THREE LITTLE THINGS WITH LARGE IMPACT

 

THREE LITTLE THINGS WITH LARGE IMPACT 

September 2001

 

 

That wisest of men, Solomon, often spoke of the power and importance of little things.  He encouraged the lazy man to consider the ant (Prov. 6:6).  He admired the little conies (Prov. 20:26) for their tenacity.  He warned about the moment that could ruin a life (Prov. 7:22).

 A recent biking accident has left me with a lot of time to think.  I’ve spent a good bit of that time thinking about three little things.  One involved a tiny amount of time, another a rather insignificant amount of space, and a third that in comparison to so much more that was going on just doesn’t seem so big, but it was, and is:

 

#1:  If I had only looked over my shoulder before making that left hand turn into the path of a pickup truck that was passing me, none of this would have happened.  A split second of neglect has affected me for the rest of my life.

 #2:  If the pickup truck had been six inches the right, I would be dead.

 #3:  We’ll wait on that one for a while.

Too many of us assume that life is made up of a sequence of big events: birth, graduation, marriage, having children of one’s own, death.  To be sure these, and other events like them, are seismic happenings that leave the landscape of our lives changed, but the bulk of our life is not lived there.  If we picture our life as a container filled with various sized rocks, from quite large down to grains of sand, we would find that the most volume is taken up with sand and pebbles--little stuff.  I’m not saying we ought to ignore the boulders, but I fear too many of us live life in an attempt to jump from one big rock to the next.  In the process of only living "my" life looking back to the last great happening, or ahead to the next big event, I fail to appreciate the cumulative power and weight of the little things in my life.  Furthermore, as my experience demonstrates, one never knows which little thing will swell up to instantly life-altering dimensions.

 On the lovely fall day when I smashed my hip and collarbone on the side of a pickup truck, my heart, with the rest of my country was heavy.  A few days before terrorists had attacked New York, and Washington DC, killing thousands of men, women, and children.  Others had died in Pennsylvania, apparently able, at the last moment, to prevent the hijackers from crashing this plane into yet another public building, but unable to save their own lives.

 When a little girl at my church heard about my wreck, her response was, “Didn’t he look?”  No, I didn’t.  I’ve been biking for years.  I always look.  Such a little thing, yet on this occasion, as the sound of the approaching truck was masked by the noise of a departing car, that failure to look was a near-deadly, certainly costly oversight. 

 In the time since the accident, I’ve thought numerous times of the perversity of me being laid up by such a small matter, when all around me events that will fill the pages of history were transpiring.  I even felt guilty that my little-thing-inspired calamity would sidetrack others from praying about, and showing concern over the big one that was going on all around us.  I’m coming more and more to realize as I contemplate the whole matter, that I just have to leave that with the Lord.  He was not busy in conference with President Bush, when I was distracted just at the moment I needed to be paying attention.  He was not wringing His hands over the whereabouts of terrorist leaders, when flesh met steel on that country road.  He was there.  He is here.   I think “little” and “big” are concoctions of my mind, not His.  He keeps a running total of the sparrow population. He knows the number of hairs on my head. He can tell you how many times I get up and lie down (For a while now, that number has been zero).  He is intimately acquainted with all my ways, not just the “big” ones.

Perhaps there is another way of putting it. It humbles me to even type the words.  Anything that has to do with one of His children is a big thing.

 One of the first questions most of us learn to ask is, “Why?”

 So why did this happen?  I mean, I was out there trying to get some exercise.   Numerous health-care workers, right after a successful stick, have commented on my “good veins,” no doubt the result of years of aerobic activity.  But look where it has gotten me now.  Lots of folk with cholesterol laden blood, and waistlines that done-lapped a long time ago are up and about and doing their thing, while I huffed and pumped and dieted, and now am stuck in a space about the size of a baby’s playpen.  Why?

I pastor a great church.  We had just entered what I think is the greatest time of potential growth in our history.  Plans were in motion.   Things were beginning to happen.  It’s fun to get up and go to church at Covington Bible.  I didn’t even want to go on vacation, though I was planning to visit some missionaries in a couple of months.  Day after tomorrow will be the third Sunday I haven’t even been able to be at church.  I figure there will be at least that many more weeks before I get to roll or hobble in.  My participation in the mission trip is cancelled.  The disappointment compounds—the ticket is nontransferable and for me to use it later will cost a considerable amount of money.  Why?

I could go on about the incredible inconvenience it is for my wife to have an invalid husband, about how all the kindness being directed toward me could be funneled in much more profitable directions, if only I hadn’t . . . 

I find many reasons to ask, “Why?”

So, Why did this happen?

It happened because, in the words of the little girl, I didn’t look.  I’m not being flip when I say that.  God has so constructed His universe that the choices we make, the actions we take or neglect to take, the words we say, or withhold, have real consequences.  Yet, in the light of Romans 8:28, from another perspective, I have to say that this bed represents God’s will for me.  I can be sure that God watches over and cares about the little things.  Often those little things bear such incredible consequences.  Could God have prevented this accident?  Not only do I answer, “Yes,” but I am inclined to believe that on other occasions God has sovreignly, providentially, guided me away from disaster.  Not only was God in control in relation to my failure to look at its critical timing, He likewise gave the six inches that saved my life.

God has so made His universe that my actions and yours are truly significant—they matter—yet He is not wringing hands in worry over how it will all come out.  If there is one little thing in this world over which God’s sovereignty does not extend, then He is not truly Lord.  To follow the logic of the old poem, if God is not sovereign over the horseshoe nail, then He cannot be in control of the battle, the nation, or the world.

I figure on that Saturday afternoon I was about six inches from dying.  I was making a left hand turn off of the blacktop onto a dirt road.  I slowed to allow the car that was behind me pass, then I quickly stuck out my arm for a signal and started to turn.  The little pickup’s noise, must have been covered up by the sound of the car that had just passed.  When I signaled a turn he was probably already in the left lane passing me.  He almost succeeded in his attempt to miss me.  If he had gotten the truck six inches further left, I would have been badly  scared, upset at  myself for not looking, not much more.  If he had failed to get as far to the left as he did, by just six inches, I’d almost certainly be dead.

I love the Lord, and I’m looking forward to heaven, but I’m glad to say that I’m still here.  Call me carnal if you wish, but I have a wife to love, work to do, sons to watch continue in their growth, grandkids to love and spoil.  I’m very glad for that six inches that spared my life.  I enjoy my food.  I’m incredibly impressed at the kindness of my wife and others.  I guess you could say I’ve gained a new appreciation for little things.

Really, though, that day is no different than any other.  God is not like the airbag in the steering wheel of an automobile—the only time it comes out is in time of real danger.  Rather it is just that God’s care for me was clearly evident that day.  Paul told the Athenians that “in [God] we live, and move, and exist.” (Acts 17:28)  Jesus taught that our life is not maintained by the food we consume, but by the word of God.  (Matt. 4:4)  David pointed out that his times are in the Lord’s hand. (Psalm 31:15)  Amid the twin-tower like destruction of ancient Jerusalem, Jeremiah saw that it was God’s mercy, God’s mercy renewed each day, that kept us all from being consumed.. (Lamentations 3:22-23)  Indeed, Paul points out that not just we, but all the creation is held together by the power of God.  (Colossians 1:17)  Not only in the sense of my creation, but moment by moment, I am because God in His providence makes it so.  It was not only that day that he gave space to live.  He does so everyday.

 

In a morphine fog I was talking to my physician.  He had in his hand the paper that would give him permission to operate on my bashed-up hip.  There were all kinds of really discouraging “could happen”s on that sheet:  You could develop a rupture at the site of the incision.  It might not work, we might have to do a total hip replacement, etc., etc.   I thought about a man I know who recently came to this point concerning a surgical procedure, and just said, “No.”   I understood perfectly.

 More than anything else on my Doctor’s list of horrors, a statement about a little nerve grabbed my attention.  Sometimes the nerve that allows one to pick up his foot (pull your toes up) is damaged, and one has a “drop foot.”  I was told if that happened I’d have to wear a brace.  Somehow that one really got to me.  Visions of special shoes and walking sticks and me walking “funny,” filled my mind.  “I’m not sure I can bear that.”  I thought.  But it was clear, even in my less than alert state, that this was what I ought to do, so I signed.

“Mr. Merrell, I’m going to give you the drug to put you to sleep now.  The next thing you know you’ll be in the post-op.”  I nodded and for all practical purposes died.

I blinked my eyelids closed and opened them to an intensity of awareness that I had never known.  It was as if a pure white strobe light was firing at a million times a second.  One flash was the ceiling of the post-op, the next some image from my memory, then to a dream scene, back to post-op, more rapidly than I can possible explain.  “Where am I?”   “Am I dead?”   “Is this heaven?” This isn't the way Doc. Pinter (my Theology Prof.) described it, but I must be in heaven. 

“Pastor Merrell,”

 I looked at the foot of my bed and saw Laura.  She’s a nurse, a friend of my son.  I don’t know what else she said, but her presence pulled me back to reality.  My focus lowered to my left foot.  My brain sent the signal and I watched the toe wag up and down.

Thank God for little things.

The Christmas Program from . . .

A table of contents of stories from Hogback Ridge, featuring Parson Smedley 

An Introduction to Hogback Ridge and Parson Smedley

The Christmas Program from . . .

When Smedley went out to saddle-up Sairee, the sky had an angry look about it. Smedley’s dark mood kept him from paying much attention to the weather and prevented Flora Jean from pressing her objection. “He’s been out in worse,” she thought. “I reckon that mule’s got sense enough to get both of ‘em home, even if he doesn’t.” As Smedley rode up the lane, Flora Jean said a prayer for the man she loved. “The fact is,” she thought, “I can use some time without a man underfoot. I’ve got bakin’ to do.”

The top of Peter’s Knob, was the best place for a man to clear his head and Smedley’s head sure needed clearing. Taking the bridle off his mule—he figured this head-clearing would take a while--he gave her a clear warning, “Don’t you go wanderin’ off, Sairee. I done had enough messed up business to last me well into the New Year.” Sairee twitched her ears like she always did when the Parson talked to her. She spoke mule fluently and she had learned enough human to get along. Her vocabulary was limited but she understood tone quite well, and the Parson’s tone was clear. Besides, there was late-season grass on the knob and a hollow in the rock held some water from yesterday’s rain. Smedley was glad she stayed put. He only wished he could talk his thoughts into doing the same.

“Lord, that was the absolute worstest program I ever saw, heard of, or ‘magined.” Smedley took turns praying, pacing, staring at the darkening sky, and having conversations with upwards of half a dozen people, none of whom were present. One of them was Rev. Loggins, the Pastor who had taught Smedley so much about preaching, leading a flock, and loving on folks. Rev. Loggins surprised Smedley when he said, “Sounds like it was the Christmas program from the place of Divine eternal retribution.”

“Exactly,” Smedley replied, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Chuckling for a moment at the thought that he had, in fact, said it himself.

Smedley had felt ill at ease about the program for the last week or so. Flora Jean had tried to reassure him about it. She was almost always right, and she never lied to her husband, but she sure missed this one! Smedley still couldn’t lay a finger on what had troubled him. It was, “just something in my gizzard,” he said. His concern had led to him checking on everything. “Ever-thing looks good,” he had mused, but still . . .”

Missy Bedletter and Kora Jo Danning had done a bang-up job. They wrote up the play themselves and had Opal mimeograph copies down at the school. They’d brow-beaten their husbands into gathering up the children and bringing them to the practices in their buggy and wagon. They found out Horace Smithers was home from Erkin College and corralled him into playing the music. He made that old wheezy pump organ sound like one of those five-acre pipe organs at one of the rich folk’s churches down in Charlotte. They even got the Hogback Ridge Quilting Society to make the costumes. One of the robes was more patches than what was patched, but Missy just named that character “Joseph” and wrote in a line about his robe being just like his name-sake.

In short, in spite of the Parson’s doubts it looked like Flora Jean was right, “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, and then added with a tone like she’d just held the Rook to be sure she won the last trick, “there’s nothin’ you can do about it anyhow.”

The debacle—Smedley had just read that word in a book and thought it fit well—started right at the beginning. Edna McClosky had insisted at the last minute that her grandson, L. Buxton McClosky, who had just arrived from Chicago for a Christmas visit, have a part in the play. Missy and Kora Jo had tried to put her off, and truth be told, it didn’t look like young McClosky was all that interested anyhow, but Edna insisted, and she was the best insister anywhere in these parts. They gave Buxton two lines. He was to welcome the crowd at the beginning and tell them cookies were waiting at the end of the program. Altogether, all he had was about fifteen words to remember, but he didn’t remember.

Dressed in the Windy City’s finest L. Buxton made his way to center stage, and just stood and grinned. After a time, Edna began to mouth his lines for him, but to no avail. “Never has so little, been forgotten so thoroughly, by one so well-encouraged,” Smedley said to his invisible guests. Finally, Smedley had stood up and welcomed the folk, to which L. Buxton replied, for all to hear, “Yeah, what he said.”

It was downhill from there.

A. J. Smith’s lamb that was as “gentle as a kitten,” suddenly became as wild as a bobcat. It took ten minutes to catch it. Instead of the shepherds abiding in the field, they laughed on the stage.

Rodney Pickens had that look in his eye—you know the look that says, “I’m up to something.” When the wisemen showed up, much to Missy and Kora Jo’s horror, the look had spread to his whole face. They knew they’d better do something, but before they could, he and his two companions broke into song, “We three kings of orient are, trying to smoke a loaded seegar.” All three wisemen, suddenly turned into wise guys, whipped out what looked like real stogies and yelled, “Boom.”

Three mothers mortified and angry, hauled the three not so wise boys outside for a serious conversation, which everyone in the congregation heard clearly. The summary is, “Whack, whack, whack, to which the suddenly contrite boys, replied, “Ow, OW, wail!” Herod winced at every “Whack,” causing his crown to come loose and fall to the floor. It fell in something the errant lamb had left behind.

That was when Smedley got up and did some serious ad-libbing. He was pretty sure nobody heard a word he said. He was even more confident that that was just as well. Smedley was actually glad that L. Buxton not only forgot his closing line as thoroughly as he had his first but also forgot to even to step out of the shadow where he’d been instructed to wait. Finally, Kora Jo, much flustered, stood up and ended the program as well as she could. “Thank you and good night.” The two program directors and Smedley weren’t in any mood for Cookies, even though some of them were Smedley’s favorite, peanut butter. So, the crowd just left, boys trying to stifle chuckles, mother giving the look that said, “Don’t even think of it,” many heads wagging, and one forlorn parson looking for a place to hide.

The sky had gotten darker and the air colder, as Smedley thought, prayed and carried both ends of the multiple conversations. He was so involved with all that was in his head that he didn’t hear the automobile crunching up the gravel road. At first, he thought the voice behind him was one of the characters who had shared the saddle with Smedley on the trip up the crooked road. But none of the people in Smedley’s head called him Reverend. “Reverend Smedley,” the voice said, and then Smedley heard the unmistakable sound of teeth chattering.

All, at once Smedley realized that it was really getting cold. Snow was almost certain to fall. As he turned to see where the very real voice and chattering were coming from, he saw a man, maybe in his thirties, dressed in the garb of a banker or some such, no top coat, no hat or gloves, and shoes that clearly weren’t up to keeping ones feet warm on this blustery December Day.

“Brother, what are you doing out on a day like this, dressed as you are?” As Smedley spoke he grabbed an old blanket he kept rolled up and tied to Sairee’s saddle, “for emergencies.” The man wrapped himself in the blanket and recovered a bit before he answered.

“I just drove up from the Mile Long Bridge.”

Smedley eyed the car and noticed it was a touring car. “That’s, what, five miles from here? No wonder you’re cold. Why would you go to Mile Long Bridge on a day like this, and why would go dressed like you are? Didn’t you know you’d be froze afore you got back home?”

Smedley wondered because the Mile Long Bridge wasn’t a bridge you could drive on. It was a swinging bridge. It was nowhere near a mile long, but when the wind was whistling up Wildcat Gap, like it would today, it seemed at least that long. There were a couple of hard-scrabble farm families who lived on Freeman’s Ridge who used the bridge to get back and forth. Other than some hunters, nobody else ever crossed it. Clearly, the cold stranger who had suddenly appeared was neither farmer nor hunter. What could have compelled him to go to such a place on such a day?

“I wasn’t planning to go back home. I went there to jump off.” The stranger said, flatly.

The very thought sent shivers up Smedley’s spine. “What in the world for?” Smedley asked the stranger.

“This morning I showed up at the insurance office, where I work, like I always do. The boss met me at my desk. I knew what he had to say, before he said it. “This just isn’t working out,” he said. “I need you to pack up your belongings. See Molly,” she’s the accountant, “before you go, she’ll settle up with you.” My wife’s pregnant. I’m behind on my mortgage. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Well, I’m sure glad you changed your mind. That jump would have made you a goner for sure and that wouldn’t a helped yer wife a bit, but if you don’t mind me asking, what caused you to change your mind?”

“It was something you said last night.”

“Something I said,” Smedley said, amazed and wondering out loud. “What’d I say?”

“You said something about how last night didn’t work out the way you planned. You said, “Life’s like that, ain’t it? But here’s what’s fer sure. Make sure you hold onto this.” Then you read some Bible verse, something sixteen.”

“John 3:16,” Smedley said, not because he remembered, but because he knew that’s what he hoped he had said.

“Yeah, that’s it. God so loved, that He gave His Son. I was try’n to figure out which side of the bridge to jump off of. Ain’t that crazy? ‘N I thought a that. Kinda seemed like the wind was a talkin’ to me, howlin’ at me really, “Siiiixxxteeeen.” Anyhow, I figured if you could say something about love after that mess, maybe I oughta give things another try. I saw yer mule as I was drivin’ by I hoped it was you, so I pulled . . .”

“I don’t think I saw you, last night.” Smedley interrupted.

“Nah, I came in late ‘n sat in the back. My nephew was one of the shepherds. I got there on my way home from work.”

The icy blast that sent a shiver down Smedley’s spine brought him out of his head-shaking wonderment. “Well, say, what is your name?”

“Pete, Pete Dumford.”

“Well, Pete, if we don’t get you off’n this knob, soon, it’ll be April afore we get this car down & we’ll both be plum froze. We need ta talk some more, but not here. Tell ya what. You keep that blanket wrapped around ya ‘n head on down this road the way you was goin. Go right at the fork. My house is the first place on the right.” As he spoke Smedley wrote something on a scrap of paper he’d fished out of his pocket, with the stub of a pencil he always carried. “Give this to my wife, Flora Jean, tell her I’ll be down directly.”

It was way past bedtime, but Smedley just sat rocking, enjoying the warm fire and the satisfaction that came from the half-dozen peanut butter cookies, he’d eaten while he talked with Pete. “Lord, who-da thunk. . .” Smedley’s thoughts were interrupted by the hand on his shoulder. Flora Jean enjoyed the warmth of the fire and greater warmth in her heart for a moment. Smedley felt the warmth from the fire soak into his bones, and the reflection of the flames in Flora Jean's eyes warmed Smedley’s soul.

After a time she smiled and said, “I told you it would be all right.”

And it was.

 

Other Stuff Table of Contents

Other Stuff, Table of Contents:

• Joy in Washing a Car
  A little reflection on my grandson becoming a man.
• Irene's Journey
  This is rough.  My mom wrote a summary of her life.  I just scanned the pages and put them in order.  It is a lovely account, though, well worth the trouble of dealing with the unpolished manuscript.

• THREE LITTLE THINGS WITH LARGE IMPACT
  I wrote this in September or October of 2001, not long after 9/11. 
  The story is about an event that nearly ended my life and
  three little parts that of that event that continue inform my life.

Tales from the Hogback, #13, Epilogue

EPILOGUE

I almost missed it.  To tell you the truth I'm not sure why I read the obituaries that day--I usually don't.  When I saw the name "James Robert Smedley" I just had to wonder.  It was he.  I had to look a couple of times; I'd never seen him dressed up, but clearly it was he.

I had listened to his tales over countless cups of coffee, yet I didn't even know where he had lived.  I thought, maybe a little selfishly, that I could find out about him from those who attended the funeral, that I could finally find out just where on the map Hog Back Ridge was located, that I could put a date to the beginning and end of Parson Smedley's ministry.

I guess it was at the funeral that I changed my mind.  The funeral director had asked me if I would mind helping to carry the casket.  No formal pallbearers had been selected, and the staff of the funeral home and I were about the only ones there who didn't look like candidates for the next funeral. 

What if he just made it all up--a lonely old man creating a past for himself and populating it with creatures of his imagination?  Maybe he was Smedley, Jim Bob, the preacher’s lanky son, but humility prevented him from revealing it.  Or, maybe there was no Hog Back Ridge, no little meeting house with a stop sign plugging the hole in the cellar, no mule-riding parson named Smedley.

I guess the whole thing had become too much a part of me.  I couldn't stand the thought of finding out that it wasn't that way at all.  Maybe when I'm older and braver I'll do the journalistically responsible thing, but for now all that I know about my friend is contained on a faded obituary that I carry in my wallet.  And, a bunch of wonderful tales that I carry in my heart.

Tales from the Hogback #12, Blue Ribbon: Rewards, True & False

REWARDS, TRUE & FALSE

Really there were much easier ways to get to the Jefferson County Fair, but as Smedley walked through the woods down the big mountain he was thoroughly enjoying himself.  He could have waited and gone with Flora Jean on the Jones's wagon.  It was piled high with quilts and carefully wrapped jars of prize preserves not to mention Joneses, but there was still plenty of room for Smedley.  For that matter he could have ridden Sairee.  In fact Smedley felt a little bad that he hadn't brought her.  He always felt a little foolish for thinking so, but he was convinced that she enjoyed the trip to the fair.  "Reckon she enjoys bein’ with her kind as much as we do with our'n." he reasoned.  Even if he was determined to walk he could have walked on the road and avoided the briars and occasional rough places, not to mention the spring branches he had to cross.

The parson prayed as he walked along.  Like a child at the dinner table he prayed with his eyes wide open thanking the Lord for whatever met his gaze.  "Lord, I thank you for the blue sky, and the clouds with the promise of rain.  But Lord I thank thee thet it ain't rainin' today, cuz it sher would ruin this beautiful time.  I thank thee Lord fer givin' that song to Mr. Bob White over in the thicket an' fer sendin' that gray squirrel to gather nuts along as I'm travlin' to town.”

It was a grand day, and Smedly, who was "about peopled out," was enjoying it immensely.  Just enjoyment, though, wasn't what motivated him to take this route to the fair; every once in a while he would spy evidence of the real reason he came this way.  No one else would have noticed, but here and there Smedley would notice the print of a cloven hoof in the soft ground.  A few times he saw some hair caught on a briar.

"Looky there," Smedley crowed to the crow in the tree, when he came to a patch of torn of up ground, "Looks like Mahershalalhashbaz is living right up to his name.  Sorry Mr. Squirrel, Ol' Maher got some a' yer acerns and ches'nuts, but if it's any consolation to ya, the hog thet et your dinner is the finest hog in Jefferson County.  He's gonna win a blue ribbon fer my boy."

Mahershalalhashbaz was the hog Jim Bob Smedley had raised.  He had hauled slop from three different neighbors to keep him supplied.  The Smedleys didn't have the money to buy corn to fatten the hog so every evening Jim Bob would take him to the woods where there was a good supply of chestnuts and let him root and eat his fill.  It was while watching him hasten to the spoil that Smedley suggested his name.*  Everybody that saw the hog told Jim Bob that he was a shoo-in for the big prize at the fair. 

Since the Smedley's didn't have a wagon and since the hog was tame as a dog--better than many--the Smedley clan came up with a plan for getting the boy and pig to the fair.  They'd leave a day early and just meander along.  Maher would have ample opportunity to feed and young Jim Bob would have plenty of time to get him all spiffed up once they got there.  It was kinda' an odd way to get a hog to the fair, but it worked out all right.

The next day the activity at the Smedley campsite began early.  Flora Jean had to get her quilt to the judging, and the younger children had new friends to make and adventures to get into.  Jim Bob & Smedley set in to make sure that Mahershalalhashbaz didn't live up to the reputation of his kind.  They washed him and cleaned his hooves with a scrub brush.  The ring in his nose shone in the morning sun.  It seemed the big porker must have known that something important was up, because he put up with it all pretty well, for a hog anyhow. 

By the time the cleaning operations were completed a considerable group of on-lookers had gathered to admire this fine specimen of swinedom.  Smedley and Jim Bob were particularly interested to see Jake Reardon admiring the Smedley entry.  Jake was the farm manager for the Widow Winstead, about the richest person, and owner of the finest farm, in the county, maybe the state, for all the parson and his son knew.  Jake had a reputation for having an eye for stock, second to none.

"Fine lookin' hog you got there, boy,"  he said to Jim Bob, with a wink.

"Yes sir," Jim Bob replied, trying to look calm.  But when Jake was out of sight Jim Bob couldn't resist slapping his dad on the back and hollering out loud.  "Didja hear that?  Didja hear what Jake said about Maher?"

"Now, jest calm yerself." Smedley admonished, though he was about as excited as his son, "It ain't over 'til it's over."  I'll stay here & keep ol' Maher outa' trouble.  You go & git yerself cleaned up so you kin show him."

When that boy and that hog left for the show ring there wasn't a prouder man on earth than Parson Smedley, and he had a right to be.

Smedley was used to seeing the typical mountain hogs that existed on what slop was left from the family table, which the way most folk lived in those parts wasn't much, and what acorns and chestnuts they could root out in the area available to them.  They often had worms, and were just, well scrawny.  The beasts that met Smedley's gaze at the fair were gigantic, but for size and form none were the equal to the animal standing next to his son. 

"Ladiiiies and Gent-le-men," the chairman of the county fair committee intoned.  "I am glad to recognize as the judge of our swine competition the honorable Rueben C. Galepoke." 

The crowd tried to suppress their shock.  Rueben was the County Commissioner and it was appropriate that he receive some honor at the fair, but the only thing that he knew about pork was that ham and eggs were good for breakfast. 

Smedley's heart sank.  But as each handler brought their entry into the ring Smedley noticed something that revived hope in his breast.  As Rueben circled each hog, pretending to look at it, he would glance up at Jake Reardon, who was sitting next to his boss in the front row.  A slight nod or lift of the eyebrows from Jake would follow some of the glances while at other times Jake's face showed no response.  After he circled each hog Rueben made marks on a piece of paper he was carrying.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the chairman again held forth, "our honorable judge, Commissioner Galepoke has chosen the following entrants as finalists in the competition."  As the names were read from Rueben's notes the crowd murmured its approval.  "Maybe the licker dealer, turned politician knows more about hogs than we thought." one gnarled old farmer commented.  Now Smedley was sure.  Jake Reardon was the real judge in this competition and now hope burned bright once more in the parson's heart.

"Quiet, quiet," the chairman hollered, as you know, by long standing tradition, Winstead Farms has made a standing offer of one hundred dollars for the blue ribbon hog in this competition.  Mrs. W. W. Winstead has asked me to announce that in honor of the Fiftieth Anniversary of Winstead Farms, founded by the late W. W. Winstead, that this year Winstead Farms is offering two hundred dollars for the winning hog."  Near bedlam broke loose in that arena, but finally the crowd settled for the big conclusion. 

Rueben followed the same procedure for the five finalists that he had earlier.  Smedley lifted his gaze from Jake Reardon only enough to see which hog Reuben was circling.  Jake's weather beaten face betrayed no emotion, until Rueben circled Mahershalalhashbaz.  Just the slightest lift of an eyebrow said it.  Rueben officiously made some marks on his paper and started back to the chairman when someone else caught his eye.  Sam Morrison the editor of the Mt. Elmo Star, looked Reuben right in the eye and patted something he had stuck in his jacket pocket.

After conferring with the chairman for a moment Reuben took another look at the hogs.  The behavior from Jake Reardon and Sam Morrison was just as before.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the winner of the yellow ribbon is Jasper Peters, for his hog Bluebell.  The winner of the Red Ribbon is James Robert Smedley, for his hog, Maher . . ."

Before the announcer could finish the name the crowd sighed, people looked at one another in wonderment and began to murmur, most didn't even hear when the winner was announced as Elmer Morrison of Mt. Elmo for his hog El Prezedente'.

The trip back home was much different than the trip down the mountain of just a few days before.  Jim Bob was trying not to cry and trying not to let any one see when he couldn't help it.  Smedley was wondering, "Why a man who runs his mouth fer a livin' cain't think a nuthin' to say to ease his own boys hurt?"  Flora Jean with her usual skill was keeping everything running along.

Life got back to normal after a while.  Oh sometimes Flora Jean and Smedley would think about that $200, but they tried not to.

They were reminded about what really matters a few days later by two items of news.  Mrs. W. W. Winstead died.  "Says here in the paper thet all the heirs is in an uproar over whose gonna git what.  The Lawyer came n' locked up the whole business 'til they kin git it sorted out."

"An' looky here, Says Reuben C. Galepoke was arrested last week fer sellin' illegal whiskey in his store."

The Winstead estate was tied up in court for years.  Jim Bob had forgotten all about Mahershalalhashbaz when it was finally settled.  When all the papers were finally cleaned out a letter was found in Mrs. Winstead's old roll top desk.  Eventually it found its way to Private First Class Robert Smedley, Fort Campbell Kentucky.

Dear James,

For over twenty five years it has been the practice of Winstead Farms to pay top dollar for the finest hog produced in Jefferson County.  My foreman informs me that though I have purchased the hog that won the blue ribbon, I have not obtained the best.  If you will be good enough to bring your animal by, my bookkeeper will write you a check for $200.

Sincerely,

Mrs. W. W. Winstead

Jim Bob just smiled.  "That was mighty expensive bacon we et."

[* The name of Jim Bob’s hog is taken from the book of Isaiah, 8:3.  It very roughly translates as one who is quick to grab up what he can.]

Previous Tale  --  Epilogue

Growing Pains Table of Contents

Growing Pains

• One Out of Four
• Suck It Up
• The View From Behind
• A New Card In My Roledex
• Run Kelly Run
• Running On Prom Night

Hogback Ridge Table of Contents:

TALES FROM THE HOGBACK

• Prologue
• DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH
• A Slow Ride
• THE STOPPER
• Politically Speaking
• Nobody
• The Big Meetin'
• Faithful
• A Strange Perfume
• Smedley's Christmas Adventure
• How Lightnin' Jones Went Down and Up at the Same Time
• Blue Ribbon: Rewards, True and False
• The Christmas Program from . . .
• Epilogue

Irene's journey

This post is pretty rough, but it is what it is.  

My Mom, Irene Hargrove Merrell died this past Monday, September 30. 2013.

You can see the dates on my mom's little autobiography.  The only form in which I had it was as typed pages.  I simply copied them here as images.  

Since Mom's record ends 13 years ago, I added an addendum.  I haven't edited it, so again it is what it is.  I just wanted to get some stuff down while it was on my mind and the rest of the families.

I hope reading about my mom will bless you, as knowing her has blessed many.

Added by Howard:

Until about 2007 Mom's life continued in the same pattern.  She enjoyed living in her little apartment that is attached to my house.  She enjoyed visits from the other kids and from the grandkids who were now out on their own.  Christopher, her oldest Grandchild gave her the name Gooma.  I think it was because in Christopher's world all the regular names for a grandparent/great-grandparent had been used up, so "Gooma" it was.  The other greats followed along & soon even we adults referred to mom as "Gooma."

The situation where mom lived was ideal.  She was very close to Kathy and I, yet on her own.  She had her own kitchen, laundry, car.  Half of the garage was hers.  She parked her car there and had shelves for storage.  She even had a "backyard."  It consisted of a small deck, a little table with two chairs, a couple of planters and a bench, where she would often sit in the sun.  The warmth seemed to help her arthritis.

As mom indicated she had suffered with various ailments most of her life.  I was amazed at the level of health mom enjoyed at this point in her life.  She often went to Texas in the winter time to visit my brother and avoid the worst of the cold and snow.  She enjoyed meetings with a quilting group, outings with the Senior Saints, and all things related to her church.  I'm glad to say that, while she had days that were made hard by sickness and pain, and she never really got over missing Dad, she was quite happy.

Kathy and I began to notice, however, that Mom was more forgetful.  We were concerned that she wasn't taking her medicine properly, things like that.  One day, unknown to her, I followed her to Walmart, to see if she could still drive.  She passed, and stayed on the road for a few more months.  After eye surgery the doctor told her not to drive for a time. She planned to drive again.  Kathy and I had our doubts.  She had allowed one of our sons to use her car while she was grounded.  It needed some work.  She wanted it fixed, so we had it fixed, probably spending more than it was worth.  As the time approached for her release from the doctor, Kathy and I were sure mom shouldn't drive any more.  We talked to my siblings and they agreed.  I dreaded the conversation, but a day or two before her medical release she and I were alone at church.

"Mom, the other kids and I don't think you should drive any more."
With barely any hesitation she replied something like, "OK."
It took another thirty seconds to discuss what to do with her car.  I suggested giving it to one of her granddaughters who was going away to school.  She thought that was a good idea.  In less than two minutes the dreaded conversation was finished and she never complained afterwards.

I'm not sure if mom's mind went back to the days when I was four and five, and we lived in a small apartment in Harvey IL, maybe.  The apartment, back then, had poor heat, especially in the kitchen, so to warm the space mom would sometimes light the oven and open the oven door.  The apartment she lived in a few years ago, had a little electric range.  She got in a habit of turning it on for heat, sometimes forgetting she had done so.  We also found a strange odor in her apartment one day.  Investigation revealed that she had put some chicken in her stove one day, and forgotten about it.  If I remember correctly it wasn't even cooked.  After a few days, the stench got pretty bad.
About the same time she began to mix up her medicine.  We had been using one of those seven day pill boxes for some time.  Maybe on Wednesday, mom would notice that Monday and Tuesday were empty, so she would take pills from Wednesday- Saturday and put them in the empty compartments.  On a couple of occasions she found some pills she wasn't even taking any more and supplemented several day's stock.
We turned off the breaker to her stove, and found all her medications and took them to our house.  We would give her her meds. three times a day.  As long as she was in the apartment she was still able to make coffee, and work the toaster.  She would get her own breakfast most days.  It might consist of toast with chocolate pudding on it, but she got breakfast.  We would eat one meal together, either in her apartment or at our house, and for the other meal we would bring her a plate.  Several times she mentioned to Kathy, "I think something is wrong with my stove."
Kathy would go over and appear to fiddle with the controls, and announce, "You know, I think there is."
Mom would again forget for a while.  Kathy was glad she never lied to her, or had to have an unpleasant confrontation.

Shortly before mom moved out of her apartment, Kathy and I planned to take a trip to Texas to see our son and his family, and my brother.  We took mom along.  It was her last trip (other than the final move she made to Indiana.).  Her inability to adapt, her obvious lost-ness in unfamiliar surroundings, and some struggles with personal hygiene made it absolutely clear that she needed other living arrangements.  My sister, Judy, had recently become an empty-nester.  She had room and wanted mom to make her final home with her.  Since her twin sister, Carol, lives about a half mile away, the situation was ideal.  Mom had a very nice two room suite, with her own bath.  For most of the time she was there she was able to come to the table and get her meals.  At first she helped with simple tasks like folding laundry or helping with meal preparation.  As her mind deteriorated she would "straighten up her room" which consisted of taking all of her clothes out and replacing them in new locations.  Finding them provided my sister with excitement.
Fairly soon Mom forgot her old home.
She couldn't name any grandkids.
Ted, Becky, Kathy and I became unknowns, though it appeared to me by some of her gestures that Mom knew we were someone who belonged.
She began to confuse Judy with Carol, and then couldn't remember either of them.
One of the most difficult times for my sister were the times when mom would cry with confusion.  She couldn't remember who she was.
Finally, her mind dulled to the point that she wasn't confused, just, mostly, blank.  I likened her life to looking out of a moving vehicle through a narrow slit.  She saw nothing of the past, or future, just the immediate present, which I am glad to say still had moments of joy for her.  Probably her chief joy involved little children.  She enjoyed meeting Fiona, my brother's older grandchild and Gooma's seventh great.  She was able to meet number eight, Ava Rae, via Skype.  My Brother and I were at moms for a visit.  Mom reached out her hand and tried to touch the babies face that she was seeing on the computer screen.  For that moment she was happy.

For quite a while whoever was feeding mom would have to repeatedly remind her to take another bite.  A few weeks ago, those reminders became ineffective.  She stopped eating, and then stopped swallowing liquids.  Hospice came to help.  In her emaciated condition, bedsores appeared.  Thankfully, they were controlled, but with no nourishment it was clear that mom would soon die.

In a flash of clarity that my sister will treasure for all her life.  Mom looked at her and told her, "I love you too."
A couple of days later Mom died.

What a privilege it was to know her and be a part of her family.

HM, October 5, 2013

Other Stuff, Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #6, RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT:

RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT

  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."

It is 8:30 on prom night and I'm not feeling so good.  No, it's not that I'm having a bad date.  I'm not having a date at all.  I'm 43; I have never been to a prom and at this point I don't intend to go.  My son, though, who is 17, tall, good-looking, very popular, an all-state runner, and excellent student, very much wanted to go, but he didn't go either.  Right now as I begin to put my thoughts into the computer he is at his girl-friend's house, looking at her dress. 

In a way that is appropriate for a 17-year-old he loves her and she him.  She is a nice girl, cute in a pixie sort of way.  Except for the difference in height--if Chris lays on his back, his toe comes up to Nancy's waist--everyone says that they make a perfect couple.  But everyone knows that their difference in altitude is really not important. 

If anyone other than my hard-drive ever reads this article, by the time they get to this point they will be crying out, "Why?"  As I read these words on the screen I wonder if even some chip in this machine--built on logic as it is--is going to suddenly flash a message on the screen,

Does not compute.  Please provide justification.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach asks the same question, "Why?" 

It's not that I don't trust him.  I do.  A few weeks ago we showed the film, Sex Lies and the Truth, at our church.  At the end of the showing I asked the kids to sign a pledge card promising to maintain a standard of sexual purity.  He signed, and later told me that a week before, he and Nancy had been talking and had come to the point where they had made those promises to one another.  When he told me that, there was this little guy in my head pumping his arm, saying, "Yes, yes, YES!"

As you can imagine my son and I have had several conversations about tonight.  I wrote him a letter.  He was around for some of the conversations that I had with his older brother (Who is at the prom.  I'll explain in a minute.), when I tried my best to explain my reasoning.  Neither of them were impressed.

"Why?" you say, "Why are you doing this to him?"  I have asked myself the same question over and over.  I have problems with the sexual overtones of the modern dance, but can't say that I am absolutely opposed to dancing.  I know David and Meriam and others in the Bible danced.  Though I am sure that what they did is far different than what my son's friends will be doing tonight.  I pastor a church that has an official postion that says that those in positions of leadership are to abstain from dancing, and several other taboos.  I have gone on record as saying that that clause should be removed from our constitution.  I am quite sure that if my son went to the prom he would do more sitting than dancing.

Likewise, I have trouble with the music, mostly with the words to some of the songs.  Though my conclusion is that music itself is a neutral vehicle, I realize that some of the songs use that vehicle to push buttons that I don't want pushed in my son or his girl.  Still, I have realized long ago that I cannot isolate my sons from the "sounds of the world."  He can, and probably does on occasion, “tune it in,” dance or no dance.

The local school has done a good job of promoting an alcohol free event, and even if it were served I don'think Chris would drink any.

I have surveyed my mind again and again.  My background is one that matches the mentality of our church’s constitution--dancing is one of those things that Christians simply don't do.  I think I have pretty well sorted out my past, keeping the good stuff and throwing away the junk.  But, have I?  Could I be making my son pay a price because I am holding on to some vestige of my tradition?  I know that there are those who would look down on me if I were to let my son go to the prom.  There are those who would try to feed me some of my words spoken at a time when talk was cheap.  Again, I honestly don't think that is the reason.  In fact I think those who look down on me because of my present position out number my hypothetical detractors should I let him go.  It hurts me to think that Nancy, her parents, my older son, and who-knows-who-else think I am wierd.  I find myself almost getting paranoid about it.  "Are they talking about me?"

I still haven't answered the question, “Why?”  I don't have any one single reason.  I can't point to any absolute that I would violate if I let my son go or he would violate if he went.  But when I put the whole thing together I just couldn't say, "Sure, go ahead and go."  I wanted to.  A part of me regrets that I did not. 

Chris has returned from Nancy’s house; he’s out running.  He needs to get his training in, but I am not so foolish as to think that the only reason he is running is for the benifit of his legs and lungs.  Maybe I am wrong, but it was my call to make and I believe that I would be wrong to not call it the way I see it, even if I don't see it as clearly as I would like.

In less than a year when Chris turns eighteen, unless he does something really stupid in the mean time, I will turn over to him some of the decisions that I have been making for him.  I did that with his brother.  I have no doubt that when I tell Chris that the prom is his decision that he will do just as his older brother has done.  He will go.

I don't expect him to always make the same decisions that I would make.  I only expect him to carefully look at the situation, examine the scripture, pray and then do what he concludes is right, even if it is hard.  If I had done anything else tonight I would have failed in setting that example for my son.  I can stand for him to look back and say I think dad was wrong.  I don't want to be wrong, but I know it is inevitable that on occasion I will be.  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."

That is why my son is out running instead of dancing.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #5, RUN KELLY, RUN

RUN KELLY RUN

By

Howard Merrell

Published in Bristol Herald Courier, Feb. 22, 1998

                By the time the young women who run the distance events began their last minute stretches, stride-outs and psych-ups, the track meet had taken on a certain subdued character of its own.  At any one time you could observe some athlete totally focused on giving his maximum exertion to his event, while nearby another participant would be taking a nap.  Groups of participants who had already competed earlier in the day stood around and talked.  Spectators were hot, hungry, and tired. Their attention to the events was sporadic.

            As the parent of a distance runner, I had become familiar with the pre-race ritual.  The routine had an almost religious regularity. Those of us who knew the liturgy could tell that the girls 1600 meter race would begin soon.

            The talk in the stands, among those of us who knew and cared, turned to: Who was fast? Who hadn’t been doing well? We wondered what kind of time the pre-race favorite, last year’s state champ, would have.  The parents and loyal fans were moving to places where they could see better and more effectively yell encouragement to their favorite runner.  Watches were cleared. The fans have their ritual, too.

            Then I heard it—not the real thing, only a weak imitation—from out of a group of fans I heard, “Run Kelly Run”. The three words uttered by a veteran fan brought instant chuckles and conversation from all of us who heard.

            “Is he here?”

            “I think he’s on the bleachers on the other side of the track.”

            “I wonder if we’ll hear him over here?”

            Those of us who knew him had no doubt he would be heard—maybe in the next county. Everyone else was soon convinced.

            The crack of the starter’s pistol had hardly died—the girls were still accelerating; the faster contestants had not yet distinguished themselves from the starting pack—when we hear the voice, the real thing.  It boomed across the infield with a power that defied one to not look for its source.  The voice, sort of like an articulate chainsaw, the two end words elongated for effect, the last slightly less than the first, “RUUUUN KELLY RUUUUN!”

            We were in the presence of a phenomenon, before whom lesser mortals had to shrink.  I am loud, and I often yell myself hoarse at sporting events, but this man is the Babe Ruth of cheering.  The Sultan of Chant!

                                                   RUN KELLY RUN—Page 2

            Like a fog horn on a stormy night, the chant repeatedly fills the track, the bleachers, the surrounding countryside.  The three words of encouragement so fill the air that it is difficult to find the point from which they emanate.  Just the other day I found the source.  I was near enough to him that I could hear not only the famous three words, but words of endearment and quiet encouragement he shared with his daughter when she ran near his seat—or standing place—or pacing area.  The famous chant came from the heart of a dad who loved his daughter so much that he was willing to make a spectacle of himself to help her run.  She chose to run.  He was going to do everything he could to see to it that she did it to the best of her ability.

            “Run Kelly Run!” was still echoing in my mind when I thought about the kid to whom I had given a thumbs up, a “Way to go!” after his event.  I remembered another youngster I had congratulated about a good finish. I wondered about the disappointed kid for whom it just hadn’t happened that day, or the one for whom everything had clicked—he had the performance of his life.

            Don’t get the idea that these are generic kids, made up to flesh out a story.  Each of them has a name.  Each of them is real.  Each participated in the same track meet as Kelly, but there was no one there for any of them.

            I had never seen a mom or dad there to yell for any of these kids.  Oh, there were those of us who seek to encourage them to run, throw or jump, but it isn’t the same.  It can’t be.  Our cheers are sincere, our wishes genuine, our desire to encourage, console, challenge is real.  I’m sure they appreciate the recognition, but I’m equally sure that all of it together wouldn’t measure up to one single heartfelt word of praise from someone who really cares today, cared yesterday, and will still care tomorrow.

            Kelly didn’t win that race.  She came in second, behind the state champ, but she ran a good race.  I am confident she did her best.  I don’t know Kelly or her dad, but I think she will continue to do so.

            I don’t know what kind of a father he is.  I only know that on race days he models something that our culture, our kids, could use a lot more of—parents who are willing to give their kids the priority in their lives that they desperately need and deserve.

            My bellowing friend went to the track meet to encourage his daughter to run.   In the process he encouraged me to be a better dad.

                                                         

                                                        RUN KELLY RUN—Page 3

Newspaper Footnote:  Howard Merrell doesn’t really know Kelly Rector’s father, V.T. Rector, III.   Merrell—from another town and rooting for another team—noticed Rector’s enthusiasm for his daughter.  Three words inspired this story and caused a stranger to re-examine his own role as a parent.  Rector, a graduate, former teacher and coach at Patrick Henry, has been an educator in Washington County, VA, since 1966.  He is currently principal at Rhea Valley Elementary.  Kelly, a 1995 graduate, was All-State in cross country and currently attends James Madison University.  She ran track the first two years but suffered a hip injury and no longer competes.

Footnote from HM:

As it says above I never really knew V. T. Rector.  Chris, my son who is a runner, and I used to refer to him as "Run Kelly Run."
At the meet that I mentioned in the story, somebody took a picture of V. T.  He was kind of hanging out over the railing of the bleachers where he had taken up residence.  The picture which was published with the article above, shows me in the background.
When V. T. died this past year, from complications related to Alzheimer's, the family invited me to read this story at his memorial service.  The service consisted mainly of tributes to V. T.  Kelly's older siblings told how he yelled the same way at football games, and even marching band competitions.  The picture is Kelly and me after the memorial service.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Other Stuff, #6, Joy in Washing a Car:

Who would have thought.
I'm not really a car guy.  I do confess to enjoying a nice ride, but I'm not one of the types who takes pleasure in car-ish things per se.  Yet here I was, this morning, taking a strange joy in washing an automobile, and the car isn't even mine.
It's my grandson's.
It is just about the perfect ride for him.  It's a 2000 Isuzu Rodeo, a vehicle more associated with young soccer moms, who can't afford the latest auto-fashion, than a young man of seventeen.  But my grandson is a drummer. One of the features he was hoping for in a vehicle was enough room to be able to haul his drums to the next gig.  It's a nice car.  It has some of the typical 12 year old car issues, but all in all quite impressive.
One reason I took such joy in cleaning up his car this morning is he bought the car mostly with his own money.  He landed a job with a landscaper/lawn service company.  That little silver SUV represents a lot of days spent in oppressive heat and humidity, walking behind a lawn mower, running a trimmer or operating the most basic of earth-moving equipment--a long-handled shovel.  He was by far the youngest guy in the crew, but he earned the respect of his coworkers by carrying his own load.  I'm pleased not only that he worked for his car, but that my son and his wife insisted that he do so.  In a day when so many youngsters feel entitled to a car of their own, and way too many parents feel obligated to provide their offspring with one, it is good to see this kind of "work for it" standard.
I took joy, as well, in knowing where my grandson drives that car.  Right after I cleaned it up, it went to get ready for a concert he is playing in this evening.  While his music wouldn't be to the liking of many who read this blog (as if many read this blog), it is music played to the glory of God.  Day before yesterday it went to a Bible study with his pastor and another young man.  I figure there is up to ten percent alcohol in the fuel tank.  I'm confident there is none in the driver's tank.
I guess, bottom line, I just took pleasure in knowing that something good is continuing on.  I felt like Joshua, "As for me and my house we will serve the Lord."  Thanks Christopher for living the kind of life so your Papa can take joy in helping you out.

But don't get your expectations up.  That might be the first and last time it ever happens.

Other Stuff Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #4, A NEW CARD IN MY ROLEDEX:

A New Card in My Roledex

For most of his eighteen years whenever I wanted to speak to my son I would yell upstairs.  If he wasn't there at the moment I was confident that hunger, desire for TV and the need of a phone that operates without dropping in a quarter would soon compel him back to home.  It wasn't unusual for me to leave some note on his bed, or to stop into his room right after he had gone to bed, plop down in his chair and shoot the breeze for a few minutes.

All of that changed the day I wrote my son's name and address and phone number in my Roledex and in the little directory that I carry in my Day-Timer.  Such a simple action, as a pastor I do it all the time.  There is someone's name and number that I don't want to forget; I write it down.  But in the midst of the doing, the significance of what was being done hit me.

I thought of the fence that I erected in the back yard to try to contain him.  I smiled as I remembered how he climbed out.  I shuddered again as I remembered the time that Kathy thought I was watching him, and I thought she was, and I looked up to see a policeman walking him down the driveway.  My two year old son had been walking down the middle of the road.  "If this was my boy I'd take better care of him."  The officer sternly said.  Afraid and relieved and humiliated, I stammered some reply. 

I remembered firsts:  the first day at school, his first week at camp, the first time he stayed at grandma's, the time he spent the night with my newly widowed mom because he didn't want her to be alone, his first trip, on his own, in the car. 

This day had been coming all along.  I knew it.  I encouraged it.  I even wanted it.  I am not by nature a sentimental person, but when I put the pen to that little card to write down my son's--different than my own--address it brought a lump to my throat.  Would he be all right, off on his own?  Each of the firsts had brought its own time of anxiety.  Was it too soon?  Had I adequately prepared him?  What if something happens?  Will he remember what I taught him?  Each time the boundaries of his freedom were increased and the level of his responsibility was raised, the potential for disaster was increased as well. 

For years I had preached against the selfish actions of some parents--their trying to hold on to their offspring to meet their own emotional needs.  I still agree with what I preached, but the next time I do so I will do so with a great deal more empathy for those parents who just can't quite cut the string.

I was just thinking about a day in my own life.  I was five or six.  I had mastered the "two wheeler."  My range was limited by the block on which I lived.  I could ride on the sidewalk around the block.  I could ride down the alley that bisected our block, no more.  That way I never had to cross the street.  On the day I'm thinking about, my parents told me that I could cross the quiet residential street on which we lived.  The mailbox on the corner across the street, all those houses and yards seen from afar, the unseen world of the other side of that block were now a part of my domain.  On the day that my parents had doubled my world, as I was crossing the street, a drunken driver doing more than twice the speed limit hit me right in front of my house. 

Were my parents foolish to let me cross the street?  Let me answer with a question:  What would you think of a 43 year old man who never left the block on which he lives?  Maybe it was too soon, but I don't think so.  Try as we will we cannot eliminate risk from the lives of our children, and if we love them we will always have to deal with the fear.  Will he be OK on the school bus?  What if she falls with her roller-skates.  If she strikes out and looses the game will she be marked for life?  Can I trust him to treat that young lady as he should?  If I let him cross the street will a drunken soldier in a Road Master Buick run into him? 

We must teach and trust and teach them to trust and obey, and when the time is right we must let them cross the street.  And we must pray.  And we must listen for the sound of screeching tires, or keep their address handy in our Roledex so we can pick them up if they fall and help them through the next phase of growth.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents