A belated Father’s Day story-
When I was 9 years old, my family lived in Phoenix, Arizona in a big house with an even bigger backyard. The size of this yard was a 9-year-old dream but for some reason, the garbage barrels were located at the extreme end of our property and a long way from the house. I mean like, in another zip code.
And so we begin our story because, on this particular day, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I happened to wander into our kitchen when my mother decided to ask me to throw away many, many, many, many paper bags…completely full to the brim of glass jars. There were jelly jars, peanut butter jars, and pickle jars, In fact, I think any jar she had ever owned, ever, she wanted me to dispose of on that day.
As I think about this now, she may have well just told me to traverse the Sahara Desert without water. That actually might have been easier.
Nevertheless, I remember thinking this task would take me all day because of the distance and the brutal heat in Arizona. I think it was close to 150 degrees that day.
But then I had an idea…like 9-year-old boys do…I would make it fun. So I proceeded to take care of this task in my usual manner and turned this massive project into a game…with a little ingenuity of course. As I schlepped each bag the many miles to the back of the yard I began to hatch my idea of slinging all those jars over the fence and into the garbage cans on the other side. I wanted to hear that sound of breaking glass and I thought this might be the greatest game of jar basketball ever played.
But then something went terribly wrong. You see unbeknownst to me, just as I completed my last shot in the general direction of where I thought the garbage cans were, I saw my mother moving towards me at what I call her “mall” pace; Which was the pace she used in the mall which was crazy fast as I could never keep up with her…but I digress.
She must have seen me throw the last few jars from the house window and then start moving towards me. For one brief second, I experienced a moment of relief as she blazed by me but that was very short-lived because she opened the yard gate and gazed at what was on the other side.
You can imagine my surprise when I discovered that I actually didn’t land any of the jars into the garbage barrels as I thought. Rather ALL of them ended up in the city street in a long pile, 6 inches high with a peak of broken glass right about dead center…Yep…dead center in the street. Cars could not get past this mess. In fact, I remember cars flipping U-turns and heading the other way it was so bad.
My mom slowly turned her gaze on me. Her eyes peered deeply into my soul and all she said was one phrase, “Wait until your father gets home.”
Now, you are probably wondering why that simple phrase would strike true anxiety in me? Because I had the Fear of Dad…real bad, and not because he beat me all the time; No, because he was Dad and he had the power to beat me all the time, or at least that is what I thought because that is what 9-year-old boys think.
At that moment though, my mom and I shifted into hyperdrive and we spent the next 2 hours cleaning up the mess I made. After that, I got to spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, thinking about what was going to happen and how bad it would hurt.
I remember hearing my Dad drive up and park. Then I heard the car door open and close. Then I heard the whispers coming from the kitchen…and then my door opened.
You need to understand that my father was NOT a tyrant when I was a kid. He wasn’t the kind of Dad who yelled when he was angry. He was never violent but yet there was never any doubt when my brother and I crossed the line. Unfortunately, this particular incident appeared to be one of those times.
He came into my room and he sat down on my bed and asked me why would I do such a thing. I remember thinking, why did I toss 48 jelly jars over the fence? I forgot to mention there were 48. I thought it was such a great idea at the time. He listened quietly not showing much emotion but when I was finished, he said that I would have to be punished with the belt…
AAAAhhh, no…not the belt!
And then he stood up, pulled off his belt, and told me to assume the position…I don’t have to tell you what happened next.
When he left the room, I was mad and in pain. To a 9-year-old kid, I thought the punishment was too severe for throwing jelly jars…
But a little while later my Father returned to my room and sat down. He told me that if he didn’t punish me it was like telling me that being disobedient was ok and he couldn’t do that and call himself a parent. He told me that punishing either one of his sons hurt him just as much as it hurt us…which at the time, I found that hard to believe. BUT…I certainly get that now.
He said I would understand someday how this punishment was really saying that he loved me…and I knew he loved me because he told me so. You see, I feared my father’s belt, yet I knew he loved me.
All these years later, I do understand and realize that the fear I experienced was what helped me to stay in line and maintain obedience to both him and my mother…
So really…I guess the verse, “Spare the rod, spoil the child” really did work in my case-
Happy belated Father’s Day-
Until next time guys-
