Here's what happened

I will always remember the day Anna Frances Pittman’s mother slapped me.

I was probably in the second grade, an earnest, but quiet little boy. Our regular teacher was absent and there were only four boys in our Sunday School class that evening.

Jack, Bill, and Byron were running around “like wild Indians” and I was seated next to Mrs. Pittman, waiting for the lesson to begin. After several futile attempts to get the other boys to come over and sit down, the sweet-looking, soft-spoken, retired-from-teaching-to-raise-a-family old hag hauled off and slapped ME across the face.

This seemed to get the boys attention and they dutifully sat down for their lesson on Christ’s redeeming love. I couldn’t look any of them in the eye. I would have cried.
So I sat there, stoically seething, my head filled with a buzz that drowned out anything I might have learned about forgiveness.

She lied to my mother about what happened and avoided my father altogether.
(Nobody lies to the preacher! That would be a sin!)

I never again got within ten feet of her because I had learned my lesson.

It’s not always your fault, but that doesn’t lessen the hurt.