The Smoking Gun

When I was four years old at play in the sandbox, a neighbor's rooster the size of a small goat flogged me, knocking me flat on my back to the ground.  I remember very little of this other than a wild flurry of feathers and claws and beak atop my face - and someone screaming.  Maybe the scream was mine, although I think I was too paralyzed to make much of any kind of sound - too paralyzed to make any kind of movement.  So I lay there and waited for a rescue, unaware that my bottom lip and chin were victims of those massive claws digging in with the tenacity of fish hooks.  A short while later a loud pop was followed by an explosion of feathers, releasing me to put my chubby fingers up to my face to probe the now throbbing gashes that would go on to be stitched and, later, leave permanent trails.  It was years before I understood the danger in that split-second decision my father was forced to make as he stood way up at the house - years before I had children of my own to remind me that sometimes - many times - we parents are simply flying blind (or, if you prefer, relying on faith).  Most days, to be honest, there's not much difference.

My tow-headed boy's words were out.  He was out.  The rooster was back, but this time, I was the parent flying blind.  This time,  I had a decision to make that was nothing short of putting a bullet in a monster.  If my aim were off by just a hair, then the consequences could be disastrous.  He might be left bleeding, blind, scarred for life - or worse.  It dawned on me then that I needed to move in close and fast, to cross the room that had at once become no less than the Grand Canyon of chasms, to make that leap and not look down.

This was not a fine time for paralysis.  Feathers were going to fly.

Moving toward my son, smoking gun in hand, I crossed the room - not tentatively but decisively, not gingerly but with a boldness that came from some unknown (to me) place. I'd put a bullet in a monster - before it could jump him, before it could slice away the tender flesh and leave a gaping wound.  It was a split-second, flying blind decision.  It was all I knew to do, and it had to be enough.

Wrapping him in my arms, I welcomed his weeping against me.  Wrapping him in my arms, I shushed him, clucking like a mother hen as she gathers her chicks close to her body.  Wrapping him in my arms, I tried to swallow down the lump that had formed in my throat - a lump that I was certain was born of the dust fragments of my shattered heart.  

Once that dust settled, once that clearing began, once I was able to get the lay of the land - and with that rooster dead and gone - I would see that his coming out broke my heart wide open so that more of God could get in. 

But this day, it was enough to cling to one another in that haze, to fly blind without knowing where to land ... and to wait.