Worshipping with family in California


Recently, I was reminded of an event that happened when I was very young. It has become the focal point of conversation at work. Especially when I need an excuse on which to blame my lapses in memory.

I loved playing Cowboys and Indians when I was little. In those days, toy pistols weighed almost as much as real ones.

I had a girlfriend who lived a couple of blocks away. I was too young for a girlfriend, but I didn't realize it. As a matter of fact, it seems in my memory, that I often had a girlfriend, regardless of my age.

I am not bragging or proud, actually I'm a bit embarrassed. What was I thinking??? Too many substitutes for the real thing, which I've been married to for almost 28 years! She is my real girlfriend!

Anyway, my neighborhood girlfriend was Brenda. She had a big brother named Tim. I loved everything about Tim. He was good at sports, playing Cowboys and Indians, and anything else he tried. He was one of my childhood heroes.

I did much to prove myself to him. I played football, baseball and anything else I could, to be around him. I was on the receiving end of many black eyes and hospital runs for doing so.

No, he didn't beat me up. These were badges of honor from being hit in the face with baseballs, bats, or having limbs broken/sprained from intense sandlot play. Those were days I cherish!

Sometimes I think I was better at getting hurt than playing.

Perhaps case in point, was when I was in Brenda's front yard. I had climbed up onto a platform in a tree that we called a "tree house." It wasn't really, it was more of a series of planks. It didn't matter, we loved it up there!

We had been playing Cowboys and Indians, and I had ascended to this position aloft amid our game.

Brenda, dressed in her red cowgirl outfit, came to assist me. I had climbed up without my gun! Silly boy!

She came to be sure I was "armed."

She tossed the pistol up my way. I positioned myself on the edge of the planks to receive it.

I missed the first throw. I missed the second throw.

Have you heard, "three strikes, your out?"

It came to pass.

I awoke later, in serious pain, from the flat of my back... on the ground!

This metal, toy pistol had hit me in the head and knocked me unconscious. I fell forward from the tree and landed on my upper back.

I lay moaning as my friends scrambled. The pain was unbelievable. One either called or ran to my house to get my parents.

I don't remember a lot else, except that for months, even years after that, I became very emotional. I began to have separation anxiety and could barely function at school during the day.

I don't understand these things, except to say, I got hit in the head, and it had a huge impact in my life.

Several years ago, I had to be "hit in the head" again.

This time metaphorically.

God was calling me to ministry. I didn't believe it.

I told him He'd have to hit me over the head with a 'two by four' for me to believe it.

He did!

The impact this second hit had, changed the course of my life and that of my family.

Sometimes, being hit in the head is what we need. Even if the weapon is proverbial!


dad