Ed's Tohlet

By Don Keele Jr.

 

It was a frosty October morning.  A thin dusting of snow was on the ground as we drove up “Four-Mile Holler.”  Along the way sat rusted, bullet-ridden shells of old cars from the ‘20’s, ‘30’s and ‘40’s.  Black coal smoke came from several of the old shacks on each side of the road.  It almost appeared as if we were going back in time as we drove the winding road in this rural part of
Kentucky.  Some of the teens with me huddled further down in their warm coats as they imagined what life must be like for the people who lived in such run-down, rickety places.  We were on our way to see Ed and to work on his house as part of our on-going Appalachian Outreach project.

Ed lived at the very back of “Four-Mile Holler”.  A “holler” in Eastern Kentucky is a hollow between two mountains where the run-off water has carved a path on it’s way down to the valley.  This one was named “Four-Mile Holler” because it was exactly four miles long.   We were to later find out it was also known as a “shootin’ holler”.  A “shootin’-holler” is a hollow in which a feud is still going on.  This particular feud, I learned, had already lasted 126 years.  Ed had seen many people die in the feud, but since he had remained neutral, he was rarely shot at, though his house did sustain some bullet wounds received while he was entertaining members of one family or the other.

As we pulled up in front of Ed’s place, we began to realize that this was not going to be an easy job.  His “house”, to use the term loosely, sat back off the road at the confluence of two fairly large, rapidly-moving streams, one of which we would have to cross on a log that had been cut in half and laid across the creek.  This particular morning it was encrusted in a layer of ice that looked wickedly dangerous as it showed every twisted warp of a log perched about 8 feet above the wildly rushing creek.

My teens watched from the warmth of the van as I got a square-point shovel out of the trailer and began to slowly chip away the ice and inch my way across the treacherously uneven surface of the log. A gust of wind almost sent me plunging into the icy stream, but I held onto my shovel and braced against it. Ten long minutes of chipping and slowly inching my way across finally yielded success as I stepped out onto the other side.  I relaxed.  Too soon.

A giant dog leaped out of the tall weeds near the log bridge and snapped.  I screamed and leaped as the dog hit the end of the large logging chain restraining it.  The teens, watching from the warmth and safety of the van, screamed with me, but once they realized I was still alive, began to laugh at my plight.  I couldn’t get back across the log bridge if I wanted, and they weren’t about to come to my aid.

Fortunately for me, Ed had heard my scream and the door to the shanty jerked rapidly open.  A rather large man, slightly hunched over an adjustable, dirty metal cane, limped out onto the porch.

“GIT’OWN!” he screamed.  The large dog slunk back into the weeds.  I didn’t fully understand the language, but I was extremely glad the dog did.

“Hi!” I tried to sound cheerful despite my shaking knees and racing heart, “I’m Pastor Don.  Are you Ed?”

“Thasright” Ed replied. “Lemme git sum ashes to put on the log and tie back the dog.  Make him safer.”  He grabbed an old steel pail filled with coal ash and hobbled down to the creek bank where I still stood rooted to the ground.

“Take ‘is here and shovel it out on the log,” he instructed, handing me the pail.  He went and grabbed the beast and looped his chain over a large, metal stake farther back from the bridge, effectively making the landing safe.  I shoveled ash across the log and one by one the teens began spilling out of the van and making their way across.

“Can we pet your dog?” one of my students asked.  I was incredulous after my near-death experience.

“Well, I reckon ya can…jes don’t turn yore back on ‘im,” Ed responded.

“What do you mean, Ed?” I asked.

Ed didn’t reply, but bent down and rolled up his right pant leg to reveal a nasty looking six-inch scar on his calf.

“What happened?” we all asked, almost in unison.

“Well one day, I’s down here afeedin’ ‘im, and I turnt around to git some water, and the fool dog done grapped ahold a mah leg and wunt let go fur nothing!  He was agrowlin’ and a shakin his haid around, ‘bout to rip mah leg plumb off. Well…I commenced to jerkin’ on his jaws, an’ abeatin on his haid…but he won’t let me go.”

“How did you get him off?” I asked.

Ed looked up toward the side of his shack which had many old-fashioned iron objects hanging on the outside wall and said, “Ya see that big iron skillet ahangin’ over there?  Well I unhooked his chain and I went adraggin’ ‘im up there and got that ole’ skillet and I beat him on the haid till he went plumb out! Then I jerked his jaws offamah leg and dragged ‘eem back down there and hooked ‘eem up.  And ya know, that dog ain’t been right ever since.”

“Don’t touch the dog, kids.” I said

“Whul, that’s mah liddle dog.” Ed responded. “Mah big ‘un, I had to lock up afore you’uns got here. Had ‘em both bred special.  Part Doberman, part Rottweiler and part Pit Bull.  Not many get past ‘im on the bridge there. Kinda surprised you did.” He gave a look my way and I felt a new ripple of respect among the students.

“So Ed, what do you need us to do for you today?” I changed the topic while the respect was fresh.

“I needja to put a new wall in mah kichun. It fell out on to mah porch about 3 year ago. C‘mon on in…all uh you’uns.”

As we entered his house, the smell was almost an entity of its own. Getting past that, the next problem was finding a route through the junk.   From the front door, a trail led between stacks of old junk radios, magazines, eight track tape players, tapes, a car transmission and other assundry items, to the kitchen.  Another trail led from the main trail over to a TV that played in two colors, red and offset green.  Another trail went from the TV to the coal burning stove over in the corner and then from the coal burning stove back to the main trail.

In the kitchen, things weren’t much better. Actually, it got worse.  I did a double take as I looked at the dishes in the sink. The top ones looked alright, but as I looked deeper, I saw black and grey mold growing out from between the dishes on the bottom two-thirds of the stack.

“Ed,” I asked, “How long have these dishes been in the sink?”

“Well, Ah warshed ‘em all fur ‘bout the first 3 years after muh wife lef me.  Then figerd…ain’t no one eatin’ off’n these but me—so ah’ll jes’ warsh the ones ah need when ah need ‘em.”

“And how long ago did your wife leave you, Ed?”

“Les see,” he scratched his head, “it’s been ‘bout fifteen year ago.”

“WHAT?  So your saying these dishes have been in the sink for twelve YEARS?” I asked incredulously.

“Dat ud be ‘bout right,” he concluded proudly.

I asked him where they went when they were all clean.  He pointed to a cabinet.  I opened the cabinet to find a lot of rat and mouse droppings and an old Oatmeal box and a box of grits with long grey mold growing out of the side.  As a matter of fact, mold abounded.  I marveled.  This  would certainly be a place where penicillin could gain a foothold.

The back wall of the kitchen was completely gone–rotted away, with the remains lying on top of a broken down porch floor.  All that was left was the screened-in walls of the porch, inside of which Ed had stapled black plastic as a shield against the cold.  The floor of the porch was rotted through, and to one side of the porch, was another “bedroom”.  Actually, it was more of a storage area for more junk, with rotting floors.

I marshalled the troops, about 15 high-schoolers, and a couple of adult sponsors and prepared them for battle.  We would clean the junk out of the living room, clean the kitchen, even washing dishes and cleaning out cupboards, and carrying out all of the garbage.  We would also build a new wall into his kitchen.  The porch and back half would have to wait for another day. This would probably take us all day.

Once all of them were busy, Ed had one more request.  “I’s wunderin’, preacher,  couldja do somthin’ ‘bout mah tohlet?  It kindly peenches.”

“Your what?”

“Mah Tohlet.  It kindly peenches.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, Ed.  Why don’t you show me,” I suggested.

He then led me around the corner to his bathroom.   A whole new smell emerged.  Old urine and waste smells lurched out and pierced my nose.  He pointed to the toilet.  A quick glance at the seat and Ed’s problem was obvious. Apparently he had slipped and fallen, and the front half of the ring had broken away from the back half and they were only joined now by pieces of plexiglass and superglue on the underside.  So every time Ed would sit, it would “kindly peench” him.  

Glancing around the rest of the bathroom revealed a nasty looking sink as well as a tub and shower enclosure. The tub and side walls were a deep rust color that looked to be layers thick.  The glass doors were also covered in whatever it was.  It was apparent that we needed to do something about that as well.

I had to ask.  “Ed,” I ventured, “how long has it been since you cleaned your tub?”

“Mah wife warshed it real good jes’ before she left.”

“You’re telling me it’s been fifteen years?” He nodded.

One of the adults headed to town to find a toilet seat, while I went to the back of the trailer to find some long rubber gloves and strong cleaning supplies, a few brushes, some steel wool pads and whatever else seemed potentially helpful for the task at hand, then headed back in, looking for a teenager to redirect.  In the meantime, Ed said he was tired and shuffled off to the back of the house to lay down for a nap.

Spying a student not doing anything, I called for him to follow me.  I led him into the bathroom and showed him the nasty shower and tub enclosure. He swallowed hard and started turning pale.  Obviously fighting back waves of nausea, he began to try to speak.  Nothing came out, so he motioned for me to follow him.  He ran outside.  I followed.

“Pastor Don,” he began, “if you want that shower cleaned”…long pause…careful thought…deep breath… “you’re going to have to do it yourself, ‘cause I ain’t touchin’ that thing!”  With that, he turned and ran back to the job he was supposed to be helping with before I had called him.

“OoooK,” I thought to myself, “it’s up to you, big guy.  You’ve got to buck up and show them a little servant-leadership.”

I donned the heavy rubber gloves and picked up my cleaning supplies.  This was do or die.  Put up or shut up.  I headed in, and the odor once again attacked my senses.  Shut up was sounding like a better option all the time.  I looked back and saw 5 teen-age guys watching me wavering at the door. No backing down now or I would never hear the end of it.   I plunged in determined to conquer or be conquered.

I slid open the shower door and peered in. It was worse than I had imagined. A brown, encrusted goo hung on the sides of the shower.  I aimed my spray bottle of strong chemicals in and began pumping furiously, thoroughly saturating the sides and bottom, and then quickly retreated to the fresh air outside.  

Back inside I attacked with the scrub brush and the goo started peeling off in layers.  Layer after layer came off as the strong cleaning agents worked overtime.  As each layer glopped to the bottom of the tub, I scooped it up and plopped it in a heavy-duty garbage bag.  Then it was spray and repeat. The toxic combination of cleaning supplies and incumbent smells necessitated taking frequent breaks to gasp in some fresh air.

Three hours and 8 layers later, it was beginning to look better.  My runaway student abruptly reappeared at the bathroom door.

“Umm…” he began.  “I’ve been thinking about things, Pastor Don.  And I’ve been feeling a little guilty for running off.  So, if you really…long pause…um…want me to…big swallow…work on that shower…extremely long pause while choosing his words carefully…I guess I will…adding rapidly…so you can get started on that toilet.”

I had almost forgotten.  He handed me a new toilet seat and I relinquished the scrub brushes and chemicals.  Still wearing my heavy gloves, I tried to lift the seat.  It was stuck fast.  There was a black and brown substance holding it tight.  I went out to the trailer, procured a long, thick screwdriver,  a wrench and a Makita cordless drill, and set out to find the screws that kept the lid attached.  Using the long screwdriver, I pried the seat loose and as it popped up, suddenly a whole new smell emerged.  The kid and I both ran, gagging and retching, outdoors.   It was then I spotted what was to be our new friend.  On top of an army stretcher piled high with junk, that some of the boys were carrying out to the barn, lay a rather large box fan.

“Wait,” I shouted, “Does that thing still work?”

“Dunno,” came the response, “didn’t try it.”

My bathroom buddy and I were on it likes flies on stink.  We hauled it to the nearest outlet and plugged it in.  Miraculously the blades started spinning and we felt like we had won a small victory.

We hauled it into the bathroom and put it in the already open window.  We plugged it in and immediately the stench eased.  Just as quickly, however, the people hauling stuff past the window started yelling and gagging as the toxic air spewed forth.

It was back to work. I chipped and scraped the offending substances into the toilet and flushed, repeating the process until I was down to the porcelain.  A few borrowed chemicals and scrub brushes soon had it looking good. Now to the seat.

Scraping down, I located the screws and carved out a slot on top.  Then kneeling down, I realized that there was no dignified way to change a toilet seat.  You simply cannot accomplish the task without hugging the bowl.  Working furiously, again with “air breaks”,  I worked on breaking the nuts loose.  The first took about 45 minutes;  the second about 25. (I learned some tricks on the first one that helped with the second)  Needless to say it was one of the most nauseating, disgusting tasks I’ve ever undertaken.

As I knelt there hugging that bowl, suddenly the thought struck me: “Is this what it means to be a servant of Jesus Christ?”  And as I reflected on the life of Jesus, coming from all of heaven’s glory and splendor down to the dump Satan has made of His creation; the toilet bowl of the universe, if you will, with the ugly mold and goo of sin growing from our hearts, I had to concede that I was probably closer to being a disciple, hugging Ed’s “tohlet”, than I had ever been.   For we are never more like Jesus than when we serve.

Mark 10:42-45 NIV Jesus called them together and said, “You know that those who are regarded as rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them.  43 Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, 44 and whoever wants to be first must be slave of all. 45 For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

Secret Weapon

by Don Keele Jr.

Secret Weapon

I’ve always had the athletic ability of tree bark.  I’m the type that can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.  I’ve even been known to pull over to the side of the road to honk the horn.  Athletics and me just don’t mix.
 
I learned this early on when I realized, as I mentioned in the last chapter, that due to asthma, if I had to choose between running and breathing, I would usually chose breathing every time, which left me with little time to develop my athletic prowess. Nowhere was this truer than at recess.  While I enjoyed the break from studies, I hated the pressure of recess, especially in the fourth grade.
 
Our teacher, Miss Lester, thought it important that all children learned to play together, so almost everyday, she would say in her unique nasally way, “Children, line up on the line.”  I hated those words because I knew what was coming next.  “The Line” was just on the edge of the blacktop, and it is where all teams were chosen for whatever game we would be playing that day at recess. She would then continue.
 
“Vance, Bobby, you be our captains today.”  Vance and Bobby were always our captains, because they were the most athletic in our class. And the ritual, no matter what sport we would be playing, was always the same.
 
“Bobby, it’s your turn to choose first today.”  Bobby would then select the next best athlete in the class, and then Vance would choose the third best while Bobby and his first pick talked over who to pick next.  No matter how it started, every day it ended up the same.  Everyone else would be picked, and I would still be standing on The Line, kicking at a small rock, or uneasily shifting from foot to foot until we could be past the dreaded words that I always knew were coming.  It didn’t matter who had last pick, it always went something like this.
 
“We’ll give you two girls if you take Keele too.”  “No way, we had him yesterday!  It’s your turn to have him.”  “Well, we don’t want him, he can’t do anything right.”  “Well, it’s your turn to have him, so let’s get this game started.”  “No wait, what if we gave you three girls?” At which point Miss Lester would finally intervene.
 
“Vance, it’s your pick and there is still one person, so Donnie, you are on Vance’s team today.” A gigantic groan would emanate from all of Vance’s teammates and someone would utter the words I least liked to hear;  “Oh, great, now he’ll make us lose.”  
 
I’m not sure how I could do that because I always thought it took a whole team to win or lose, but somehow they were convinced that I was the key to winning or losing.  And since they were convinced, I rapidly became persuaded as well.  I came to believe that I truly was the weak link on any team.  Which is why my becoming a secret weapon on any sports team was so unusual.  Fast forward to my junior year in academy.
 
My dad became principal of Thunderbird Adventist Academy in Scottsdale, Arizona, the summer before my junior year.  Dad was a competitive sportsman and a good athlete despite his large frame. Ask anyone who caught his fast-pitch softball or tried to defend against him in basketball or who stepped on the racquetball court with him.  Dad had a drive to win.  My younger brother, Rusty inherited that gift of athletics.  I inherited other gifts, but athletics wasn’t one of them.  Nonetheless, dad wanted me to get out there and try whatever sport might be going on at the time.  It was time for basketball that year and dad pleaded with me to sign up to be selected for an intramural team.
 
“Why don’t you try it, son?  Just sign up,” dad pleaded.
 
“Because I can’t run and breathe at the same time.” I shot back.
 
“Now that you have an inhaler, you can’t really use that as an excuse anymore,” dad responded. “So why don’t you sign up?”
 
 Because I’m no good at basketball, dad, that’s why. Besides, I hate the sport. Every time I mess up, some jock gets in my face telling me what a dumb move I just made and how stupid I am for making it.”
 
“But this is a new school.  You can make a fresh start here!” dad insisted.
 
“Too late for that, dad.  They’ve already seen me in PE class and know that I’m as coordinated as concrete.  I hate the pressure and I freeze every time someone throws me the ball.  Then someone steals the ball and the rest of my team yells at me.  No thanks.”
 
He continued to plead until finally, just to please him, I signed up.  Not that I was real worried that I would actually have to play.  In our school, there was an “A-league”, a “B-league” and a “C-league”.  A-league players were the best in the school.  They lived ate and breathed basketball. B-league guys were ok, but not outstanding.  And C-league…let’s just say they were the leftovers. Even at that, my skills were so poor that if there had been a “Z-league”, I would have played in it.  I knew, even if picked for a C-league team, that I would be adequately prepared to warm the bench.  So I signed up just to get dad off my back.
 
The system for choosing teams went like this.  The coach would select the best of the best to be A-league captains and they would come in the first evening and choose their teams.  Then the coach would post the A-league list the next morning.  The second day, he would choose the best of those not chosen the first night and they would become B-league captains.  That evening, they would take the remaining list and make their selections, and the next morning the B-league list would be posted, and the same procedure would follow for C-league on the third day.
 
When the A-league list was posted all over campus, the jocks would all gather to see what team they were on.  They would high-five each other if they found they were on the same team or start talking smack about how they were going to deep-six the other team if they found out they were on opposing teams.
 
I was walking past the library on my way to the Ad Building just before the first bell rang when coach put up the A-league list.  The jocks swarmed it like flies on a cow-pie.  It was disgusting.  But it had nothing to do with me, so I decided to ignore it.  I had two more days before I would have to start worrying.
 
“WHAT!?” one of the jocks suddenly shouted.  “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!  LOOK!” he said pointing to a name on the list.
 
“NO STINKIN’ WAY!” yelled his new teammate. “What was Richard thinking?”
 
They take this way too seriously, I thought.  It’s only a stupid game.  Reminds me of elementary school.  
 
“Have you seen him play?” the first exclaimed, “He’ll make us lose!”
 
Some things never change, I concluded.  They just need to grow up.  Oh, well, none of my concern.
 
The bell rang and doors all over campus flew open as students streamed out heading for their next class.  I headed around the corner to the Ad Building.
 
Suddenly, though my feet were still walking forward, I found myself rapidly moving backward, carried by two big jocks.
 
“Hey,” I started.
 
“Shut up, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this,” one of them said.
 
They turned me around and plopped me down right in front of Richard.  Richard was a senior, and one of the best basketball players in school.  He was about 6’5” and at that height was also one of the tallest kids in school.  He always carried himself with an easy air about him, and a toothpick was always hanging out of one side of his mouth.
 
“Richard, what were you thinking by picking Keele for our team?  Have you never seen him play?  He’s horrible!  He’ll make us lose?” jock one almost shouted, his face red and his veins popping out on the side of his neck.
 
“What?” I exclaimed as the words wormed their way into my understanding.  “You picked me on your team?  Why?”  
 
“That’s what we want to know!” jock two jumped in. “What in the world were you thinking? Oh, you weren’t!” Richard just kind of grinned and chewed on his toothpick.
 
Jock one joined back in, “Really Richard, have you seen him play?  He’s got to be the worst of the worst.  Go back to coach before they pick B-league and pick up someone else.  Maybe Randy.  He didn’t get picked yet.”
 
I was starting to panic as the reality of the situation sunk in.  This could be extremely humiliating, because everyone came to watch A-league games.   Almost no one came to C-league games.
 
 “It’s true, Richard,” I said, “Randy would be a much better choice than me.  I have been making teams lose for years now.  I’m not your man.  I really am bad!  Just give me three minutes on the court and I’ll prove it to you.  Get someone else while there is still time.”  
 
“He’s making a lot of sense,” jock two said.  “Listen to him Richard, before it’s too late.”
 
Richard deftly flicked his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue and then said, “No gentlemen, I want him on my team.  I have a plan for him.  He’s going to be our secret weapon.”
 
“WHAT???” we all cried in unison.
 
“That’s right. I’ve got a plan that I think will work.”
 
“But Richard,” jock one started.
 
Richard looked at him and said, “Listen, I want him on the team and he’s going to be on the team—so either you accept that, or you can find another team.”
 
I swallowed hard and decided to try one more tactic.  “Look Richard, what if I don’t want to be on your team.  What if I don’t want to play at all?  Did you ever think of that?”
 
“Your name was on the list,” Richard said, “which means that you wanted to play.  I picked you, so you will play on my team.  Now listen, all of you, before we’re late to class.  Coach said that we could have the gym Sunday at 2 for just our team.  I’ll tell you what I’m thinking then.  Be there Sunday at 2, dressed out and ready to play ball.”
 
“But,” I began to protest but didn’t get any farther.
 
Richard turned and started walking towards his next class.  “If you’re not there, Keele,” he said over his shoulder, “I will hunt you down and drag you there.  So make it easy on both of us.  Show up ready to play.”
 
Jocks one and two angrily stomped off towards their next class and I shuffled on to the Ad Building and dad’s office to lament this unfortunate turn of events.  Dad was thrilled.
 
“Wow,” he said after hearing my story, “A-league!  Now you can show them what you’ve got!”
 
“Yeah, dad,” I responded, “Which is absolutely nothing.  I got nothing! And now the whole school will know and I’ll be the laughingstock of the entire student body.”
 
Sunday came and I briefly thought of skipping, but remembering Richard’s threat and knowing that he would follow through, I changed into my basketball shorts and headed over to the gym.  I hated my PE clothes. I was so skinny my shorts hung on by the drawstring for dear life.  They were so big around my spindly legs that I could take three steps before the shorts even started to move.  
 
Entering the gym, I quickly slouched to one of the benches to watch my new teammates as they warmed up.  There was Joe, a short but very quick outside shooter. He would be playing guard, no doubt. There was Kevin, a 6’1” senior. I had seen him play both forward and guard.  Then you had “Tank”, a rather large, very enthusiastic forward.  Tank was not his real name. It was actually John, but I had a bad habit of giving people private nicknames based on their characteristics. John was so enthusiastic in his play, he was often oblivious to anyone around him.  He had run me over as I walked across the court one day, thus earning the nickname “Tank” in my mind. Eddie was another who could play forward or guard. Richard, of course, would play center and I guessed my position to be sub after everyone had fouled out if they were really in desperate straits.
 
Richard saw me on the bench and said, “Ok, we’re all here.  Have a seat guys and I’ll explain my plan.”
 
They all sat along the bench leaving a wide margin between them and me, which was ok with me. As it turned out I wouldn’t be sitting there long anyway.
 
“Keele,” Richard said looking my direction, “come out here.”  I got up and shuffled out towards the center of the court where Richard stood.
 
“Keele,” he said, “this year you are going to be our secret weapon.”
 
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy, Richard,” I began, but he cut me off.
 
“Here’s the plan,” he continued.  “Everyone already knows how bad you are at basketball, and by now word is out that Richard is nuts. We’re going to use that to our advantage.”  He paused. Somewhere off in the distance a cricket chirped as we all waited to hear what the plan was.
 
“Keele,” he went on, “I’m gonna teach you how to play basketball.”
 
“Coach already tried that and it hasn’t worked yet,” I said.
 
“I’m not finished, so just shut it,” Richard responded.  Then to Joe, “Throw me the ball.”
 
“Keele,” he said, “we’re gonna get real basic here, so follow me.  This is a basketball.”
 
“Yeah,” I said, “we’ve got those in C-league.”
 
“I said shut it,” Richard replied.  “How you gonna learn anything if you’re always yappin’?”  I shrugged.
 
“These,” he pointed to the lines surrounding the court, “are the boundary lines.”  I started to let him know we had those in C-league too, but his look told me I should just keep it shut.
 
“Everything inside those lines is what we call inbounds,” he continued.  “Everything outside, we call out-of-bounds.  To score, this ball must go through that hoop. We call that ‘making a basket.’”
 
I stood there, somewhat embarrassed, trying to figure out the point he was trying to make with such obvious information, as my teammates just sat and snickered.
 
“Your first job on this team comes whenever the other team makes a basket.  I want you to run over, grab the ball and take it out-of-bounds.  Can you do that?”
 
I nodded.
 
“Let’s practice. Pretend this is the other team.”  With that Richard shot the ball into the basket.  I went over picked it up and walked out-of-bounds.
 
“Good,” Richard said. “Now, watcha gonna do?”
 
“Throw it inbounds,” I replied.
 
“To who?” Richard asked.
 
“Whom,” I replied.
 
“What?” he asked.
 
“The correct word to use would be whom,” I said.
 
“Hey,” Richard shot back, “This ain’t English class.”
 
“Obviously,” I responded, “or I would be doing a lot better.”
 
“Look, just answer the question—Who you gonna throw it to?” Richard said.
 
“Somebody on my team,” I said sarcastically.  This was getting old and I failed to see the point.
 
“Only two people on this team will you ever throw it to,” Richard instructed.  “Me or Joe.”  I decided to pass on the English lesson.  “Now,” he said, “Let’s try that.  Joe, come out here.  John, come guard him.”
 
He shot the ball. I went and picked it up and headed out-of-bounds.  “Tank” followed me.  When I turned around, he was waving his arms frantically in my face trying to keep me from throwing the ball in.  My view was limited to big, hairy armpits.  Nasty.
 
“Come on, Keele,” Richard shouted, “throw it in.”
 
“Get this baboon with the hairy armpits out of my way and I will.” I shouted back.
 
“That’s the point, Keele,” Richard said, “There will always be someone trying to keep you from throwing the ball in.  If that should happen, turn your body sideways, keeping the ball away from your opponent.  Simply throw it one-handed way up in the air, like you’re doing a hook shot, and I’ll get it. Now try that.”
 
I turned sideways and launched it up over my head.  It easily cleared John’s waving arms.  Richard leaped into the air and snatched it.
 
“See,” he said, “No problem.  Now watcha gonna do?”
 
“Come inbounds,” I replied.
 
“And go where?” Richard asked.
 
“To the other end.” I snapped.
 
“And do what?” he asked.
 
“I dunno,” I said, “Run around and around and around until somebody throws me the ball.”
 
“No,” Richard said. “There is only one place you will go.  This little painted section in the middle we call the key.  You’re going to run down and stand at the top of the key on the right hand side.”
 
“That’s it?” I asked. “Just stand there?”
 
“No,” Richard answered, “You will never just stand there.  You will always have your hands up like this.”  He demonstrated by bringing his hands up in front of his chest, palms out, as if ready to catch the basketball.  He continued, “Then always turn to follow the ball.  Keep your hands up and just follow the ball with your eyes, keeping your body facing towards wherever the ball is.  If it should come to you, simply turn towards the goal and launch it up somewhere in the vicinity of the basket.  I’ll be there to take care of it.  Got it?”
 
“I think so,” I responded.
 
“Good, anyone else have questions?” Richards asked the rest of the team.
“Yeah,” said Tank, “I still don’t get how this is going to work.  Keele is still no good at basketball.”
 
“He doesn’t have to be,” Richard countered.  “That’s the beauty of it.  Because we are good at it, the other teams will be guarding us, but no one will guard Keele.  So once we get the ball to him and he throws it towards the basket, I’ll be able to shake my guys by going up after the ball.  From there it should be easy.  Get it?” We all answered back with blank stares.  It was obvious that no one got it.
 
“Ok, let’s try it.” Richard said.  “I’ll show you what I mean.”  Then to me, “Keele, try to get it somewhere close to the rim.  That will help a whole lot.  Ok…get in your places guys.  Keele, hands up, follow the ball.”  Richard whipped the ball to Joe who threw it to Kevin.  I turned and followed the ball with my hands up in front of my chest.  Kevin to Tank, Tank to Richard.  Suddenly, whump, it hit my hands like a cannon ball.  I went two steps backwards.
 
“No, Keele,” Richard called out, “once you get the ball you can’t move your feet!”
 
I pulled on my jersey to release my chest from the collapsed position.  “Well, I wasn’t expecting it that hard,” I countered.
 
“Always expect it hard,” Richard said. “That way, if it is, you’re ready.  And if it isn’t, you’re also ready.  Ok…let’s try it again.  Remember Keele, close to the rim.”
 
Richard to Kevin, Kevin to Joe, Joe to Tank and, whump, back in my hands.  This time I turned and heaved it towards the basket. Like a flash out of nowhere, Richard came blazing past me, leaped into the air, grabbed the ball and slammed it through the hoop.  I stood there with my mouth open.  Whoa—that was cool!  He turned and looked at the rest of us.
 
“Now do you get it?” he asked.  We all nodded and then simultaneously broke into a spontaneous rant.  
 
“Dude, that was awesome! Did you see that?  That was so cool!  There is no way to guard that!  Unbelievable!  Who would have thought?”
 
“Now do you see how Keele will be our Secret Weapon?  If he can get it up in the air just like that, it should be no problem to take the lead.”
 
I stood there shaking at the thought of not being a loser any more.  Maybe I did have hidden talents in basketball.  Just be there in my spot with my hands up. Be ready.  And if the ball came to me, heave it towards the basket. I could do this!
 
We tried the play over and over again.   Sometimes I threw it flawlessly, other times, not so well.  Richard developed contingency plans in case I messed up.  Joe or Kevin would run in to help try and recover the ball in case things didn’t go well.  We kept at it until I was getting pretty consistent—and very tired.  Some of the guys were running over to the water fountain.  Richard called for a break.  I slumped to a bench on the side of the gym.  Richard came over.
 
“Good work, Keele! Now we just need to teach you how to play defense,” Richard’s words sent virtual cramps through my tired body.
 
“What do I have to do there?”  I asked.
 
“Just run around and around and around till somebody throws you the ball,” Richard grinned.  
 
“Yeah, right!” I said, as I smiled for the first time that day.
 
“Actually,” he said, “That’s not far from the truth.  I just want you to follow the ball.  Get in the face and yell at whoever has it.  Try to freak them into making a mistake.  If they don’t know it’s coming, it can cause a turnover.  We’re going to try it on they guys in a minute.  Are you game?”  
 
“Just run to whoever has the ball and yell?  That’s it?” I asked.
 
“Well, that and wave your hands in front of them as you yell.” Richard said.  “Ok, here’s the deal.  You and me and Eddie are going to take on Joe, John and Kevin in a little scrimmage game.  You just try that defense.  If we get the ball, just run back to your spot and get your hands up.”
 
“Ok,” I said, “I’ll try, but can we play half-court?  I can’t keep running this way.”  Richard grinned and nodded.
 
We started into the scrimmage game and the ball went to Tank.  I ran over and yelled loudly, “WOOOOOOOW!”  Tank jumped back and Richard stole the ball, going in for an easy lay-up.
 
“What was that about?” John yelled looking in my direction.
 
“That,” Richard said, “was exactly what I wanted him to do.  And if it worked on you, it will work on a lot of guys.”  He looked my direction and gave me a thumbs-up.
 
Richard threw the ball to John.  “So, you guys ready to take on our secret weapon?”
 
We practiced until I couldn’t yell, or for that matter, move any more.  I dragged myself home for a shower, exhausted, but feeling it might not be so bad after all.
 
Our first game came a few days later.  The gym was packed to watch the A-league guys play.  They made a big deal of calling the starting five from each team.  You know the drill. “And starting at forward, and a big senior, is Kevvvvvvvvvinnnnnnnn.”  Every one cheered as Kevin ran out.  “In the other forward position, another senior, heeeeerrrrrrreeesssss Johnny!!!!”  The crowd again cheered as Tank trotted out and high-fived Kevin.  “Playing guard, he’s short, but he’s fast as lightning, please welcome, junior Joooooooooeeeeeee!”  The crowd went nuts as Joe ran out with both hands up and high-fived both Kevin and John.  “And in the other guard position, also a junior, for the first time in A-league—heeeeerrrrrrrreeeessss Donnie!”  The crowd went totally silent as I took the first three steps to get my shorts moving.  Somewhere off in the distance a dog barked.  Then suddenly, I heard it—small a first, but building in intensity.  A snicker, then a short laugh, and before I knew it, the whole gym erupted into laughter.
 
All of my loser feelings swiftly returned.  Maybe I didn’t belong on the court.  I was about ready to bolt for the door in shame when I heard something else.  A single clap. Then another one, quickly followed by a third.  One person was clapping!  I looked around and spotted my dad standing in the corner of the gymnasium, clapping for me!
 
Tank high-fived me and whispered, “Don’t worry about it man, they don’t know you’re our secret weapon. We’ll call you SW for short. Just stay undercover for a little while longer.”  Instantly I felt better.  
 
And immediately, when the rest of the students heard their principal (my dad) clapping, the laughing died away.  The announcer continued.
 
“He’s the captain of the team, he’s a senior, playing center, let’s hear it for Riiiiiiiccchhhhhharrrrrddd!”  The crowd abruptly went wild again as Richard trotted out and high-fived the rest of us.
 
After the other team was announced, we went out to line up for the jump ball.  We had never covered the jump ball in any of our practice sessions, so I wasn’t quite sure what to do.  I stood out a little bit away from everyone else.  No one came close to me either.
 
The whistle sounded, Richard out-jumped his opponent and drilled the ball straight to me.  I had my hands up and caught it, but now what?  Like a flash, Joe came right past me, snatching the ball and running straight towards the basket for an easy lay-up.  Cool.
 
“Defense, Keele!” Richard yelled.  “Let it go, boy!”
 
I ran down to the other end of the court and spotted the ball.  Running full-bore towards  the guy I shrieked, “YAAAAAAAAA!” as I lunged in waving my hands frantically.  He jumped back, startled, and tried to get a pass off.  Tank was all over it and Joe was already running down-court.  We were up by 4 in the first minute of the game.
 
They threw the ball in and brought it down.  I was all over my defensive game!  “Yaaaa!  Wooooow, HAAAAAY! “WatchOUT!”  I was having a great time waving my arms and yelling.   Suddenly, we had the ball and everyone was running down-court.  
 
“Get in your spot, Keele!” Richard yelled.  I ran to the top of the key and had my hands up just turning and following the ball.  I began to feel like a real dufus when people started pointing and laughing, but I kept my hands up.  Whump.  I turned and launched it towards the goal. Perfect throw! Richard was on it in a flash and quickly slammed it through the hoop.
 
The loudspeakers came to life as the voice of the announcer tried to drown out the roaring crowd. “Two-points, Richard! Assist, Keele!”  
 
I looked and my dad was going nuts!  Clapping for all he was worth.  “Get down here, Keele!” Richard yelled.  Oh, yeah!  I plunged into the melee. “YAAAA!  Woohooo, HAAAAAY!  “WATCHit!”  I was like a hard-core squirrel on caffeine.  It was the most fun I’d ever had on a basketball court.
 
At the end of the game, we were up by 16 points and I had 12 assists behind my name.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was actually on a team that WON!  And I had, beyond doubt, contributed to the win! That was the first of many wins. As a matter of fact, we went undefeated the entire season.
 
To be sure, the other teams caught on to our strategy.  I began to be heavily guarded.  “Don’t let Keele get that ball in the air!” other captains would caution their guards.  So Richard showed me a few other moves.  A head fake and toss out to Joe.  A bounce pass under the jumping blocker to Tank. An around-the-back dump-off to Kevin.  A hand-off to Eddie. Always, I was in my spot. Always with my hands up, ready to get the pass.
 
And in the championship game, with three minutes remaining in the game, I had a slow-motion moment. We were going against Ron’s team. Ron was about equal in skill to Richard, and this particular game was hard fought.  Someone on his team answered every basket we made. The game was tied. Adrenaline was running high. I was in my spot and I was open. Suddenly the ball was in my hands and I turned and launched it towards the basket.  That’s when things went into slow-motion.
 
Up, up, up went the ball.  Ron and Richard both went up at the same time to try and gain control of the ball. It continued going up, right over both of their outstretched hands.  They waved, arms colliding.  Beads of sweat went flying, glistening under the mercury lights.  Still the ball was on its’ upward arch.  They swung again and missed, as it reached the apex, and then all three started their slow-motion descent together: Ron, Richard and the ball, with a perfect slow-motion backspin.  I stood there in my spot, watching it all unfold slowly before my eyes. As Ron and Richard hit the floor, the ball swished through the basket, nothing but net.  It went IN!  I couldn’t believe it!  It actually went IN!
 
Somewhere in the distance I heard the announcer say, “Two points, KEELE!”  My dad went absolutely nuts, jumping and yelling, “Way to go son!  Good one!”  I stood rooted to my spot, soaking it all in until Richard’s voice jerked me back into reality.
 
“Get down here, Keele! We need you!”  I sprinted down the court and went into the fray like a shark on a feeding frenzy.  “YO!  HAY! WATCHIT! LOOKOUT! YAAAAAHHOOOOOO!”  I was all over the place!  We got the turnover and Joe was down-court in a flash.  Tank to Eddie.  Eddie to Joe.  Joe in for the lay-up.  We were up by two.  They were back down-court and working it. Ron drove the basket and we were tied again.
 
Back and forth it went.  Final ten seconds. We had possession and we were down by one because of a free throw.  I was in my spot.  Hands up. Turning and facing the ball at all times.  Richard to Tank.  Tank to Joe. Joe to Kevin.  Kevin to me.  I turned and started to launch, but two guys came out of nowhere to block it. I switched up and bounced it under them as Richard came zipping by on his way to the hoop.  He took the pass and drove for the goal, with Ron guarding closely. Releasing the ball, it went up, hit the backboard and dropped through the hoop just as the buzzer sounded.
 
The whole place went nuts.  Suddenly I found myself on the shoulders of my teammates as they chanted “SW, SW, SW!”  My dad was pounding me on the back, yelling, “Way to go, son!  Good job!”
 
Wow, from the loser’s bench to the winner’s circle. I had never been there before.  It was an unbelievable feeling.  I reveled in the glow as I went home that night. But I also felt a lot of gratitude for what Richard had done for me.
 
For some reason Richard had chosen me, a major loser, to be on his team. I think it was because he secretly wanted to date my sister (which didn’t work).  But he took a chance nonetheless.  Even though I was a loser, he picked me to be on his team of winners.
 
And even though I had been the one they picked up off the floor and bounced around, I knew full well that I couldn’t really play basketball.  I had only done what Richard had taught me.  He taught me how to stand at the top of the key and how to throw the ball up in the air.  He taught me a head fake and a bounce pass and how to act like an idiot on defense, but if the truth were to be told, I’m still no good on a basketball court.  I still can’t play the game.  But that didn’t matter to Richard.  What mattered was that I did what he asked.
 
My job was to be in my spot and be willing.  I needed to have my hands open and ready to catch whatever was thrown. I needed to keep my eye on Richard and not worry about what everyone else was screaming at me.  And when the ball came to me, I was to just heave it towards the basket and let him take care of the rest.  Which brings me to you and your spiritual growth.
 
You may think that you are no good at this spiritual walk thing.  You may still be stunned that for some reason, God chose you to play on his team.  He knows that you may not be the best at playing.  He knows that the spiritual walk is hard.  He knows that you don’t feel adequate- but for some reason, He picked you.  Look at what the Apostle John wrote.
 
John 15:16   You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit --fruit that will last. Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name.

He isn’t asking that you have it all together. He isn’t asking that you be the star player of the team. Just be in your spot and be willing to serve. Keep your heart open for whatever Jesus decides to throw at you. Jesus has rarely picked the most adequate or the most competent.  But He has always used the most willing.  Remember, it’s not based on how bad you are, but rather on how good He is.  Just be in your spot, with your hands up, ready to do what He asks of you.  Throw it up there, and He’ll take care of the rest.

Philippians 1:6 “He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it.”

It’s His job to take you from a spiritual loser to a spiritual winner, and He wants to finish that work in your life.  Allow Him to do that work and simply do what He asks you to do.  
 
What’s He asking you to do? God wants you to be in your spot with your hands up and He wants you to put your heart and soul into it. Mark 12:30   Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.'
 
Question: How well have you been playing the game?  Have you been pleading to get off of the team?  Have you tried to stay on the bench?  There is no excuse a Christian can stand on for not fulfilling the Gospel commission.  It’s a command of Jesus, not a suggestion.  And with every command comes a promise.  Check this out.
 2Pet. 1:3,4 His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness.   4 Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires.
 
Did you catch that? His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness.  He’s already given you everything you need to be in the game. So get in there and get your hands up!
 
And you’ll find, if you’re faithful, that when the final game is played, and the final buzzer sounds, you’ll be hoisted up onto the shoulders of angels and carried past God the Father and there you will find Him applauding, saying “Way to go, son!  Way to go daughter!  I’m so proud of you!  Not because you’re the best basketball player out there, but because you’re my child, and you learned to trust me and you learned to trust my Son, Jesus, and together, we’ve made you a winning secret weapon in this whole Great Controversy.”
 
So don’t take yourself out of the game.  Don’t sit and whine that there are others better or more qualified than you.  Don’t excuse yourself because you aren’t having fun or the work is hard.  Stay in there and play.  Hold on a little longer, because someday soon—it won’t be long now—it’s going to all be worth it.  Hey, life is short, play hard!

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

By Don Keele Jr.

Third grade was a tough year for me.  Not in school.  I loved my schoolwork and my teacher.  It was after school where I had problems, or more specifically, the walk home after school.

We lived about a half mile from the elementary school I attended and back in the day, if you lived within a mile or so, you were expected to get yourself to and from school, either by walking or riding your bike.  Fortunately, my dad worked at the academy next to the elementary school, so he would take us to school in the morning, but getting home in the afternoon and getting our chores started was our responsibility.  I say “our”, because my older sister, Pam, also had to walk home after school.  But she didn’t walk home with me.

She was taking piano lessons at the time, and since we didn’t yet have a piano, she would go to the academy to practice for 30 minutes before she walked home.  I, on the other hand, would start out immediately after school to see if I could make it past a certain home before the boys who lived there arrived home.  If I made it before they got home, it was a good day.  But if I didn’t, we played a game.  It was a popular game, for them, called, “Beat the Dweeb”, with me, of course, always being selected to play the part of the dweeb.

You need to know that I was diagnosed with asthma almost from birth, and this being the days before good inhalers, if presented with a choice between running and breathing, I usually chose breathing.  I say usually, because my tormentors could almost always force me to choose “run now, breathe later”, as an option.  It was not a pretty sight.

 A little background.  They lived in a house on the corner across the road from our town’s large water tower.  It sat on a grassy knoll at the top of the hill with the road making a 90-degree right turn just past it and then going down hill to where I lived.  To get past their house, I had three options: 1) Stay on the road all the way around the corner, the “long way.”  2) Cut up and across the grassy knoll, which was the shortest route on the 90-degree corner. 3) Turn off early, go down these nice, little old ladies driveway, cut through the woods behind the water tower and into the back yard and down the driveway of a crotchety old man who seemed to love nothing more than shooting buckshot and salt pellets at the feet of anyone who came on his property, slowly aiming further up their body if the desired results were not accomplished in a timely manner. I really never considered this to be a good option.

Back to “Beat the Dweeb.”  The game all started when one of them was picking on me at school one day, and the teacher heard me say “OWW…STOP IT!”  She asked what was going on, so I told her.  She asked me who started it, and I simply shrugged and pointed at the source of my agitation. He, in turn, pointed at me.  Since he had been in trouble for picking on people before, (almost daily) she called him down and he had to stay after school.  The next day he and his brother started this new game.

Here’s how the game was played.  They would run home across the fields the back way, while I walked the road. (see running and breathing comments above)  I tried to walk fast in hopes of beating them, but rarely did.  They would hide somewhere in their yard or in the trees in their yard or over by the water tower, so that I had no clue where they might be coming from.  Once in position, they would wait for me to try and sneak past.  Then, at a given signal, they would run or drop from their hiding places, screaming and running towards me.  One of them would knock me down, and then they would take turns kicking me or beating on me, calling me names like, “Little Snitch,” or “Sissy” or “Girl” or “Dweeb” (hence the name I gave the game).  The game would go on until they got tired or felt like they had expended as much energy as they could afford for the day, then they would run off laughing. When it first started, I tried to fight them, but found I was too small, too weak, too winded, as well as outnumbered, and soon reverted to just balling up and covering my head and just waiting it out.  Once they were done, I would uncover my head slowly, to make sure they were gone, and then get up and head for home.

There were a few variations to the game.  As they got better at chasing me, instead of just knocking me down or tripping me, they added a new challenge for themselves.  They would run alongside me trying to grab one of my fleeing feet and then jerk it out from underneath me causing me to tumble, allowing the game to proceed normally from there.  My only hope was to get over the crest of the hill by the water tower and in sight of the home on the downhill side of the tower.   If I could get that far before they caught me, the lady who lived there would often come out and rescue me, with them running as soon as her front door opened.

She would dust me off and ask me if I was all right. Being totally humiliated, I would assure her that I was and then ask her please not to tell my parents or anyone about it.  I told her that I knew it wouldn’t last much longer.  I would then go home and change clothes, putting my dirty, grass-stained clothes in the washer and get them started before starting any of my other chores.  Usually by time the clothes were done washing, my sister would come in and start her chores and since I was now in my “work clothes” she would be none the wiser.

Any bruises or cuts that showed up on my body I passed off as having happened by accident on the playground.  I had fallen.  I had slipped out of a swing.  I had tripped and run into a tree.  All of these were believable because of my well-known lack of athletic ability.  Clumsiness, it was called in those days.  As in, “that poor boy is just about as clumsy as an ox.”  I knew nothing of oxen and their clumsiness, just that I was often compared to them.  Which gave me a good alibi when it came to explaining the humiliating cuts and bruises I had received during the most recent “Beat the Dweeb” game.

One particular day the game went on much longer than normal.  Perhaps the score was tied between my two tormentors and they were forced into extra innings.  It could also have had something to do with the fact that I shot my mouth off to them on the playground earlier in the day when I was surrounded by my friends and feeling a little more cocky.  Whatever the case, I was really catching it that day.  When they finally tired and the last kick was delivered to my side, one said, “Come on, let’s go,” and they left.

I stiffly got up and headed home, trying to stay out of sight of any of the neighbors.  I ached all over and I cried quietly to myself as I went down the hill to the house.  Once inside my bedroom, I plopped down across my bed and lay there in a pool of humiliation mixed with rage and self-pity.  I wanted to get those boys so badly.  I lay there for a few moments allowing myself an anger fantasy that had me doing all sorts of things to my tormentors until they were begging me for mercy.  A slamming front door brought me back to reality.

I jumped up and started to change shirts. Halfway up with my shirt, with dirt and grass in my hair and on my clothes my bedroom door came flying open.  It was Pam starting to tell me about something that had happened at school.  She stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the bruises on my back and my sides and the grass and dirt all over me.  I pulled my shirt back down.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I fell off the swings at the playground.”  I stammered, trying to sound convincing.  She looked like she wasn’t buying it, so I quickly added, “I was trying to go really high and then jump out like the 8th graders do, only I messed up and ended up crashing.”

She looked long and hard at me and then said, “You’re lying!  What really happened?”

“That’s it.  That’s what happened,” I shot back, “now will you get out of my room?”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what really happened.”  She took a step forward.  Though only a year older, she had already achieved her growth spurt and now towered over me. I started to leave so she grabbed me by the front of the shirt and said, “Tell me what happened.”

I started crying as I jerked her hands off of my shirt, “I don’t want to talk about it, now just go and leave me alone.”

“Somebody beat you up.  Tell me who it is and I’ll take care of them for you!” she said.

This was a new ray of hope in what had become my dim existence.  My sister was already well known in our school for her fighting prowess due to her go-around with the toughest school bully.  He had openly challenged her in front of other kids and then thrown down the gauntlet.

She had told him, “I don’t want to fight you, but don’t think I can’t take care of myself if you try something.”

He had circled around her a few times, she turning with him, always keeping him in front of her.  Finally he had lunged in to grab her and faster than any of us knew what happened, she picked him up, flipped him over and pile-drove his head into the grass.  He lay there for a few stunned seconds, then jumped up and ran off crying, his reign of tyranny having just come to a humiliating end by no less than a girl.

I hadn’t counted on Pam coming to my rescue.  Perhaps it would be possible to end this game of “Beat the Dweeb”.  Maybe even forever.  I turned around to face her.
“Would you really take care of them for me?” I asked.

“Sure, just tell me who they are and I’ll deal with them,” she responded.

I spilled the whole sordid story of humiliation and fear with them jumping out from different places and of being tripped and kicked and beaten and dirty clothes and washing them myself and not wanting anyone to know because I was embarrassed that I couldn’t take care of myself.

She listened sympathetically and finally said, “Ok, I have a plan.”  I felt better already.  “Since they come out from a place you’re not expecting, we’re going to do the same thing.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“They do the unexpected.  You do the unexpected,” she replied.

“I still don’t get it,” I said.  “All I have ever been able to do is run, fall, cover my head and endure the beating while trying to breathe.  They will expect that.  I expect that!  So how am I going to do the unexpected?”

“Ok, first, you aren’t going to go home at the same time.  You’ll wait until I’m finished practicing the piano. They will be expecting you much earlier.  Maybe they will get tired of waiting and then you can slip past.” I liked the sound of that. She continued. “ But I doubt it.  So, instead of taking the road or the path over the rise by the tower, you’re going to go down the path behind the trees towards the old man’s house.”

“What?” I cried out in shock and dismay.  “No way!  If I outrun them, I’ll just be facing buckshot from a double-barrel.”

“That’s just it,” she explained. “It’s not what they would expect.  And anyway, you’re not going to go as far as the old man’s place.  Just towards it.  Not running.  Walking.”

“Walking???” I shouted. “Why walking?  They’ll catch me sooner.”

“That’s the point,” she said.  “Don’t you get it?  You’re going to be my decoy to lure them behind the trees.”

“What’s a decoy?  I don’t like going behind the trees because they can beat on me longer and no one sees them.”

“Precisely!” Pam said.  “That gives us the advantage.”  Light suddenly dawned in my fogged “dweeb” brain.

“Oooohhhh, so I lead them back behind the trees, and then you can come and take care of them where no one sees. Right?”

“Exactly,” she said, glad that I was finally catching on.  “You lead them down the path and let them catch you.” I was starting to warm to the idea when another thought hit me.

“But if they catch me, they will beat on me like before.  I don’t like this idea.”

Pam quickly responded, “I’ll take it from there and I don’t think they will want to beat on you again once I get finished with them.  What do you think?”

I thought it over and said, “Ok, just don’t let them beat on me very long.”

“I won’t,” she assured me.  “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

I went to sleep that night excited that my after-school “game” might soon be over.

The next day, I waited while she practiced.  Then we headed home.  As we neared the water tower corner, Pam turned to me and said, “Ok we don’t want them to see me, so you go up and walk calmly back behind the trees.  Let them see you and let them catch you. Remember, walk calmly.”

“Ok,” I replied, “but remember, don’t let them beat on me very long.”

“I won’t…now go.” She pushed me forward.

I walked up towards the corner scanning the trees, the bushes, their yard, all around their house and finally spotted them creeping up behind their hedge.  I turned into the little old lady’s driveway and headed for the path through the woods.  Suddenly they broke out from behind the hedge and crossed the street, screaming like banshees.

Instantly my reflexes took over.  Forget walking calmly; I was out of there.  They caught me just before I entered the path in the woods, but well out of site behind the trees.

“Thought you were going to sneak by us, did you?” the older one yelled as he kicked my side.  “Well, think again, you little sissy.”

“Yeah,” said his younger brother, dropping down on top of me, grabbing me by the hair and yanking my head up.  “Dumb move, dweeb. You’re back here behind the trees where no one can see, so you’re really going to get it today!”  He slammed my head to the ground.

“Come on, Pam, where are you?” I was thinking.  Ugh.  Another body-slam.  Suddenly I felt both boys being lifted off of me.  I rolled over slightly to see Pam, who now had each boy by the back of his shirt.

“You leave my brother alone,” she screamed, as she grabbed their heads and cracked them together. Bam! She threw the younger one down and backhanded the older one. Biff. He went spinning off.  The younger brother came charging in to give her a head-butt. She sidestepped him and brought both her clasped hands down onto the back of his head, sending him face first into the dirt. He began to cry and got up to run for home. The older brother was up and took a swing at her, his punch catching her firmly on the jaw.  Big mistake.

She yelped, grabbed him by the shirt with her right hand and swung him into a near-perfect left jab to the nose.   Blood spurted from his nose and he began to retreat towards home.  She followed and pushed them both down yelling, “You touch my brother again and it will twice as bad.  I’ll hunt you down if I have to.  Now get on home and leave him alone.  For GOOD!”

She came back over to where I lay on the ground, still very much stunned at what had just happened.  She reached down and extended a hand.

“You okay?” she asked pulling me to my feet.  I nodded.

“Wow—that was awesome!” I said.  “They didn’t know what hit them.  You were all over them.  They didn’t stand a chance.  Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said.  “Let’s get on home and get our chores done before mom and dad get home.”

The next day, I again waited for Pam to finish practicing, and then I walked past their house with confidence.  We went the long way around the corner. I gave them a nod and a wave as I motioned towards Pam with a look that said, “Hey guys, you can’t touch this!  Got my big sister with me and you know she can take you both.”  They just sat there and watched us go by.  It was, indeed, a beautiful day in the neighborhood for me.

After that, I started playing trumpet and practiced in the music building while Pam practiced the piano.  We would walk home together, and as long as I was with her, all was well.

You have probably realized by now that you also have an enemy.  The Bible says his name is Satan.  He lies in wait just to play “Beat the Dweeb”, and you’re it.  He comes at you from all sides.  He’ll drop into your head screaming what a loser you are.  He’ll jump out from behind the hedge and cause you to fall into the sin that so easily besets you.  He’ll beat you up with a well-placed punch to the heart and leave you bruised and shaking with the dirt of sin and shame all over you.  He’ll double you over with guilt.  He will humiliate you and terrorize you.  He’ll cause you to be anxious during the day and lose sleep at night wondering what is coming at you next.  In short, he’s not a nice guy.

The Apostle Peter put it this way: “Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” 1Pet. 5:8

He’s out there waiting. Lurking. Prowling.  Looking for someone to devour.  You.  Me.  Anyone he can get his demonic paws on. He’s always there and always bigger and meaner than you or me. And while that’s real and that’s scary, here’s the real deal.

We’ve got a Big Brother who has already beaten him and all of his minions.  He has already cast them out of heaven, and then He came down here and continued to chase them.  Satan landed a well-placed punch when he put Jesus on the cross.  But the Bible says that was only a heel wound.  Jesus came back from the grave and crushed Satan’s head. (See Gen. 3:15)

When Jesus died and then rose again, He beat the devil.  He took command of this world and sent the devil running.  And because of that, if you walk with Jesus through the neighborhood, you will never need fear Satan again.  You have the authority of your Big Brother Jesus to stand on.  You can resist Satan by calling on Jesus.

If Satan starts bothering you, all you have to do is yell, “Jesus, Satan is pickin’ on me again.  Can you take care of things?”

Jesus stands up in your behalf and the Bible says the devil flees.  Look at scripture.  “Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” James 4:7

You don’t have to get beat up by the devil anymore.  Resist him. Not in your strength, or you’ll get clobbered.  Resist him by calling on Jesus. Here’s how Peter finishes the thought. “And the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will Himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To Him be the power for ever and ever. Amen” 1Pet. 5:10,11