The Original Story: A Lesson in Humility

At the age of 8, I spent a summer with my Uncle Bud, my Aunt Tinka, and my cousin Mike in their home in Louisville, KY.  Thirty six years later almost to the day after that summer, Uncle Bud, Tinka, my wife Tina and I all sat at their dining room table in Louisville.  We listened to music from 1969 - a black woman, Nina Simone, sang haunting songs about the mistreatment of African American women in 1960’s society.  Uncle Bud talked about the glory days of sitting on his front porch with Tinka and friends in the early 70’s, discussing how they were going to make the world a better place to live, a world where everyone respected the rights of everyone else.  We talked about Abe Lincoln’s depression, and how ironic it was that such a depressed man would take on such a depressing job of leading this country through a war, just to save it.  We talked about how he must have laid in bed at night and wept as he thought about Americans killing Americans in an effort to forge a united country.  We talked about Tinka crying upon hearing the news of Kent State, another case of Americans killing Americans in an effort to define themselves as a country.

Visit to the Lincoln Memorial in Louisville in 2010,
 Bud on the right.

We did not discuss the things that an 8 year old and a 31 year old spoke of in 1969.  We had matured 36 years.  I was now 44, Uncle Bud a still going strong 67, and Tinka… somehow still a beautiful 29 years of age.  We talked about how those 36 years had changed us.  We discussed the similarities between 1860, 1960, and present day America and the events that shaped our country during those critical years.  In each case, someone rose up who was able to clearly articulate ideas he held dear to his heart.  This very day we had visited Abraham Lincoln’s birth place in Hodgenville, Kentucky .  Scrawled everywhere was evidence of a man who could express his heart and mind.  How fortunate we were, as a nation, to have a man who could ponder life, and then speak so clearly, so briefly, in a way the average 1860 citizen could understand.  Certainly Martin Luther King was one of those men in 1960.  Certainly this woman whose songs we were listening to was one of those women.  But who were these men and women today? Was it one of us?  Was it one of our young children playing out in Tinka’s pool?  Perhaps a great gene of wisdom passed from my grandfather, through Uncle Bud and my mother, through me, and would surface one day in our now 2 year old son Asher, or so we jested.

We were right in the middle of listening to Nina sing one of her more famous songs, the song which reportedly encouraged Mick Jagger to pursue a life of music, when life happened.  As if on cue, practically by the hand of an all-knowing God determined to restore humility to my large head, we heard a cry from the latest member of my family’s wise gene pool, the one appointed by us to be the next great communicator, Asher.  Apparently he had fallen and cracked his young and still small head on the counter of Tinka’s Art Deco 1950’s diner-style table. 

There was a small gash on his head, about an inch and a quarter long (a carpenter’s rough estimate).  It appeared to be a cut just to the top layer of skin, and did not bleed to any great degree.  Uncle Bud matter-of-factly asked if we needed to go to the emergency room for stitches.  Upon closer inspection, that did not appear to be necessary, but I could see that Tina was not totally convinced and was concerned about scarring.  We decided a call to a nurse friend in Delaware would give us more information by which to make a decision. Turns out, the nurse friend was visiting another nurse friend, and upon discussing the situation with them, we concluded that butterfly bandages would be adequate for this crisis.  The cut was well within the rule of thumb for stitches… it wasn’t even close to a ¼” wide gaping wound. 

Asher in 2006, on our way home from our
second annual KY trip, in Sharpsburg, MD

The last thing I wanted to do was spend the next 6 hours in an emergency room.  It was not what I wanted our kids to remember about their trip to visit their Great Uncle Bud and Aunt Tinka. 

So here we are in Louisville, history repeating itself 36 years later.  You see, I had fixed a light fixture for Uncle Bud during my previous visit.  So coincidentally, once again, I find my great mechanical aptitude being summoned for a small repair task.  Broken lights… a flesh wound… is there really that much difference?  Besides, I now had the wisdom of 36 years behind me.  So Uncle Bud and I valiantly volunteered to drive to the pharmacy for the bandages.  As I stood before the shelf searching for the butterfly type, I spied a product called “liquid nails”, no wait, make that “liquid bandage”.  Immediately my great knowledge of Vietnam trivia came to mind. I had heard that super glue was originally invented to mend battlefield cuts during the Vietnam era (this was later found to be only partially true).  I shared my wealth of trivia with Uncle Bud, and decided that in addition to the butterfly bandages, we would get some liquid bandage.  It seemed especially good for this application, given the proximity of the cut, which was in a place not easily bandaged.  So we left the store, having been sent after a couple of small bandages, with only nine fewer dollars in our pocket.  Normally I am much more frugal, but frugality went out the window when it came to my child.  And knowing that Uncle Bud would insist on paying did not hurt either.

We arrived back at Tinka’s, and began with surgical precision to repair Asher’s cut.  The cut was just over his eyebrow.  I was concerned about leaking the liquid bandage on to his eye, so I firmly rested my pinky under his eyebrow, which also served to close up the wound, a task which had been suggested by our nurse friends.  We carefully applied a little of the liquid, and waited the suggested 30 or so seconds for the bandage to set.  Our plan was working beautifully.  No liquid in the eye.  No bleeding.  No gaping.  No problem.

As I relaxed and began to loosen my hold on Asher’s head, he began to whimper.  It was then that I realized a small flaw in the procedure.  The directions, which I had carefully read (no kidding, I am compelled compulsively by nature to read all directions, even in such crisis situations) said that the liquid flowed freely until setting.  Indeed, it had flowed from the wound down the entire length of my pinky.  My great intellectual ability to anticipate possible side effects had paid off.  The one small glitch was that my pinky was now affixed to my son’s eyebrow.

Asher and Uncle Bud at
The Farmington House in Louisville, KY

I announced my predicament, and Tina quickly resorted to her faith with an exclamation of "Oh Lord!”, and obviously began quietly petitioning our God for help.  I recalled from the directions that some type of oil would release the adhesive, so as calmly as possible I requested that someone read the box to clarify what the antidote was.  Mineral oil was the answer.  Tinka had just used up the last of hers, but drawing from her culinary experience, did a quick conversion, and rushed into the midst of the chaos with olive oil, about 1 cup's worth.  All but a few drops ended up in the carpet and Asher’s hair.  I was too busy to look Uncle Bud’s way, but he was quiet, obviously concluding that this was a situation better left to the parents.  He had been terribly concerned that he would not know what to do with four kids in Louisville.  I hated the very idea that he had to witness this at all.  He had told me just weeks previously that he would never have the audacity to try to tell me how to raise my children.  He remained true to that conviction to the nth degree in this situation.

As Asher cried and struggled to free his head of his father’s finger, the grip between our flesh began to loosen, and I could see that an end to the nightmare was in sight.  With a little more coaxing, my finger was free, and Asher had a layer of liquid bandage on his small cut.  With a little distraction by a basketball in the pool, in a short while he was pretty much back to his old self. 

We may grow in “wisdom”, but needless to say, we are always in a position of needing more.  Our experience may equip us to better handle a situation, to handle it in a cooler fashion, to improvise, or to let someone else do what they need to do without interfering or making it worse.  But when faced with the stuff of life, there is absolutely no better approach than to just say “Oh Lord”. 

It is in such situations that the only thing you can be is yourself, that is, what The Lord has crafted of you so far.  What comes out is what is deeply rooted inside.  You don’t tell yourself how to behave.  You just do it.  And if you have learned anything at all in life, the way you behave will demonstrate a little growth since the last time a crisis arose. 

Asher at the Lincoln Memorial Park in 2010

If only Abe Lincoln could see how his life had inspired Nina Simone to write her songs about freedom, who inspired Mick Jagger to write his songs, and then see me bring a whole new meaning to the song “Under My Thumb”.  We had seen that day that Mr. Lincoln came from humble beginnings, and would forever remain humble.  Since it didn’t seem to be coming naturally, God would see to it that I forever remained humble as well.  And I was reminded that the task raising our son would always involve a balancing act of trying to decide when to keep him under my thumb, and when to encourage the separation of our flesh in its proper time.

Within a few minutes of this incident, it was obvious this was a story we would tell and laugh about at some later date in the future. We had inadvertently set up a memorial on the bank of the Jordan during our Louisville visit.  And I was thankful for that memorial.  With any good fortune, Asher would indeed have a scar we could look at for his entire life, a memorial which would cause us to reminisce about 8 members our family visiting together in Louisville.  And through the fine art of storytelling, Asher would learn of his battle scar, which he would proudly display and talk about for years to come.  It was a battle scar that would remind us of the day we discussed the fate of the world and how to solve its problems.  We would recall that day in which The Lord loudly and clearly reminded us of our constant need to be dependent on Him, because even in the midst of our best effort and greatest wisdom, we fall short.  And if through that incident we are able to communicate that lesson in dependence, then Asher’s cut was well worth it, for there is no greater lesson we could pass on.

(This story occurred in the summer of 2005, and was written shortly after that.  Asher does indeed have a small scar over his eye.)

©Brent A. Timmons 2011