View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

Our grandson, Nils, who lives with us for another internship this semester, was driving on I-94 to visit his mom in Rochester. By Clearwater, a huge semi forced him off the road into the ditch. Luckily the ditch is level there and free of snow, so there was a lot of space for Nils to land. But he was spooked, of course, and had a flat tire and a shattered right bumper and back window.

The semi had just driven away. A hit and run. The driver never stopped to check on Nils who could have gotten killed by the impact if he hadn’t driven a pickup. Some people tell me the semi driver probably never even realized he had hit someone and the police said these accidents happen all the time and it is impossible to find out who did this, because you wouldn’t be able to take license plate numbers as you slid into the ditch.

No matter the reason for the accident, I was reminded of bullies. Bullies who just intimidate people. We are all vulnerable to bullies. The person in a smaller car. The old. And the ones who don’t look like us or don’t speak our language and eat the kind of food we eat.

In Matthew 25:40, Jesus says: “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters, you did for Me.” Even though we are saved by grace and faith, good works are a consequence of our faith. What we do because we are Christians. And Christians are good people who help and welcome all, no matter who they are, how they look, how they speak and even, what they believe. To me, that is the most profound part of being a Christian, the part where we are open to all.

I have always felt passionate about the people vulnerable to bullies because of my little sister, Marianne. When I try to explain Marianne to people who don’t know her, the first characteristics that come to mind is that she is kind. And positive. And a person who sees the sunny side of life. Which is absolutely amazing, since my sister grew up in a world where she was mercilessly bullied.

We don’t know why, but my sister had a brain injury when she was a baby. This caused her to be different. She struggled with learning. She really didn’t have anything that made her shine. Except her kindness and sunny disposition. And that didn’t matter to the bullies. They would taunt her with jeers and sometimes even with physical blows. Kids who had it all, health, friends and abilities would focus on one little, vulnerable girl who couldn’t defend herself. One time, when she was walking home from piano lessons in the dusk of a Norwegian winter day, they hit her with snowballs packed with ice. She came home crying with a bruised face and my father called the police. Who basically said boys will be boys.

And bullying isn’t only blows, it is also words or even lack of words, shunning. She experienced it all, even from her elementary school teachers who reminded her, as though she didn’t know it, that she wasn’t as intelligent as she should be.

I would be my sister’s defender. I would take on the people who threatened her with physical violence, even when it meant I ended up in the principal’s office. I divided people into two categories, those who were kind to Marianne and those who weren’t. Only the former could be my friends.

And when I had children of my own, I was vehement in my admonitions that they were to be kind. To everyone. Like Jesus. And Marianne told me more than once that she regarded my children as her children. And the bond is still there.