| Sunny Side Up May 17, 2006 �2006, Kathleen Gibson If you give the man a nod� Only after we'd used our tax return to pay off our credit card entirely, I remembered something. So over lunch I crammed my foot in my mouth - all the way up to the knee. "Hey, Hon, I thought you said last year that you wanted to buy a scooter with this year's return!" Ever since - likely even before - a trip to Britain, decades ago, he's wanted one of those small motorbike-type vehicles. He liked the tidy way they negotiated the round-abouts. "Yeah, I know." He answered, a tad glumly. "But there's always something else�" Perhaps it was the slight droop at the corners of his mouth. Or maybe the stooped shoulders, pressed downwards by his daily bearing of other people's burdens. Or the increasing cost of gas, groceries, and life in general. I may have also remembered his persistent habit of placing my own wants and interests above his own. All work and no play, I thought�"Why not just go down to the shop and check them out? You haven't done that in years." Was that me speaking - and who changed my name to Eve? If you give a mouse a cookie - so reads the children's book by the same name - he'll ask for a cup of milk to go with it, and things don't stop there. I discovered something else: Giving a man a nod is like firing off a starter pistol. I've never seen that Preacher move so fast. My words still bouncing off our kitchen walls, he dashed to the motorcycle shop. Before sunset, he'd made an appointment to re-arrange our finances. Before three days passed, he'd aced the written test for motorbike drivers. And less than a week after I swallowed half my leg over lunch, he drove his scooter home. One big man weaving through traffic on a little black bike with red flame detailing; his grin (though I couldn't see it, I felt it) wide under his helmet. I followed in our car, enjoying the sight. We stopped at the gas station - four bucks to the fill line. I suppose some will be surprised that something material would bring a man of divine calling such immense pleasure. I suppose that this will confirm the suspicions of those who've always 'known' that ministers make more than they're worth. I suppose some will laugh at the sight of him, scooting about town on errands both divine and earthly. And I suppose I don't mind a bit. Neither, I suspect, does his Boss, who has observed the Preacher's faithful management of all, material and immaterial, that he's entrusted to him. God, in fact, will doubtless ride along. Me too, sometimes. I plan, even, to learn to drive it myself. We call the bike Cricket, because it's shiny and black, and buzzes like one. If you see the Preacher out riding one day, or going round and round on the round-about, honk hello. Just don't run him down, please. He's valuable. Respond Home |
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