'MADE IN WRONG...'

Made In Wrong
       

                                      

Like a stick of Blackpool rock, 'Made in Wrong' was the 

smudgy red-lettered identity story running through the centre 

of my life, and, no matter what happened, these three 

seemingly indelible words defined my existence.

Just about every part of me felt wrong. 

All the time. 

On my best day, I was wrong; on my worst day, I was wrong. 

When I was right, I was wrong. When I was wrong, I was 

wrong. When I was happy, my happy was wrong. When I 

was sad, my sad was wrong. 

Through successes and failures alike, I lived under the 

dark, gloomy cloud of ‘wrong’.
But it was more than just living under a cloud; I was

imprisoned by it, ball and chained with ‘wrong’s’ guilt and 

confining threads of shame.

Looking back, the most obvious 'telling' of this wrongness 

was the volatile reaction I had towards anyone who 

contradicted my well-thought-out opinions or expressed 

any opposing point of view to mine. I would 'fight to the 

death' to establish I was right, to have the last word on the 

subject, completely oblivious to the demoralising effect my

very efficient war of words was having on my 'opponent'.

No one likes to think they're wrong about anything, and it's 

natural to defend your position when told you are wrong, 

but my proclivity was not that. It was far too combative and 

gladiatorial to qualify as a ‘natural response’.
The last word on any subject had to be mine. It was not up for 

negotiation. 

Whatever imaginary prize was on offer for being right, as far 

as I was concerned, it had my name on it and was coming home 

with me!
And if I'm really honest, even today, there are times when 

I detect the remnants of this old identity nipping at my 

heels, and I find myself, in the secret place of my heart, 

having to 'take it captive', as the Word of God says, and 

bring it firmly to the obedience of Christ 

(c.f. 2 Corinthians 10:5). 

I have to surrender, again, the deep insecurity this old 

identity is rooted in and mercilessly refuse its entry into 

my heart. Then I get out the healing balm of 

remembrance and brood over the reality that Christ is 

my total RIGHTeousness.

But as with all of us in our different struggles, there 

were reasonsfor this deep warp in my sense of being — 

namely, the relationship I had with my father. 

 

 

Obviously, this is not the place to go into such a deep, 

complicated issue.

Suffice to say (without wanting to dishonour his memory 

and certainly without any kind of malice) that my father 

was a very difficult man, difficulties that intensified after 

the death of my mother at the young age of thirty-five. 

He was almost always angry, constantly shouting, 

criticising, and berating. 

He was an extreme authoritarian who ruled with an 

iron fist, was often verbally cruel, and physically violent.
He championed the word 'no', always telling my three 

siblings and I that we just, plain, couldn’t! Whatever it 

was that our young hearts wanted to do, the answer was 

a firm ‘no’. Either because, in my father’s opinion, 

we were not worthy or because we were not competent 

human beings. 

In our home, there was only one idea, one viewpoint, 

and one ‘want’ that mattered, and that was my father’s. 

Woe betide any of us if we dared to ask the 'why' question.

But as afraid of him as I was, he was a man I loved 

very much, and I totally believed everything he said to 

me and about me — like most ‘daddy’s’ girls do.
I knew, in his own way, he loved me too; there were 

many glimpses of that through the years. But he never 

gave me any reason to think he liked me — quite the 

opposite, in fact. 

Consequently, I would find myself wondering what it was 

in me that he didn't like and what it was that made him so 

angry with me so much of the time. 
Finding the elusive 'it' — the thread that attached the 

'made in wrong' label to my life — was the challenge of my 

younger years. And of course, never being able to find 'it' 

and therefore never being able to unpick 'it', I eventually 

accepted the label.

This must be me.

I am Christine Lewis-Bednarski. Made in Wrong. 

 

Until Jesus, that is.

One Friday evening, as a young Christian, I found myself in a 

local hotel where a visiting preacher was speaking. After 

giving his message, he began praying for people who felt they 

needed it.
I had no interest in being prayed for myself, as I said, I was a 

young Christian with no idea of the complexities of the journey 

ahead of me or just how much prayer, over the years, I would 

need! 

Tonight, I was just curious to see what the preacher man would 

do.
I watched, fascinated, as the people being prayed for were 

either falling over or crying, while others were laughing 

hysterically for no apparent reason! My state of fascination 

came to an abrupt end with a tap on my shoulder. 

 

Approaching me from behind, I heard a woman’s voice 

say, "I feel you need to forgive your father"!
As I turned around to see who would say such a thing to 

me, I saw it was the preacher’s wife, whom I had never 

met before or even spoken to. 

She was leaning in close to me with a look of great love 

and compassion on her face.
However, love and compassion or not, I was so outraged 

at her suggestion that my father had somehow hurt me, 

I almost got down from the bar stool I was sitting on and 

punched her!
Who did this woman think she was?
I can't remember exactly what I said to her. Let’s just say I 

communicated my serious displeasure by telling her what 

she could do with her unsolicited advice!

But she had said the words now, and they couldn't be taken 

back.

They were out there, flashing like neon lights in front of my 

eyes, their unwelcome truth invading my confused soul.
In the days that followed, every one of my senses was 

discombobulated, and my deepest heart broke with a mixture 

of sorrow and rage.
Her unnerving words came at me relentlessly: 'You need to 

forgive your father.You need to forgive your father. You need 

to forgive your father', while everything in 

me screamed back, 'No, he needs to forgive me. 

He needs to forgive me!'

The idea that I needed to forgive my father — that he had hurt 

me in some way — was a repugnant, upside-down reality to 

me. 

You have to understand, when you are 'made in wrong', 

you are the one who needs forgiveness because you are 

always wrong... right?

I couldn't get my head around it, or anything else around it, 

for that matter. I remember curling up in a foetal-like ball of 

crushing shame, her words inescapable, and shouting 

ever louder in my ears: You need to forgive your father. You 

need to forgive… 

YOU NEED TO FORGIVE... YOU NEED TO FORGIVE!'

After days of attempting to push her words out of my purview 

and failing miserably, the moment of limp exhaustion came, 

and, with no fight left in me, I stopped pushing.

I stopped crying too. At which point, very surprisingly, the 

fear of facing the reality that maybe her words could be true 

left me.

And then I saw it — the elusive 'it':

It wasn't that I was 'made in wrong' at all; 

it was that I had been wronged.

The ‘it’ wasn’t in me, it was in him —it was, tragically, his 

identity mess, not mine!

Making the change in my understanding from 

'being wrong' to 'being wronged' was one of the hardest soul 

shifts I have ever had to make.

But, by the grace of God, I made it.

I forgave my troubled father, wholeheartedly.

Today, I know I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
I know that, in Christ, I have been made RIGHTeous 

and that He is all the RIGHTness I will ever need, 

and to be honest, it seems so odd now that I ever believed 

such a lie.

Here’s the thing to know: it takes a split second to believe 

a lie, but theoutworking of that lie and the narrative it 

contains take years to fully unfold. 

When left unexposed, the lie sits quietly, unobtrusively, 

in our soul while, unbeknownst to us, it is influencing 

every life choice until, eventually, the lie becomes our truth, 

our identity, and our life story.

For the liar, this is ‘mission accomplished’, because now 

it’s the Truth that is our enemy, not falsehood. Right is our 

enemy, not wrong. Good is our enemy, not evil. Light is our

 enemy, not the dark. 

Look at what Jesus said to the people back in the day when 

challenging them about the truth of their identity: 
‘When he (the devil) lies, he speaks his native language, for 

he is a liar and the father of lies. Yet because I tell the Truth, 

you do not believe me' (c.f. John 8:45).

This was my story exactly; the lie became my truth, my life, 

and my identity, so when the Truth came to me, I thought it 

was a mean and vicious, unlovely lie!

The Truth He brought to me that day, through the gentle 

whisper of a woman I had never met before, truly slayed me, 

but the freedom His slaying Truth brought was worth 

every tear. 

Today, I am no longer held captive to the daily, bullish 

torment that believing I was 'made in wrong' brought; 

rather, I live knowing I am fearfully and wonderfully made, 

beautiful in my Creator’s eyes, holy, and blameless, 

living before Him in Love.

My prayer for you, dear ones, is that this, my testimony, 

will help you to put your brave on, so that, when Truth 

comes to find you, you will not stand in its way. 

Let Truth have its way, no matter how painful it 

may be in the moment. Remember, weeping is but for a 

night, while joy will always come in God’s good morning.