Life Without Limits (15 page)

“No,” said the pastor.

“Are you sure?” the man said. “What if he asked your forgiveness?”

“I’ve already forgiven him,” the pastor said.

“I shot your son,” the man said, breaking down. “And I want to join your church.”

In the weeks that followed, so many other members of the Russian mob joined the pastor’s church that crime all but disappeared in the area. That is the power of forgiveness. When you have a forgiving attitude, you put into motion all sorts of amazing energy. And remember, this attitude allows you also to forgive yourself. As a Christian, I know that God forgives those who seek his favor, but too often we refuse to forgive ourselves for past mistakes, wrong turns, and abandoned dreams.

Self-forgiveness is just as important as forgiving others. I’ve made mistakes. So have you. We’ve treated people badly. We’ve judged them unfairly. We all mess up. The key is to step back, admit you’ve fallen short, apologize to the injured parties, make a promise to do better, forgive yourself, and move forward.

Now that’s an attitude you can live with!

The Bible tells us that we reap what we sow. If you are bitter, angry, self-pitying, and unforgiving, what do you think those attitudes will get you? What joy is there in a life like that? So reject
those dark and pessimistic moods, load up on optimism, and charge up an attitude of gratitude, an attitude of action, an attitude of empathy, or an attitude of forgiveness.

I have experienced the power of changing my attitude, and I can tell you that it changed my life, taking me to heights I never imagined. It can do the same for you!

M
y first and only playground fight was with Chucky, the biggest bully in my grade school. His real name wasn’t Chucky, but he had fiery orange hair, freckles, and big ears like the teen-horror-movie Chucky, so I’ll call him that to protect the guilty.

Chucky was the first person to put serious fear in my heart. We all deal with fears throughout our lives, both real and imagined. Nelson Mandela said the brave man is not the one who feels fear but the one who conquers it. I certainly felt fear when Chucky tried to knock my block off, but conquering it was another matter.

You couldn’t have convinced me of it back then, but your fears and mine are really a gift. Our most basic fears, such as the fear of fire, fear of falling, and the fear of roaring beasts, are hardwired into us as survival tools. So be glad for those fears and own them, but don’t let them own you.

Too much fear is not good. Too often our fears of failing or being disappointed or being rejected paralyze us. Rather than face those fears, we surrender to them and limit ourselves.

Don’t let fear keep you from chasing your dreams. You should treat fear like you treat your smoke detector. Pay attention to it when it goes off—look around and see if there is real danger or just the alarm ringing. If there is no real threat, put fear out of your mind and go on with your life.

Chucky, my grade-school tormentor, taught me to conquer my fear and move on, but only after the first and last fight of my childhood.
I was friends with almost everyone in my school, even the tough kids. Chucky, though, was straight out of the bully factory. He was an insecure kid always on the prowl for someone to pick on. He was bigger than me, but then so was everyone else in the school.

I wasn’t exactly a threat to anyone. I was a mere first grader, all of twenty-two pounds, and in a wheelchair. Chucky was a couple years older and a giant compared to me.

“I bet you can’t fight,” he said one day during morning recess.

My friends were there, so I put on a brave face, but I remember thinking:
I’m in my wheelchair, and he’s still twice as tall as me. This is not a promising situation
.

“Bet ya I can” was the best response I could come up with.

It wasn’t like I had a lot of experience with fighting. I was from a strong Christian family. I’d been taught that violence was not the answer, but I wasn’t a wimp. I’d done a lot of wrestling with my brother and cousins. My little brother still talks about my best wrestling move. Before Aaron grew to be much bigger and taller than me, I could roll him around on the floor and then pin his arm down with my chin.

“You could almost break my arm off with that strong chin of yours,” he says. “But then when I got older and bigger, all I had to do was push my hand against your forehead and you couldn’t get near me.”

That was the problem that I faced with Chucky. I wasn’t afraid to fight him, I just didn’t know how to get the job done. Every fight I’d seen on television or at the movies involved someone punching or kicking someone else. I lacked the essential hardware for both those moves.

None of this seemed to put off Chucky. “If you can fight, prove it!” he said.

“Okay, meet me on the Oval at lunchtime,” I snarled.

“Done,” Chucky said. “You’d better be there.”

The Oval was an egg-shaped patch of concrete in the middle of our grass and dirt playground. Fighting there was like fighting in the center ring of our school circus. The Oval was our main stage. What happened in the Oval didn’t stay in the Oval. If I got whupped in the Oval, I’d never live it down.

All through the morning’s spelling, geography, and math classes I fretted about my lunchtime appointment with the school bully. It didn’t help that word had spread throughout the school that I was taking on Chucky. Everybody wanted to know my plan of attack. I had no clue.

I kept envisioning Chucky punching my lights out. I prayed that some teacher would find out and stop the fight before we started. No such luck.

The dreaded hour arrived. The lunch bell sounded. My posse gathered around my wheelchair, and we rolled to the Oval in silence. Half the school was there. Some brought their lunches. A few were taking bets.

As you might guess, I was the decided underdog in the early betting.

“You ready to fight?” said Chucky.

I nodded
yes
, but I had no idea how this would go down.

Chucky wasn’t so sure either. “Uh, how we gonna do this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You gotta get out of your wheelchair,” he demanded. “It isn’t fair with you in the wheelchair.”

Apparently Chucky feared a hit and run. This gave me a negotiating point. Fighting was not my cup of tea, but I was already a good negotiator.

“If I get out of this chair, you have to get on your knees,” I said.

Chucky was being razzed about picking on a kid in a wheelchair. He went along with my counterdemand. My stocky foe dropped to
his knees, and I hopped out of my chair, ready for my big
Crocodile Dundee
moment—if only I could figure out how to go about fighting without fists.

I mean, they don’t call it a “shoulder fight,” do they?

The lunchtime crowd ringed around us as Chucky and I circled each other. I was still thinking that he wouldn’t possibly go through with it. Who would be so low as to hit a little kid with no arms and no legs?

Girls in my class were crying, “Nicky, don’t do it. He’ll hurt you.”

That got to me. I didn’t want girl pity. My macho pride kicked in. I walked right up to Chucky like I knew I could kick his butt.

He gave me a double stiff arm to the chest, and I went backward arse over earlobes, flopping onto the concrete like a sack of potatoes.

Chucky had gobsmacked me! I’d never been knocked down like that.
It hurt!
But the embarrassment was far worse. My schoolmates huddled over me, horrified. Girls cried out, shielding their eyes from what they thought was a pitiful sight.

This bloke is really trying to hurt me
, I realized. I flipped over and pressed my forehead to the ground. Then I leveraged a shoulder against my wheelchair to get myself upright. This technique made for a calloused forehead and a very strong neck, qualities that would soon spell Chucky’s downfall.

I had no doubt: Chucky had no qualms about kicking my butt. It was fight or flight, and flight wasn’t a realistic option.

I charged Chucky again, with a bit more speed behind me this time. Three hops, and I was right in front of him. But before I could think what to do next, Chucky nailed me with a straight arm. Just one arm
bam
to the chest, and I slammed to the ground. I even bounced once. Okay, maybe twice.

My head conked on the hard-hearted Oval. The world faded to black. A shrieking girl quickly brought me back to my senses.

I prayed for the teacher cavalry. Why can you never find an assistant principal when you need one?

Finally my vision cleared, and there was the evil Chucky hovering over me. The fat-faced mongrel was doing a victory dance.

That does it. I’m laying this bloke out!

I flipped onto my stomach, planted my forehead, and raised myself up for a final charge. My adrenaline was pumping. This time I galloped at him as fast as I could go, which was a lot faster than Chucky had anticipated.

He’d started to backpedal on his knees. I took a flying leap, using my left foot to launch myself like a human missile. My flying head butted Chucky smack in the nose. He went down. I landed on top of him and rolled.

When I looked up, Chucky was sprawled on the ground, holding his nose and bawling uncontrollably.

Instead of feeling victorious, I was overcome by guilt. The pastor’s son begged for forgiveness: “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

“Look, Chucky’s bleeding!” a girl cried.

No way
, I thought.

But sure enough, blood from Chucky’s nose was leaking through his pudgy fingers. He took his hand away, and it poured down his face and stained his shirt in bright red.

Half the crowd was cheering. The other half was mortified—for Chucky. After all, he’d just been beat up by a shrimp with no arms or legs. He would never live this down. Chucky’s bullying days were over. He pinched his nose with his fingers and scurried into the bathroom.

Honestly, I never saw him again. He must have quit school in shame. Chucky, if you are out there, I’m sorry, and I hope you have had a good post-bully life.

I was proud of sticking up for myself but burdened by guilt. After school I went home and confessed to my parents as soon as I walked in the door. I was dreading a severe punishment. But I
had no need to be worried. Dad and mum didn’t believe me! They simply did not think it possible that I’d beaten up a bigger, older, and fully-equipped bloke!

I didn’t try to convince them otherwise.

As much as people enjoy hearing this story and as funny as certain aspects of it are, I have mixed feelings about even telling it, since I don’t advocate violence. I believe meekness is strength withheld. I’ll always remember my first—and only—fight because I discovered that when push came to shove, I could overcome my fears. At that age especially, it felt good to know that I had the strength to defend myself. I guess you could say I learned that I could afford to be meek because I had tapped the strength inside me.

You may have a strong sense of purpose, great hope for the possibilities in your life, faith in your future, an appreciation for your own value, and even a great attitude, but fear can hold you back from achieving your dreams. There are many handicaps worse than having no arms and no legs—fear can be especially debilitating. You cannot live a fulfilling life that fully expresses your blessings if fear controls your every decision.

Fear will hold you back and keep you from being who you want to be. But fear is just a mood, a feeling—it’s not real! How often have you feared something—a trip to the dentist, a job interview, an operation, or a test in school—only to discover that the actual experience was not nearly as bad as you had imagined?

I thought I would get creamed in my first-grade fight with Chucky-boy, but look how that turned out! All too often adults revert back to childish fears. They go back to acting like kids frightened at night because they imagine that the tree limb scraping the bedroom window is actually a monster trying to eat them up.

I’ve seen fear absolutely paralyze otherwise normal people. I’m not referring to scary movie fears or childhood fears of bumps in the night. So many people are handicapped by fear of failure, fear of making mistakes, fear of making a commitment, even fear of success. It’s inevitable that fears will come knocking on your door. You don’t have to let them in. You send them on their way, and then go on yours. You have that choice.

Psychologists say most fears are learned. We are born with only two instinctive fears: fear of loud noises and fear of being dropped. I had a fear of being mauled by Chucky back in the first grade, but I got over it. I decided that I wasn’t going to wait until I felt brave—I just acted brave, and in the end I
was
brave!

Even as adults we create fearful fantasies that simply don’t match up to reality. This explains why fear is often described as
“F
alse
E
vidence
A
ppearing
R
eal.” We become so focused on our fears that they become real to us—and as a result, we let them control us.

It’s hard to imagine someone as big and successful as Michael Jordan being afraid. Yet during his induction into the NBA Hall of Fame, Jordan talked openly about how he often used his fears to drive himself to be a better athlete. At the conclusion of his speech, he said, “One day you might look up and see me playing the game at fifty. Oh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh. Never say never. Because limits, like fears, are often just an illusion.”

Jordan may have been a better basketball player than life coach, but he had a point. Follow the Jordan rules; recognize that fears are not real and soar past them, or put them to use. The key to dealing with your worst fears, whether it is fear of flying, fear of failing, or fear of relationships, is to recognize that the fear is not real. It is an emotion, and you can control your response to your emotions.

I had to learn this lesson early in my speaking career. I was very fearful and nervous. I did not know how people would respond to
what I had to say. I wasn’t sure they’d even listen to me. Fortunately, my first speaking engagements were to my fellow students. They knew me, and we were comfortable with each other. Over time I began speaking to larger youth groups and churches with only a few friends sprinkled into the crowd. Gradually I overcame my nervousness and fears.