From Your Minister – June 2014
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When I was a kid, my father had a reason why just about everything my siblings and I might do was risky and might ultimately lead to death, or at least dismemberment. He often provided cautionary tales about people who had injured themselves or died, invoking names we’d never heard of as if he was mourning them still.
Pop a pimple? Toddy Mackil’s grandfather knew someone who died that way. Thought it was a pimple, burst a blood vessel, and WOOP, dead in minutes.
Light a candle? No way. Countless numbers of fires had started that way; didn’t we read the paper? And what’s wrong with lights, anyway? Aren’t we grateful to Thomas Edison? My poor mother, who kept trying until she died, resigned herself to yet another night with a beautifully set table, unlit candles in its center, our faces blazing under the overhead light.
My father hated the annual Christmas candlelight service at our church, and when the church added candles for people to light silently for joys and sorrows, he could barely contain his horror.
Even Christmas trees were suspect. If we were going to plug it in, we needed to be sitting right by it. What do you mean you went to the bathroom? Don’t you know how quickly electric fires can start?
And forget the chemistry set I wanted so badly, which would inevitably lead to blindness or third-degree burns. (It didn’t help my cause when my older sister accidentally set her dress on fire in high school chemistry. See? Just goes to show. ) After a while, we didn’t even ask about fireworks. Sparklers and snakes were just as contraband as giant rockets.
So it became that things that were legitimately dangerous, like, say, sticking a fork in the toaster to get your toast out, became occasion for our eye-rolling. Linda Osborn’s father may or may not have lost both legs by changing a tire with his legs under the car and having it roll over him. Whether he did or didn’t, my father taught us how to do it right, but rather than thank him, we ridiculed him behind his back.
When I got out on my own, it is probably no surprise that I was drawn to risk. I would pretty much try anything anyone suggested, or that I could imagine. I hitch-hiked to the mountains, to the ocean, across town—by myself if no one else wanted to go. A daring girlfriend and I hopped freights, took long hitch-hiking trips, “air hitched”—went to small airports and looked for pilots going someplace interesting who could use a little extra weight in the back of the plane. My friend had grown up in Saudi Arabia, where my father’s control paled in comparison to things she wasn’t allowed to do. The two of us were testing our limits, declaring our independence, acting as if, in fact, nothing was dangerous.
It wasn’t until years later, when I was training to be a counselor at a rape hotline, that the danger I had put myself in became clear to me. I remember shaking with terror, sitting in a safe room, as I looked back and considered—for the first time really—how vulnerable I had made myself.
Of course, we’re all vulnerable, all the time, some of us much more than others, depending on our gender, race, class, and all kinds of other things. As I’ve aged, and especially as I became a parent myself, I’ve realized the truth of my father’s instincts—danger does come quickly, and usually surprisingly, and it is pretty much a miracle that any of us makes it to adulthood.
When my father died, his church dedicated a kiosk to him and my mother, honoring their lifelong commitment and generosity. My younger brother, who lives nearby, went to the church service where this transpired.
He emailed us later:
I forgot to mention one of the more interesting things about the service yesterday. First off, it was apparently a record setting day for candle-lighting on the make-a-wish cart. Robin and I went up toward the end of the line, and that cart was almost entirely full of candles and putting off some real heat by the time we got up to it. Then, as part of the service we all were instructed to spend a few minutes and think about what was most important to us. And then invited to share with the congregation. Then we were all invited to write our secret word on a strip of colored paper, come to the front of the church and link it onto some existing links, forming a tapestry of importance. Well there was quite a line- up to get to the pulpit area, and a lot of talking as people waited in line, and wouldn’t you know it, somebody caught fire on the candle cart. Not a bad fire, just a shawl started to burn, but there were some flames, and the people around the lady were smacking her on the butt to put it out. No injuries, and just a couple of burns on the carpet at the front of the church.
I’m sorry, Dad, that I find this story so funny. I’m sure a lady lit on fire by candles in church is not the memorial you would have chosen. But what a fitting reminder that we are surrounded by risk—and by the security of those who help us to get through it, even it if means smacking us on the butt.
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