Life is full of booby traps, both physical and spiritual. Take, for example, your
average doorway. Which one hasn't, on occasion, jumped out to smack people walking through
it to give them a black and blue stripe from their faces to their ankles?
And who hasn't had their Saturday morning sabotaged by a sneaky corner of the newspaper
that curls up around the coffee cup and tips it over -- usually when the spouse is nearby,
who then glares at you and says, "See what happens when you read the paper instead of
listening to me?"
Perhaps one of the most dangerous times is right after church. Just when I think I've
improved my holiness quotient, I go home and run smack into an argument, which chips away
at my inner peace until my veins throb and anger churns in my stomach, exploding through
my vocal chords with a retort the kind of which the priest just that morning spoke about
avoiding.
And when I go to the refrigerator to soothe my soul with a snack, the door bonks me in
the nose.
Many booby traps are set by sisters, if you're a a kid brother. Sisters, my son has
informed me, spend all day trying to find ways to make you look like a pile of dirt.
When the two get in trouble, for example, it is David who ends up feeling like the
Punished One, because Tammy knows how to charm her parents with a smile that says,
"OK, I've learned my lesson. Now I'll move on to the next activity, for I'm a jewel
in your loving heart."
To a 10-year-old boy, that's a blatant attempt at dirt piling.
After nursing quite a few trap wounds myself, I've tried to find something beneficial
in them. "I've learned my lesson," I say. "This will surely build my
character."
But David doesn't buy this. It's the kind of philosophical mutterings that only Tammy
could understand, so again he feels like the ground beneath her feet.
I suppose we can avoid many traps if we stay awake, but I've not been able to test this
theory too well, because I sleep-walk a lot, right into that refrigerator door. Whomp.
Ouch. Go to the medicine cabinet to get aspirin. The dental floss falls out. Clink. Oops.
How'd that happen? Then I notice the toothbrush monster did its evil deed again. David's
toothbrush has been jammed through its hole. His is the only one that gets stuck in there.
David is positive his sister shoved it in. She denies it, of course. It happens every
night -- this mysterious toothbrush conspiracy to make David mad. And it always works,
poor fellow dirtball.
The problem isn't really that the toothbrush gets stuck or that doorways attack us.
It's the way we react to booby traps. We can moan and complain or we can forgive the
sister or the doorway or ourselves or whomever, and hang onto the peace of Christ that is
rightfully ours. Forgiveness takes much effort, but that's because the muscles needed to
release us from the traps are weak. The more we use them though, the easier it gets.
Aargh! That darn refrigerator door got me again! Nevermind the aspirin. I'm going back
to bed. It's safer there. Now what? The bed sheets are gone. Oh, it's laundry day. Who
cares? Good-night!
