As a teacher, I very often get tired of hearing my own voice. Writing is the same. There are times I simply can’t find new words, or better ways to bring my reader to the moment I wish to share. My dad has a knack for knowing my weariness and as he has always done, he comes to my rescue. That’s how I learned that God has a cleft in the rock where I may rest. Today I’m taking a break, so I hope you enjoy dad’s precious story from his boyhood.
CONSEQUENCES
We have all heard of the University of Hard Knocks. And perhaps, like me, many have at least a BBC degree (Bachelor of Bad Choices) with the diploma (scars) to prove we matriculated and stayed the full term. It is sadly true that some of us have just thick enough noggins to need this kind of education. But for me some of the lessons did not come at the university level, they began long before I had much hair on my chinny-chin-chin, i.e., the primary school level. The lesson – decisions have consequences.
Let me set the stage. My friend Jerry and I had performed a rather formidable engineering feat for a couple of 12-13 year olds. Back of his house out in the Ozark foothills in north White County, AR, was a steep hill and a branch at the bottom. For those who may not understand country nomenclature, a branch is a small stream of water running through a valley. It may or may not be actively flowing at all times. It is dependent on whether it is spring-fed and how recent the rains have come. For this one to be viable for us to play in the water whenever we chose, it was necessary to build a dam and create a swimming pool.
Indoor plumbing was now fairly common in most homes, even this far out in the country, The seat portion of an old abandoned toilet (privy) provided a ready-made hole just the right size to be incorporated in the dam for a spill-way. Lots of digging in the dirt and dragging rocks, etc., were packed around the old toilet seat and presto! We had this marvelous dam that backed a pool of water up about 15-20 feet wide and maybe a couple of feet deep at its deepest. And play in the water….we did.
Seasons and temperatures change, little boys interests are turned to other things and for a while the swimming hole was forgotten. But one fateful cold Sunday afternoon, the swimming hole was covered by a thin sheet of ice. In the yard nearby was a Western Flyer wagon just big enough to hold a young teenage boy. Ideas begin to emerge about how much fun it would be to coast down the hill and cross the earthen dam without hitting the icy water. Dares were issued about who should go first. I remember looking down the hill and it looked like about ½ mile. I go back now and its more like 20-30 yards but still long enough and steep enough to provide a challenge and a thrill. I didn’t want to be the first but I must have been suffering from a bit of brain freeze because the ultimate challenge was issued…..to me… first! “I double-dog-dare you” came from someone who I thought was my friend. Now, if you don’t understand the seriousness of not taking a double-dog-dare, imagine the humiliation of being forever labeled a sissy among your peers. It can disgrace your name to the third and fourth generation of offspring. I couldn’t take that kind of risk so I climbed in the wagon.
A gentle shove sent me over the edge and on my way. Immediately the laws of gravity and motion over-rode any modicum of control I had. Just like a rolling stone (that may not gather moss but…), I gathered momentum and toward disaster I rolled. Near the bottom of the hill, my last second attempt at crossing the dam resulted in an undesired reality, wagon and wheels over boy, and I came to a sudden stop in the icy water about half way across the pond.
The first bit of misery and pain wasn’t so much the cold and wet. From the top of the hill the guffaws, shouting and dancing hit my conscious self with piercing pain. No one rushed to my rescue. The sight had provided too much entertainment and mirth to be broken by something so noble and heroic as offering aid. The fact that I’m alive today is not a testimony of the concern of my friends but my personal desire to survive. And that ain’t all the story!
From where we were to where I lived was about one mile. I had walked it many times but never in wet clothes in freezing temperature. Besides, I was wearing my new Christmas jacket and “school shoes.” What a mess! What a nightmare! But walk home, I did. Upon arriving near my house I could see both mom and dad looking through the living room window. As I crossed into the yard, the glare on Mom’s face let me know she had plans to thaw me out with some applied heat to the backside. But I got a break. I didn’t know it at the time but my dad had been a boy, too. His immediate assessment of my predicament was that the damages weren’t fatal and he saw the funny side too. Strange how there is a difference between being laughed at by my friends and my dad seeing the humor in it all. His “chill” on the situation had a restraining and calming effect on Mom and my hide was spared.
There should be a moral to every mishap to make it worthwhile. And I think there is here. We make decisions for a plethora of reasons, sometimes from a point of good judgment and wisdom. But other times they are made for the expected thrill, to protect how others perceive us or to impress others of our prowess. The point is, decisions have consequences! This is axiomatic in human experience. “You may be sure that your sin will find you out” Numbers 32:23b. Regardless of our creed or code, consequences will be the ultimate arbiter of what is right and what is wrong,
I am glad that my schooling at U of HK so far has not been fatal and I am probably a better man for the experiences. However, not all decisions and consequential results are so humorous and harmless as the one I have cited. I thank God for His mercy in times of for foolishness and for the bits of wisdom I have acquired that keeps me out of cold (or hot) water.
May all your decisions be wise and your consequences be sweet.
After 60-65 years, still recovering from my teens,
Bryan Jones