A lesson in faith my son, when he was ten, taught me (previously shared with share group): The Master and the Grasshopper “Hey dad, what’s wrong with your hand?” my ten year old son asks leaning across the Camry’s center console with his brown eyes scrunched in concern. The skin on my right hand is stretching tight like an overinflated balloon. I flex my hand into a fist; it is taking effort just to clench my hand. A hot, shearing throb crawls down up my thumb toward my wrist, pulsating like an ambulance siren. I flip on the dome light and search for the cause. My eyes flick between the lane ahead and my swelling wound. “I guess I got a spider bite,” I say, stretching out and contracting my hand. Jesse rakes his teeth over his lower lip in concern. We were skipping stones a just couple minutes prior across the Willow River. We spotted the simmering river, glistening with the late afternoon sun from the motel balcony and set out exploring. We found a well-trodden trail that formed a tunnel under the dark leaves of towering hardwoods. After a short distance through some thick underbrush, the trail opened out into a stony beach on the bank of a smooth, slow flowing river about 30 yards wide. I looked down at the river’s smooth, stoned beach and back at the mirrored brownish water slowly meandering downstream. I quickly spied a flat round stone. I tossed it side-arm expecting the cascade of skips. Plip plip plip plip plip ker-plop. Jesse’s eyes grew big. He picked up a stone at random and shot putted it into the river with all his might. Ker-ploop! The rock sounded like a 300 pound man doing a cannonball into a swimming pool. He tried another with the same results. His brow furrowed and he stomped his feet in disappointment. “Ahhhh, my son,” speaking with a bad Kung Fu master’s accent, “you must choose your stone wisely.” I showed him a perfect skipping stone, round and flat like a cookie. “You must become one with the rock,” I said, demonstrating the correct hand grip and side-arm throwing motion. He studied my demonstration, brow scrunched, like I was showing him a treasure map. He practiced the arm motion, mimicking mine. “Here,” I encouraged him, “you try,” handing him a perfectly shaped skipping stone and then stepping back. I was reliving the first time I skipped a rock, that summer at Flagstaff Lake, thirty years prior. My dad demonstrated the same technique. I crossed my arms, smiling. Jesse wrapped his small fingers carefully around the flat stone. He cocked his arm back like a sling shot and took several practice swings and finally let it go. Plip plip plip plip plip ker-plop. “Yes,” he squealed with excitement, pumping his fist and dancing a jig. “Ah, very good Grasshopper,” I said with great pride. I held up his slender arm, like a boxing judge holding the armed glove of a world champion after the big fight. “Jesse Welnick,” I announced to the audience of trees, “the undisputed world champion rock skipper of Willow River.” His grin was stretching to the breaking point. And now back in the car my hand throbs like chewing on Habanero peppers. Sweat breaks out across my forehead. Jesse looks at me, eyes fixed and face solemn. “Hey dad,” he says, eyes brightening, “maybe we should pray?” “Pray?” I say. I look over at him and he is serious. I don’t want to discourage him, so I say, “Yeah, that is a good idea.” I look at him, “go ahead,” I encourage. My ten year old closes his eyes. I watch him between glances at the road ahead. “Jesus,” he says, like he is talking to someone in the car, “My dad has a spider bite and needs Your help. Amen.” “Amen,” I echo, my eyes watering. How could God not hear that? After a few seconds I realize that the Habanero fire in my hand is gone. I did not feel it dissipate–it just disappeared. I make a fully closed fist. My hand is supple; the air inside the balloon instantly deflated without a sound. I look at my son, my face shining with amazement. Jesse shrugs his shoulders, answering my unspoken question, “Well, what did you expect?” the ten year old says.
Posted on: Sun, 28 Jul 2013 11:01:56 +0000
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