| Sunny Side Up! June 13, 2001 �2001, by Kathleen Gibson Like Father, Like God�in a Child�s Eyes They were the last clients in the vet�s office that afternoon. The pet was tiny; the doctor could have crushed it on one hand. And it was loved�that was obvious by the way the little girl anxiously observed his every move. The vet made his examination and shook his head. �I�m sorry, I can�t help.� The child bit her lip. Her father squeezed her hand. �What can we do?� The vet offered an olive branch. �Try pouring a few drops of brandy down its throat. That may help.� There were only two things the girl knew about brandy. It was liquor. And they wouldn�t find any at their house. Daddy would rather walk a block than even park his car outside a liquor store�ever since decades ago, when he�d discovered that knowing Jesus was better than any old bottle. Known by many as �Gentle Ben�, he staked his reputation on a clean and honest lifestyle, on avoiding all �appearances of evil,� he called it. His pride was his family, and his joy was his faith. A faith, he said, that had no need of liquor stores or brandy bottles. She didn�t even bother asking. They rode home in silence, the vet�s words thick between them. She fell asleep that night listening to tiny puffs of breath coming from the cage beside her bed, praying they wouldn�t stop. After school the next day her father called her over. He was smiling, holding an eyedropper and a brown bag. �Let�s give Mimi her medicine,� he said. She stopped to wonder for only a moment before he took a dark bottle from the bag and opened it. She noted the label, and surprise kept her quiet. The smell of the liquid arranged his face like he was sucking an old penny. Drop by tenuous drop they squeezed some of the foul stuff into her pet�s tiny mouth. Mimi died later that day. In her grief the child didn�t ask her father where the brandy had come from. A coworker must have provided it, she assumed. Maybe a neighbor. After the storm of sorrow passed, she asked him. He cleared his throat. �Uh, I bought it myself.� She gaped. Daddy parked in front of the liquor store. He bought liquor. He exited the store with a bag. And he brought it home. Four �appearances of evil.� At least. I have heard it said that our concept of God is shaped by our childhood relationship with our father. Is it any wonder that young girl grew into a woman with a robust image of a God who cared deeply about her? It was formed the day she realized that her father, who valued his reputation almost as much as his life, had thrown it down on the steps of a liquor store in a vain attempt to save a dying hamster, for the love of his little girl. Gentle Ben and God. Of both my fathers� love I am certain. You can respond to this column at <[email protected]> |