bright-eyed as ever. “Jonny, no! I told you to lay down!” I became meaner this time and tried to push his shoulders back harder but he was stubborn. He clearly didn’t see my vision for the perfect stroller ride. “Jonny! NO!”
I slapped him.
Not only did he then lie down, he cried. My dad came rushing outside with no time for me to try to make him laugh. I was doomed. And ashamed. I had slapped my brother so hard that my hand hurt. Punishment was coming for sure.
“Now, Amanda, I want you to know that this hurts me more than it hurts you, okay?” This is how my dad prefaced his spankings. I hardly believed him. I didn’t know about irony back then, but I did think it was odd to be receiving a slap on the behind because I had slapped my brother in the face. But I didn’t ask many questions. The spanking echoed in the room. It was long time before I would take Jonny on another stroller ride.
Slapping was tally two for sinning with my hands. And three. And four. And I’m sure five.
I became quite a fan of slapping my brother when he frustrated me or didn’t do things my way. He became a fan of biting. The older he got, it seemed, the more difficult it became to deal with him. I still feel guilty about this particular day. My mom had gone into the store for “just three things”, which usually turned out to be fifteen things in three double bags. My brother and I were sitting in the teal Ford minivan in a parking lot in Northern Virginia. We had just recently moved from Arizona. He was bored and three. I was sophisticated and eight. And of course he wouldn’t be quiet. I just wanted to sing a song, but every time I started to sing, Jonny would break out into “Jesus Loves Me” or “The ABCs”. You can see my frustration. My song was clearly better than his choice of songs. My song was a country song-- “Is there life out there so much we haven’t done? Life beyond the family and the home….” Same song I used to entertain my dad when he smoked in the Arizona dusk. This time I didn’t even give my brother a quiet warning.
“Shut up! I started singing first.” I was still sitting in the middle seat, and he was standing right beside me.
“But I wanna sing too.” His voice was sweet.
“No, just shut up!!” There was silence for a moment; I thought my harsh yelling strategy worked. But through the years I would learn that it never worked. I started singing again. I only knew a few lines of the song and dammit, I was going to sing those lines without interruption! But Jonny started singing again. I yelled. I slapped his face.
This time was different though. I was genuinely angry with him, beyond the point of just mere frustration. I was hot in the face from anger. And when I looked into his eyes to slap him again, I saw fear. He was cowering. I slapped him again. And hard. I was even more angered by his fear. He started bawling of course and immediately I became a “joker” for “King Ali Bobwa” and tried to make him laugh. It worked thankfully and my mom never knew. I’m not even sure he remembers the incident. But I still feel bad.
Physical combat would continue between my brother and I for the next ten years and add to my running list of sins with my hands. The next sin with my hands was of a different kind. It wasn’t violent; it didn’t hurt anyone much like my first sin with the drawing. After moving to Oregon from Virginia from Arizona, I was home schooled and since both my parents worked, I was home alone. Being any typical seventh grader, I wasn’t too interested in school work. Since I didn’t read the assignments, I didn’t know a darned answer on the tests. So I cheated. My parents kept the answer keys in a box on top of a bookcase in their room. It didn’t take me long to find it. They probably suspected something was up, so they eventually covered the box with a brown fleece blanket--like that would stop me. My parents never said a thing to me about it and I still haven’t confessed it to them. Oh, sure, I feel guilty but it wouldn’t have any relevance today. This was the sixth sin I remember with my hands--cheating.
The sins with my hands began to increase in badness. Drawing. Slapping. Cheating. What next? Holding hands. That’s what I remember.
“After church, can I go to Starbucks with some friends?” I asked my parents. I was a sophomore in high school.
“Well, who else is going?”
“I don’t know, just a group of people.” But I knew exactly who was going.
“Well, just make sure the guy to girl ratio is about the same. We don’t want you going anywhere with just a group of guys,” my dad answered.
I agreed.
We didn’t go to Starbucks. We went to McDonald’s. We equaled Micah, Evan, Brian, me. Me in a group of just guys, sitting, talking, laughing, sharing sodas and smiles. I held hands with Brian. This only lasted two weeks. My parents didn’t know.
“Hey A, how was Starbucks?” My dad is really curious about these things.
“Oh, it went good. I got hot chocolate.”
“Who all was there?”
“Ummm, about seven people…Let’s see, Hannah, Sara, Evan, Micah, Brian, Katey, and me.” I made hand gestures, acting as though I needed to recreate the table to remember where people were sitting. I think this made my story more convincing; my dad believed it. Because I had not only disobeyed, but also I lied about it, I wasn’t sure if he noticed my nervousness or a difference in the way I acted. I could still feel Brian’s warm hand holding mine.
After that sin with my hands, I stopped keeping count. Didn’t think it mattered anymore. And besides, those sins made me feel guilty enough, I didn’t need to remember anymore of them. From time to time, my early hand sins were brought up at the dinner table.
“Oh yeah, and do you remember that picture of Jonny I drew?”
“The one of him naked on the swing set?” my family would ask. “Oh, yeah. I remember that,” my mom said. Everyone laughed and Jonny’s face turned bright pink, his smile awkward. He still gets embarrassed over this.
I know I should never have felt guilty about that drawing. I was innocent but the rules of a Christian upbringing prohibit such things. But that moment in the white bathroom showed me guilt was real, although sometimes irrational. It then became easier to feel guilt about petty sins, and even more remorse at weightier sins. As I grew, I didn’t need a spanking from my dad, or a lecture from my mom. My greatest punishment was holding onto my guilt and not forgiving myself. My home, my school, and my church had certain expectations for how I should act. I needed to fulfill those expectations; I needed to be perfect. And if I wasn’t perfect, I felt guilty. Sure, I’m not the worst kid on the block, but I thought I was bad enough and had committed unforgivable sins.
My sixty-five year old philosophy teacher Rita wanted me to meet her ninety year old friend Edith, who also majored in philosophy. Rita thought we would have a great philosophical discussion over lunch. She and I drove down to Salem to where Edith lives. Her home is an “Old-Lady House Museum.” Black and white pictures of generations gone by hung in the living room and hallways. Hand-made quilts carefully draped over the foot of the beds. Trinkets on bookcases. Intricate china in the cabinet. She even set out hand-sown periwinkle place mats. I picked up my spoon to eat the white bean chicken chili.
“Oh, you’re left-handed, Amanda?” Edith was interested.
“Yeah, I am. You too?” I asked.
“Yes. Well, I only write with my left-hand. I do everything else with my right-hand. You know, a priest once told me this: ‘Everybody is born left-handed until they sin; then they become right-handed.’ A PRIEST told me that so it must have been true.”
“Oh, that’s really interesting. A Priest, you say?” I asked Edith.
“Yep. I Priest.”
“Well, I hate to question what priest’s say, especially about sin, but I’ve done some pretty horrible things.” I started to tell the lunch table about the running list of my hand sins. They laughed at the funny parts, they silenced when I got serious.
Edith smiled at me with that type of smile that only dear old ladies can do. Sweet, and sympathetic. I already believed what she was going to say next without even hearing it. “You know, Amanda, those don’t sound like sins at all. And you know why they’re not sins? Do you know what separates you and your sins from most right-handers and their sins?” She waited for me to answer. I shook my head.
“What makes you different is that you feel something about your sins. You feel guilty. You feel ashamed. That’s what makes you perfect. Your feeling. Emotion. Don’t worry about it anymore, kid.” Her voice was reassuring but she could sense the hesitation to let go of my sins, to forgive myself. “It’s difficult, I know, this letting go. But look at you, you even feel guilty about letting go of your guilt. I wonder if God knows He made someone this perfect.” We all laughed but the undertone was somber.
I’ve grown up thinking that I had dirty hands and a dirty heart. I have been carrying heavy guilt like chains around my wrists, around my heart chambers. To forgive myself would be difficult, especially now that I have layers upon layers of guilt and sins. But now, after lunch with Edith, I’m suppose to believe that I somehow have clean hands, and a pure heart? I slapped my brother out of anger. I cheated because of my laziness. I held hands in defiance. I am guilty. And my heart feels guilty. My hands feel guilty. But maybe Edith is right. Maybe I did nothing wrong with my hands, only something natural and forgivable. Maybe I do have clean hands and a pure heart. But guilt is a monster; it scares me more and more each time I sin. I tuck it tightly away. Forgiveness never finds it.
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