Being Beth

For the past decade or so, many of the places I shop have been collecting information on me and my family.    


They know a lot more about us than most of our closest friends do.  For instance, they know what brand of toilet paper we use, and they know how much my household uses per year.  They know that someone in my family likes Gerber teething biscuits and they know we never buy diapers or any other baby products and can assume some adult is still teething.  


They know we have a dog or that someone in our house goes through fifteen pounds of dog food and a box of Milk Bones each month.  They also know when my dog is having a problem with fleas.  


They know how often we brush our teeth and if we swish with Listerine or Scope.  And, I bet if anybody is paying attention they've figured out whether or not I would be a good target consumer for hot flash remedies.


They know how many pounds of sugar, flour, butter, rice, pasta, oatmeal, soda crackers, and bacon we ingest per year.  


They know when our noses get stuffed up, whether or not we're prone to indigestion and constipation.  One of these days they'll probably know when someone needs Depends! (Not only will they know when, but they'll know who, since they come in men's and women's varieties).  


They also know my phone number, address, and how old each of us are, because we told them.  We filled out the form that got us one of these fancy key chain doolollies.  

My family moved to a new suburban housing addition the summer I turned ten years old.  Behind our house was undeveloped land and about a half block through the woods was a small lake.  We fished for small perch and catfish in the summer months.  We sometimes waded along the shallow edge but we never swam in the pond because there were lots of water moccasin snakes slithering about the water.

Texas winters seldom got cold enough for a long period of time to freeze the lake so we could skate on it. In fact, my parents warned my little brothers and me many times that even if the lake looked like it was frozen, that we were never to venture out on the ice because in all likelihood we would fall through and drown.

The year I turned fifteen, we had a particularly hard winter and the little lake froze.  Then came eight inches of snow, which delighted even those of us who were too cool and mature to play outside anymore.  Schools closed and all the kids in our neighborhood were out having the mother of all snowball fights.

Above our own laughter and shouting, we heard screams -- loud, anguished screams crying for help.  The cries came from the woods, in the direction of the lake.  We all took off, running and skidding toward the shouts.

One of the neighbors, a man in his early fifties home recovering from a heart attack, also heard the shouts,  and since his house was very close to the lake, he arrived before the rest of us.  He found two young boys had been skating on the iced over lake and had fallen through.

Without a thought for his own health, the man jumped into the freezing water, and pulled the oldest of the boys out and told him to stand still, that he'd get his little brother.  The poor little guy was frantic that his brother would drown, and he jumped back into the water.

Once again, the man had to pull the older boy out.  By then, the younger boy had disappeared under the frigid water.

Someone had called the police, and when they arrived, they quickly saw what was going on, and wrapping the older boy in a blanket, carried him to the warm squad car.  The officer also grabbed me by the arm and pulled me along saying, "I need you to sit here in the car with this boy.  Keep him warm, and don't let him out of the car."

I sat in the squad car with that little boy for nearly two hours. I can still hear the sobs of that nine year old saying, "I killed my brother.  I killed my brother.  We weren't supposed to leave the house, but I told my brother it would be okay if we went for just a little while.  We wanted to skate.  My momma will hate me forever for killing my brother."

I tried to reassure the boy that the police would find his brother and that everything would turn out okay, but the boy knew.  So did I.  His brother was gone forever.

Eventually the police officer returned to the car and thanked me for helping out.  Daddy, my brothers, and I trudged home in silence.  There wasn't anything to say.  The joy of snow and ice and winter evaporated from the day and left only echos of someone screaming for help, and a small scared voice saying he'd killed his brother.

Daddy made hot cocoa, offered to play board games, but nothing lifted my spirits.  Then he came up with a diversion I couldn't resist:  "Say, let's teach you how to drive in snow and ice."

I can't say it made me forget the terrible morning, but in the way only a dad can, he took the edge off the pain.

Maybe it was the feeling that I was risking my own life behind the wheel as dad grabbed the steering wheel and threw us into a fast spin and let me try to get the car straightened out.

Maybe it was the way he whooped and laughed as the car careened across the empty parking lot.

But I think what finally lifted the darkness and changed my perspective on the day was Daddy's arm around my shoulder as we walked in the house from the garage.  He said, "That was a hard thing you were asked to do today, but you stepped right up and did what needed to be done.  I sure am proud of you."

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You tell me:

Have you had a really bad day that was turned around by a few kind words?  

What difficult thing has been asked of you that required you to reach down deep inside yourself for courage?

Have your words of encouragement given someone a different way to view a difficult or sad situation?