As blizzards go, it turned out to be one of the biggest of the decade. I was
in Junior High so that puts it in the winter of ‘63 to ‘64. A closer
study of Maryland weather back then would give you an exact time. It doesn’t
matter. It happened. We got out of school for four days. It was one of those
glorious events that seemed so wonderful at the time, but came back to haunt
us in June when we had to stay in school longer to make up for the days lost.
The hard snow started before dark—fat, thick, heavy flakes that accumulated
fast. The fierce wind came in the depths of the night. By dawn we had a foot
of snow with drifting at places up to 3½ feet. When my brothers and I
woke up and looked out our windows, we weren’t thinking about the school
we’d miss. In our minds we were viewing a vast white mother lode of money.
By mid-afternoon we knew our backs, necks, and arms would be aching from shoveling
the stuff, but our pockets would be bulging with cash.
We also knew from experience, however, that before we could hit the paying
customers, we’d have to dig out the list of senior citizens our mother
had written down. Usually there were only three or four houses depending on who
was in town. They seldom took much time since they really only wanted a path
dug to their mailbox and occasionally to the steps that went down to their cellars.
That’s where they kept their stash of preserved food. Many of them could
hold up in their houses for weeks without needing anything from the outside.
We weren’t allowed to take money from them, but we usually got some great
stuff to eat. We also knew they were early risers. We figured we’d have
them dug out and on our way to the greenbacks within forty-five minutes.
Our first stop was always Mrs. Martin. She’d been a widow ever since
I’d known her. She was a waif of a woman, maybe 95 pounds after Thanksgiving
dinner and barely five feet of skin over skeleton. On this particular morning,
as we approached her front steps, there was something odd about her house that
we couldn’t figure out at first. When she answered the door, we thought
maybe someone was staying with her because the person who answered seemed twice
her size. But the voice that spoke from under the layers of scarf’s and
deep within the neck of her coat had the unmistakable rasp of Mrs. Martin. We
also knew that the constant shake of her body wasn’t from age, but rather
from the cold.
Only after she opened the door wide enough to see in her house did we realize
why everything seemed so strange as we had stepped up on her porch. Her house
was absolutely silent. No radio, no television, no sounds of breakfast cooking,
and no background hum of a furnace. It was the dead silence you get when your
electricity has been shut off.
When we inquired, she simply said that for some reason, the power company
had turned off her electricity. The 'some reason' turned out to be the confusion
and absent-mindedness of an elderly woman. She was so confused on certain days
that she might well have put the payment for the electric company in the birdhouse
rather than the mailbox. Regardless of the reason, it was obvious that Mrs. Martin
was in the process of freezing to death. After a quick huddle, my brother and
I decided that he would start shoveling off the stairs to her porch while I hoofed
it home to inform my parents. Dad was sitting at the table eating his breakfast
when I told him what was going on with Mrs. Martin.
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t weigh the ethics. He didn’t
call the pastor to see what he should do next. He barked the orders like a drill
sergeant. “Go down to the basement and bring me my wire cutters, and my
pliers with the thick insulated handles.” By the time I came up with the
tools he had on his coat and boots and we were out the door. He didn’t
stop to check on her or to inquire how she found herself in this predicament.
He simply went straight to her electric meter, cut the warning tag (the one that
promised criminal prosecution by the Electric Company for anyone who dared to
trifle with the meter until the electric bill was paid), pulled off the head
of the meter, took his insulated pliers and removed the cardboard that had been
inserted in the plug, shoved the meter back on, and flipped the main breaker.
Her house lit up immediately. Next he went down in her basement and got her furnace
going. It took him all of five minutes to do an end run around the electric company.
It took him all of five minutes to go against everything he’d taught me
about respect for the law and submission to authority. And in that time he taught
me a huge lesson about life.
He showed me that in life, sometimes virtues collide with each other. He taught
me that sometimes you get a grand total of a spit second to decide between doing
the honorable thing or doing the right thing, between doing what’s good
and doing what is best. Raising kids often puts us in a conflict between justice
and mercy, between holding the line and exercising grace, between running interference
or letting them face the music. My observation is that the parents who know how
to choose properly in those situations, are the ones who have God’s Word
fresh in their minds everyday, and have built up a good set of calluses on their
knees.
Dad took some grief for thumbing his nose at the system. But Mrs. Martin didn’t
freeze to death, and I know one man who’s had to lean on his example many
times since.
Anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn’t do it, sins. –James
4:17
On the Homefront with Darcy Kimmel
It’s a phone call that strikes terror into the heart of every parent. “Mom,
I’ve had an accident.” Fortunately in the same breath, Karis answered
my urgent, unspoken question. “Everyone’s OK, no one was seriously
hurt.”
As I drove quickly but cautiously to the scene of the four-car pileup, instead
of fear or dread or worry, my heart was filled with incredible praise and a plea
for forgiveness. Praise for the merciful protection of our beautiful, full-of-life
daughter and repentance for too often taking that protection for granted.
This bump with reality revealed to me that as often as I prayed for the safety
of our two 'child' drivers, I failed miserably to give thanks for the supernatural
ways God kept them safe on the frantic suburban thoroughfares. If heredity has
anything to do with driving skills, I’m sure Karis and Cody’s guardian
angels put in a lot of overtime.
Karis’ accident also reminded me that some of you have had a very different
and much more tragic outcome to an unexpected phone call. My heart breaks again
for you. It is these close calls with tragedy that illustrate that our lives
and the lives of those we love are ultimately in the hands of our Heavenly Father,
and each new day is a precious gift from Him.
Here’s to Providential Protection and Higher Insurance Premiums.
