By David Ramos
When I was in the fifth grade, sometime in the middle of the day, my school would grant us recess in its empty parking lot. As children, we loved it because it was a free-for-all. We would run around to our heart’s delight playing a host of street games such as “co-co-levio” and “slap-ball.” We were given full reign, which in hind sight, was a recipe for disaster.
On one of those testosterone laden days, I was running at warp factor five, possibly in hot pursuit of some opponent or defender of some imaginary base, when I was suddenly—and quite violently—pummeled by another boy twice my size. I had a head-on collision with some eighth-grader who brutally plastered me to the floor. Dazed and in sheer pain I got up and immediately my bloody lip and tongue began to swell. Like a tank running into a Volkswagen, the other boy seemed impervious to the collision; he neither apologized nor cared about my obvious busted up condition and kept on playing with his other friends as he shouted a few gruff words at me. I was holding back the tears when magically, my older brother showed up asking me what happened; I was in so much pain that all I could do was point my finger at the perpetrator. Before I could count to five my brother had this guy by the neck and was dragging him over to me. Mister tank had met a far fiercer opponent in my brother who had the reputation of being one crazy dude and who put the fear of God in most. The one time gruffly cat was now bug-eyed and terrorized about his ominous fate. The only thing that saved him from an on-the-spot, Brooklyn-styled beat down was the fact that I intervened and told him it was an accident. Profusely apologetic now, Gruffy the cat, sheepishly and quite gingerly walked away, as this time, it was my brother who was barking threats at him.
I remember how I felt that day, I felt protected, I felt spoken for, it was a powerful statement that no one can just run over one of the Ramos brothers and get away with it. Someone would have to pay for any abusive action perpetrated on us.
Have you ever gotten a black eye or a fat lip from the devil? Have you ever been the subject of his abuse or assaults? The Lord does not take kindly to the abuse of His children. We have a bigger brother in Jesus—“the first born” who rises to protect us, and swiftly moves on our behalf. Romans 10:13 says, “Whosoever shall call upon the Lord shall be saved.” Psalm 18 is a poignant testimony of a jealous, protective God who rises up in defense of his people and will not tolerate those who seek to destroy his children. The next time you get into a brawl, or feel that you are facing forces that are stronger than you, call out for your bigger brother!
“Then you will call, and the Lord shall answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.” Isaiah 58:9
As a guy I must say this with a little embarassment, but it was my big sister who would kick bootie and take numbers. Believe me she didn’t play (ask the mugger she took down on 170th Street in the Grand Concourse!). I figured I had to say something about big sisters, since my big brother couldn’t fight. I hear you though God is great!
Big cheers for Big Sistas who delivered us from evil! I’m sure every one us could testify of some sisters who was bilingual like that, who could be femme and sweet but would throw on the vaseline and rings in a heartbeat and rock n roll with the best.
In high school I knew a girl like that who used to dig me, she had biceps bigger than mine which made me wonder what would happen if I ever truly pissed her off. :o)
Thank God for the women in our lives–Heart and Soul!