“Mommy, can I have that?” I pointed to a metal looped heavy wire key on an empty Spam can. The key worked as a can opener when you placed the hole in the key onto a tab that sealed the lid. Rolling the key around the top of the can produced a strip of coiled metal that allowed the lid to come off. In my 5-year-old mind I had discovered a treasure. This key would fit my giant trike. I would place the little metal wire in the hole in my handle grip and be like Daddy starting the car.
Mommy, realizing the difficulty in getting the key safely off the can, simply stated, “No!” But knowing, as all little kids do, that “no” does not always mean “no,” I persisted. “Oh please Mommy?” I pleaded in my sweetest, most convincing tone. To which she replied, “I told you no.”
Mom thought the incident was over, when she sent me to empty the garbage later. The key was so small, no one would know. Finding the can, I took the coiled metal strip in my left hand and pulled the key straight up with my right hand. Instantly the razor sharp metal cut across my hand. Horror struck me as the blood began to pour down my hand. I tried to hold the flesh together. I raced to our trailer house. I desperately needed my mom. At the trailer I tried to hide the evidence of my disobedience. I wiped the blood down the full length of the pink and white trailer. No matter how much I wiped it, I couldn’t get it to clean up. I could not go in like this. Mom had told me, “no.” I sat on the trailer steps and cried. I needed mom; I needed her help. The fear of punishment and the sorrow of disappointing her kept me from going in.
The door opened and instantly she whisked me up into her arms. She quickly bandaged me up. I kept repeating, “I’m sorry, Mommy, I am sorry, I won’t do it again.” “I know you are, honey, it will be okay.” Off to the hospital we went. There were shots and the doctor applied stitches.
After suffering in sin’s hands I have been on the front step many times. I have failed when I’ve tried to clean myself up enough to feel worthy of God’s presence. So I sit on the step, wanting to go to Jesus, but too ashamed and afraid to walk in the door. I am ashamed that I have disobeyed and failed him who loved me. I feel pained that I will cause him pain. So I sit wondering, “If I go back home, what will the consequences be? Will he take me back? Will he trust me? What price will I have to pay?” When it seems that I can never again walk through that door, I remember my mother coming out after me and realize that truly I can fall in Jesus arms.
—Written by Pastor Jim Berglund
Originally published at www.storyharvest.org
Photo by evilpeacock