Wisdom Over Youth

Humorous, inspirational take on growing up and growing older

Children's Category

‘Twas the Day After Christmas

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‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the rooms,

not a sound could be heard even though it was noon.

The stockings lay empty ‘mid ribbons and tags,

torn wrappings and packaging, boxes and bags.

Deep snores rose from Dad fully dressed on the couch,

while scattered about him were tools from his pouch.

When Mama arose she took one look around

and crawled back in bed without making a sound.

The manger scene tipped as the dog tried to lick

the stray crumbs from cookies left out for St. Nick.

I righted the stable, the shepherd and sheep,

the Mary and Joseph and babe still asleep.

Again the three Wise Men could place by His side,

their gifts for the infant King long prophesied.

Could I give a gift? Something special from me?

I studied my jumble of gifts by the tree.

Would He like to try out my skateboard or sled?

My soft, fuzzy blanket would soften His bed.

And then, from above, there arose such a sound!

Forgetting the gifts, up the stairs I did bound.

Louisa had wakened. Oh my! What a stink!

I tore off her diaper and quick as a wink,

I put on a clean one, now sister smells great.

But wouldn’t you know, a new problem awaits.

It’s past time to eat, sister’s starting to fret,

and joining the ruckus are two hungry pets.

I rummaged through cupboards for something to eat,

and gathered up holiday left-over treats.

I plopped sister down on her favorite quilt,

and gave her a bottle of cold chocolate milk.

The dog wolfed the roast beef with horseradish sauce,

while the cat slurped the eggnog poured over the squash.

I picked up torn papers and boxes galore,

replaced all the tools, and then vacuumed the floor.

When Mom and Dad wakened, they looked at the sight.

Then wrapping their arms ‘round me said with delight…

“Of all of the gifts we received who could guess,

the gift that you gave from your heart was the best!”

And ruffling my hair Mom repeated this truth,

“By serving each other, we’re serving Him too.”

Without even knowing, my gift was just right,

to give to the Savior that first Christmas night.

The Road to Jericho

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Today I heard a story of a man from Jericho,
who faced a fearsome band of thieves while traveling down the road.

They beat him and they robbed him. Then leaving him half dead,
they gathered up their shameful spoils and through the desert fled.

So many people passed him by until a kindly man,
bound up his wounds and gave him drink and took him to an inn.

I have not walked from Jericho nor met a man in need.
And so I ask the question – Is this story meant for me?

Then I recall a student from my school who often flees
from others who should be his friends. Instead, they mock and tease.

Perhaps he’s like the traveler left wounded, in despair.
And I’ll be like the kindly man who stops to render care.

A friendly wave or smile will cheer his heart, I’m sure.
And joining us for lunch and play may bring a welcome cure.

Perhaps this story truly has a lot to do with me.
It’s great to find someone to help with simple words and deeds.

 

New Old Friend

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New Old Friend

 

The hollow feeling in my stomach slowly spread through my chest, and my throat tightened until I could no longer speak. The early winter drizzle even made the sky seem to weep as Amanda crept toward the car, her steps painful and faltering.

“I’ll get that,” I blurted, my mind jolted from numbness by her fumbling with the door handle. I opened the car door and watched in embarrassed silence as she maneuvered her body into the car. I shut the door after making sure her brace was completely inside. She looked at me through the rain-spattered window. “Thanks, Sara,” she mouthed. I nodded my reply and got in the other side.

My thoughts drifted back to another day. Summer sunlight had washed over the neighborhood that morning, soaking its warmth into our shoulders and the tops of our heads as Amanda and I rode our horses to the shopping center by our apartment. Well, they weren’t real horses. At least, they weren’t alive and you couldn’t see them. But they were real to us, and we rode them everywhere, always careful to tie them up before going inside. If we rode in a car, we tied them to the bumper and they followed behind. We even named them after our favorite ice-cream dishes at Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor: Starlight and Anastasia.

Amanda’s dad had picked us up later that afternoon in his car and dropped me off at home. It was the next morning before I learned that they had been in an accident and that Amanda had been severely burned.

The car jostled as it turned into the parking lot of Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor, bringing me back to the present. I had promised Amanda while she was still in the hospital that we would go to Gabby’s to celebrate her recovery. Now I wondered if I’d made the right decision.

Mom let us out in front of the plate-glass window that framed a row of booths. Amanda emerged from the car slowly. There were still some bandages on her arms, and one leg was encased in a metal brace. The spattering of freckles I had been jealous of was gone. In its place was whitish skin that stretched and pulled, as if there wasn’t enough to cover her face.

Heads turned and peered around the huge yellow and blue letters painted on the window. One little girl pointed at us. Her mouth moved in silent conversation. The woman beside her looked embarrassed and moved her away from the window. I squared my shoulders and returned their stares for Amanda’s sake. Defiance turned to surprise as I saw that their sad-eyed looks were directed at me too. I walked a few steps ahead of Amanda, my arms and legs swinging in exaggerated rhythm. Can’t you see there’s nothing wrong with me, I thought, my surprise turning to anger.

Finally we were inside and seated at a table. I studied the menu intently, as if it were directions to unearthing a million dollars in gold. I just about had everything memorized by the time our waitress got there. “I’ll have the Starlight Sundae,” I said, without looking up.

“I’ll have the Anastasia,” Amanda said quietly.

The waitress collected the menus. I counted the flowers in the pink flocked wallpaper and traced the marbled pattern in the tabletop with my finger until the sundaes arrived.

I usually lingered over every bite, enjoying the contrast of the smooth mint ice cream against the sharp bits of chocolate on my tongue. But today I only wanted to finish as quickly as possible. As soon as Amanda had taken her last bite, I wadded up my paper napkin and tossed it on the table.

“We’d better go,” I announced and added lamely, “I’m sure Mom’s outside by now.” Amanda offered no resistance.

I walked ahead to get the door. Amanda shuffled through, but instead of turning to the left, where Mom was waiting, she turned to the right and raised her burned hand slightly. I heard the familiar soft clicking noise that we used to call our horses.

“Come on, Anastasia,” she said softly. “Let’s go, girl”—her whisper was punctuated by a great, deep sob—“far away from here.” Her shoulders shook; her breath came in gasps. Tears dropped from her nose and chin onto the scarred hands she clasped tightly in front of her.

The hollow feeling in my stomach returned, and my throat tightened again. I felt helpless. I wanted to make people stop staring. I wanted to smooth her lumpy skin and give her back her freckles. I wanted to go back and change what happened that summer day and erase her pain.

I looked long into Amanda’s eyes for the first time since her accident. They shared the pain her physical body had endured. But there was more. Behind the pain were the eyes of the friend I had always known. Burned and scarred skin may have changed the outside, but Amanda would always be Amanda on the inside.

I put my arm around her shoulder. The rain had stopped. Despite the chilly air, the sunshine warmed the tops of our heads and our shoulders as we walked side by side to the car, oblivious to anyone else. Things would be different—and yet the same. I held on to Amanda’s hands and gently helped her onto the car seat. Then I picked up her leg by the steel bars that supported it and helped her position it in the car.

A smile appeared through her tears. “Thanks,” she said.

Our eyes met again, and I returned her smile. “Sure,” I replied. Then I added quietly so that only Amanda could hear, “I’ll tie the horses to the bumper so we can ride them when we get home.”

 

Originally published here

New Record

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New record

“You need glasses! You wouldn’t know a foul if it knocked you over!” Melvin sputtered at the referee.

“That’s it! You’re out,” the referee yelled back.

Melvin stomped off the court. He dropped onto the bench and glared at the floor.

The coach sat down beside him. “Do you know what this means?”

Melvin nodded without looking up. “I set a new record.”

“More than that,” the coach said. “It worked again.”

Melvin knew what was coming. He’d heard it before—how the other team knew that if they could get him angry enough, he’d lose his temper and get thrown out of the game. But he couldn’t help himself. He got so mad that if he didn’t do something, he’d explode.

“You’re the best player I have,” the coach said. “You just have to keep your cool!”

The final buzzer sounded. The coach yelled something about next Friday’s championship game as Melvin stalked off the court. “Fourteen times!” he muttered, pounding his fist into his hand. He had just broken the school basketball record for technical fouls on one player. It wasn’t an achievement he was proud of.

Who needs refs anyway! Melvin thought, suddenly glad he had invited his buddies over for a friendly game of baseball.

They were already gathering in his backyard by the time he arrived. Soon they were laughing and playing ball together in the small park down the street.

In the first inning, an opposing batter hit a towering shot to deep left field. As he rounded third base and headed for home, Melvin screamed, “Throw me the ball!”

There was a satisfying thump as ball connected with glove, and Melvin tagged the runner. “You’re out!” he proclaimed triumphantly.

“Safe!” the runner yelled back.

“Uh-uh, I tagged you.”

Everyone started yelling at once.

“He slid under your mitt!”

“He’s safe—I was standing right there!”

“He touched the base before you touched him!”

Finally Melvin jumped atop a bench and yelled, “I got him out! You guys are as blind as bats. If you can’t play baseball right, then maybe …” His voice trailed off. The boys were picking up their gloves and leaving.

Melvin dragged home and slumped onto the stump of a tree cut down several years before. He picked at the dirt that filled the holes in the dry wood.

Suddenly his older brother, Mike, sat down beside him. “Short game, huh?”

“Yeah,” Melvin said quietly. “Every time I open my mouth, something bad happens.”

“How about just every time you open your mouth in anger?”

Melvin shrugged.

“I bet you don’t know how all those holes got in that stump,” his brother challenged.

Melvin shook his head.

“I put them there.” Getting up, Mike went to the garage and returned with a bucket of rusty nails and a hammer. “Who do you think set the previous record for technical fouls at your school?”

Melvin’s eyes widened. “You?”

His brother chuckled. “It would’ve been a lot higher if Dad hadn’t shown me how he learned to control his temper.” He pulled a nail out of the bucket. “These have been pounded in and pulled out of this old stump at least a hundred times each.”

“Will it keep me from getting angry?” Melvin asked.

“No. I wish it were that easy. You’ll probably still feel angry—at least for a while. But what you do with that anger … Well, after a little practice, you can begin to control that.”

Melvin took the hammer. With an easy swing, he drove the nail deep into the old stump. Then he pounded another, and another.

By dinnertime Melvin had pounded more than fifty nails, and the anger had melted away.

Over the next week, Melvin visited the stump almost every day. Sometimes he went before he lost his temper and started yelling or throwing things. Other times he went afterward and worked out the rest of the anger.

The day of the championship game arrived. The school gym was filled with students. Melvin checked his shoelaces one final time. The buzzer sounded, starting the game.

Feet pounded up and down the court. Back and forth the ball changed hands. Melvin snatched the ball from an opponent and raced toward the basket.

Wham!

Melvin tumbled to the floor. He rolled over in time to see the grinning face of the boy who had just knocked him down.

Melvin jumped to his feet, his heart racing. Jaw clenched and blood vessels bulging, he stalked over to his opponent. Part of him wanted to shove the boy back and yell at the referee, “Are you blind? Aren’t you going to call a foul?” Part of him wished he was home at the backyard stump so that he could pound out his anger before he lost his temper.

Suddenly Melvin had an idea. He balled up the fist of his right hand and opened flat his left hand. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Over and over he pounded as if his fist were the hammer and his palm the stump, until he felt himself gain control. Then he turned and walked away from his bewildered opponent.

Early in the second half, Melvin faked his man out of position and drove to the basket. At the last second, the other team’s tall center stepped into his path. Wham! They both went spinning to the floor as the ref’s whistle blew. “Charging!” the ref shouted, pointing at Melvin.

Melvin jumped to his feet. Charging? he was screaming inside his head. He didn’t have position, you idiot! But outwardly he merely pounded his palm as hard as he could. The ref looked him over, fingered his whistle, then turned and gave the ball to the center to throw inbounds.

The game continued. Late in the second half, with the score tied, Melvin sprinted downcourt, leading a fast break. He caught a full-court pass on the run, dribbled once, and gathered himself for an easy lay-up.

Whack! Melvin was pushed hard from behind and went sprawling into a row of spectators behind the basket, barely missing the basket support. A whistle sounded. Without even looking to see who had pushed him, Melvin began pounding his fist. But this time it sounded louder. Melvin opened his eyes to see the other students smacking their fists in rhythm with each other. With each supporting thwack of the students’ hands, Melvin became more determined to finish the game without losing control.

When the final buzzer sounded, Melvin jumped about and high-fived the rest of the team—and not only because they were the champions. He had won a much more important victory: He had kept his cool. He had finished a whole game without a technical foul! It was a new record—one that he was not ashamed of. He looked into the crowd and found Mike giving him the thumbs-up sign.

Previously posted here