The Writing’s on the Wall

My boys have the same sign hanging over each of their beds. It reads, “No witches and no bad guys.” It’s had a magical effect, significantly reducing the number of hops out of bed due to boogeymanphobia. As soon as it was posted, abracadabra. Scratch that fear off the list, it’s in writing. And apparently in the mind of a four and seven year old, if it’s written, it’s gospel. And just as good as having a couple Power Rangers posted on either side of your bedroom door.

We’ve all been there, wrestling pint-sized fears. Like ghosts, goblins and the fact that if you make an icky face, it might just stay that way. As a young girl, I perfected the art of the long jump into my bed at night to avoid being dragged under by whatever warty-fingered monster was lurking underneath. And I will admit, since this is a non-judgmental forum, that to this day I can’t sleep with a foot hanging off the side of the bed. It just seems so vulnerable.

“You can’t help what you inherit,” is one of my mom’s favorite sayings. And I do admit I come by my somewhat paranoid fears honestly. After all, it was my mom who hauled my feverish 2-year-old brother to a photographer’s studio the day before he had his tonsils out. You know, just in case he didn’t make it through surgery. We have the flush-faced photos as proof.

Then there was the time when I was eight and had broken out in a rash as a reaction to a shot of penicillin. Our next-door neighbor ended up having to drive both my mother and me to the hospital. Apparently, mom couldn’t operate a vehicle with her head between her knees, sick from the knowledge that any moment could be my last, due to the Rocky Mountain spotted fever I had obviously contracted from a recent tick encounter.

When it was time for my tonsillectomy, I was a senior in high school. Practically all grown up and no longer needing to stretch out before launching myself into bed at night, I had no anxiety about the simple procedure.    

That was, until fate began speaking to me, well, actually singing to me. It was the darndest thing, but truly every time I turned on the radio that old Kansas ditty, “Dust in the Wind”, was playing. You know the words, “Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind…” Even on the dawn of my surgery, as we drove bleary-eyed down the empty stretch of I-35 into Austin, when I naively turned on the car radio, you guessed it, there it was, melodiously sending me into a freaky downward spiral. I dared not tell mom the message it was sending me. She wouldn’t be able to handle saying goodbye. I wondered who would come to my funeral. And how the basketball team would manage without its star, second-string benchwarmer.

So now it’s a couple decades later. I’m practically all grown up, minus the part about dangling a foot off the mattress. It’s now my youngest son Ben’s turn to have his tonsils removed. I am proud to say I didn’t haul him down for a photo session, all due to a personal, handwritten note I got from God. I kid you not.

As I was signing all the paperwork that details the brain damage and various other fates that could befall my beautiful little boy, I looked up to see a note tacked to a bulletin board. It was lovingly penned and slightly faded, but it jumped right out at me. It said, “Faith isn’t the absence of fear, but the strength to proceed in spite of it.”

Well what do you know — my boys are right. Abracadabra. When you put something in writing, it is gospel.