Life is full of odd things, full of extremes, and full of older brothers who enjoy antagonizing younger brothers. My older brother Roy and his companions of folly, frivolity, and fumbles spent many hours in the woods. At times they would spend an entire day in the woods, sometimes shooting a rabbit and roasting it over an open fire.

My twin brother Ivan and I wondered what they did in the woods all day and wanted to go along, if nothing more than simply being accepted by the older boys. The answer to the question of whether we could go along was always a resounding “no!” The question of “why not?” was considered so preposterous that any kind of lengthy explanation would be unworthy of consideration. ‘Cause was their answer, and that was that, like it or not—‘cause!

Of course Ivan and I were persistent and clamored for our rights. Just because we were a little smaller than them, why couldn’t we? ‘Cause! We would grow up soon enough, so why could we not go along? ‘Cause! We can keep up, we know we can! No! Why? ‘Cause! The clamor was met with more clamors of perfectly good reasons why little people were unworthy to be considered. Little people, bah! Why, I could almost touch the red gas lantern that hung from the kitchen ceiling.

One day the three companions made plans to go to the woods and do things that boys do in the woods. This time our clamor to go along brought our mother into the fray. This time the companions’ arguments fell on futile ears and mother made the big boys take us “little boys” along.

Ivan and I were a jolly pair as we kept pace with the three bigger boys walking through the tall, prickly grass of the un-mowed meadow. The boys were a boisterous bunch as they led us into the woods, boasting what they would do if they were Indians, cowboys, Davey Crockett, Daniel Boone, or anyone else other than who they were. Ivan and I had fun as we ran, slid, and stumbled along pretending that we could do what they could and that we knew what they knew.

Suddenly one of the older boys stopped, got out his hunting knife, and stooped to dig up a root that he insisted was the best eating you could find in the woods. “Indian Turnip,” he called it. He cleaned up the root and offered it to me and Ivan. We were skeptical and refused it. But after convincing us that they had eaten it before and it was very good, we took it, if nothing more than to prove that if they could eat it then we could eat it, regardless of taste or fear of death.

After taking a bite and gingerly crunching it, my taste buds brought the reality of scheming older boys into sharp focus. The root was strong as fresh horseradish mixed with old onions but more pungent and cruel than both could muster at their best. We spit, coughed, and spit some more. I finally took out my handkerchief and tried to wipe the inside of my mouth with no results. Our eyes watered as we spit and suffered. Gloating in their revenge for our persistence, clamoring, and interference with their big boy activities, our companions laughed with glee at our misery.

We continued miserably along, not enjoying ourselves as much as before, scheming what would be the best way to get revenge in the woods. Though the boys got a big thrill at seeing us suffer, little did they know that they were not yet out of the woods. As we walked along, our misery gradually subsided and we began to enjoy ourselves again.

The boys were looking for a special grapevine they could swing from. It was not long as we frolicked along before Eli saw the right one. “I found one!” he shouted gleefully as he ran for it.

It was a long vine that had attached itself to the top of a tall tree and then had detached itself at the bottom. The tree stood tall at the edge of a steep gully. The vine was at the exact right place for boys to optimize their pleasure and boasting rights of having found the perfect vine at the perfect spot, and no one else knew where it was, so there!

Normally when you found a vine you tugged at it, pulled on it, and proved it, but only if you were not Eli. If you were Eli, you just grabbed it and went over the edge. Eli grabbed that vine and ran with it with all his might, knowing that this was the thrill that would fill.

When he got to the edge of the gully, it swung him far over the edge much to his youthful delight. When he swung back for a landing, hanging on for dear life, the vine, way up in the solid tree, let go. Eli, vine, future rides, boasting rights, and pride all came crashing down into the gully.

Since Ivan and I were too young to know that Eli could have killed himself, we shouted for joy to see our antagonist come to such a painful end. Eli got up stiffly off the ground as we laughed with glee. Though neither Ivan nor I had anything to do with his situation, we gloated and laughed for a long time. Every so often during that day one of us would shout, “I found one!”

We came home that evening feeling good that we had made it through the day and that misery had begat misery. We wanted to do it again, this time without the Indian radish but definitely with the vine!

We should not have gloated over Eli’s misfortune, but we were young and ignorant. The Golden Rule was not clear to us yet. The lesson to be learned is that what goes around comes around. That goes for the antagonist and the antagonized.

My wife bought me a new shirt. It was an appealing blue, my favorite shirt color. I was going with a group to volunteer for four days in a prison. I would be away from my family for a whole week since it took a day to get there plus a day for orientation. That new shirt would help me get through the week.

When I got to the motel that would be my home away from home for a week, I carefully hung up my shirts. There was little room to hang anything else. The rod was right against the lavatory. My new shirt hung first in line. Seeing it was a constant reminder that my wife was home keeping the home fires going, while I tried to light some fires of hope in the inmates at the prison.

Of course I would not wear that shirt the first day. I did not want it languishing in the laundry bag for a week! It was about the third morning that I decided this was the day. This was when I would wear the gifted shirt. When I reached for the shirt, I noticed something peculiar. Lifting it off the hanger I took a closer look. It was covered with spots. Puzzled, I stared at it for some time then opened the faucet and held a small area under the water, vigorously rubbing the defiled spot. No difference. I rubbed it some more; still no difference.

I stared at that shirt for quite some time. The spots were lighter in color than the rest of the shirt. It took a while, but eventually the proverbial light went on in my brain. I thought I knew the answer. I stared at the shirt again. My blood pressure went up. My frustration level went alarmingly high. I realized two things about my precious shirt: it was ruined, and I could do nothing about it.

A little later when I went out of my room I saw a cleaning lady a few doors down. Walking up to her I bid her good morning and then asked if she had cleaned my room the day before. She acknowledged that she had. I then asked if she uses cleaning agents that might contain bleach. She affirmed that she does.

I asked her to check out something in my room. I turned, and she followed. I left the door open and walked to my shirt. When I showed her the shirt, she became pale. She knew immediately what she had done. When she cleaned the sink, she had splattered the cleaner on my shirt, thus bleaching it for life. The woman clutched her throat and looked at me with sad eyes, apologizing mournfully. I pitied that poor, apologizing woman. She did not let up. I began to feel like the perpetrator in a crime.

I quickly assured the lady that I completely forgave her and that I was not going to tell her superiors about it. She looked at me with gratitude, but continued apologizing. I told her that I had been forgiven many times and I forgave her as well. I had to do this a number of times before she realized that I really did forgive her. She left the room still apologizing.

Later as I left the room, I walked up to her and told her that God had unconditionally forgiven me of terrible sins, so I wanted to extend the same to her. She then began to share her troubles. Her mother was terminally ill, her brother had to go to prison, and she was struggling with her children. She poured out her heart.

As I listened to her, I realized that my precious shirt was sacrificed so I could encourage this dear lady. After she poured out her struggles, I tried to encourage her. I assured her that there is always something to hope for and that her situation would get better. Slowly her face brightened and hope shone in her eyes. When I left her, she felt better and so did I.

I took that bleached shirt home with me. It was a trophy from God. My wife gave it out of love, God used it to minister love, and I sacrificed it with joy!

This is a true story. Ike told it to me some years ago.

Ike enjoyed watching his graceful swans. But he also enjoyed his children and was concerned that they not fall into the pond. So he built a fence to keep the children safe.

Things changed over the years. After the children had grown up, Ike decided to take the fence down to make mowing easier. Eventually the children grew up and moved off the farm. But one thing remained constant. Swans always swam the length and breadth of the pond. Ike never tired of watching them.

After the children had moved away, Ike slowly began to realize that he was not able to do all the work himself. The farm was eventually sold to a nephew. But the swans stayed on the pond.

After the nephew had moved onto the farm, Ike talked to him about the fence, “I usually kept a fence around the pond to keep the children out, but after they grew up, I tore it down to make it easier to mow. But you have small children, so you need to think about that.”

Time went on and the nephew did not build a fence. The swans swam on. The nephew’s wife would periodically check on the children when they played outside. The children were to play in the yard and the swans were to swim on the pond. It was how life was meant to be.

One day when the good wife checked on one of her little boys, she was alarmed to find him missing. She looked all around the house but failed to find him. She called his name, but he did not answer. She walked to the edge of the spacious yard and peered toward the pond. She thought she detected something at the water’s edge but was not certain what it was.

Quickly she hurried to the pond. When she came closer, her heart beat fast. Her little boy was at the very edge of the pond, ready to walk in, or fall in, as fate would have it. Afraid that her cry would scare him, she silently ran to the pond.

When the dear mother was within a few steps of the boy, she noticed something else that stopped her dead in her steps! She clutched her throat as she stared at the scene before her. The boy was at the very edge of the water, ready to fall into a wet grave—except for one thing.

One of the swans was standing in the shallow water directly in front of the small boy, its body raised above the water. Its wings were spread out on either side of the little fellow. The boy could not enter the water. Those wings were a wall in front of him. The swan had turned into an angel guarding the boy from drowning!

The mother snatched the little one out of the water, holding him tightly to her bosom. The swan swam away. It was how life was meant to be.

It was 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and I was dreaming about an air horn. Or was it a train whistle? No, I think it was a bomb. Suddenly I dreamed the roof was crashing down on me, and I was jarred awake. Someone was trying to beat down the front door!

I willed my brain awake and stumbled across the bedroom for some modest apparel. I walked down the hall and peeked through the window. It was my Amish neighbor. Opening the door, I greeted him in a cheerful I have been up a long time manner.

“Do you have a big, white, long-haired, shaggy dog?” he inquired.

I thought for a moment through the fog. Big—white—dog. Suddenly a light came on. “Ah, yes, it is my brother’s dog. I decided to let him loose the other day, and he did not return.”

“The dog is at our place. He killed our beagle and somehow got tangled in the chain. We tried to get to him, but he growls at us. We cannot get close to him. I don’t know how we are going to get the beagle away and buried.

“We are leaving early to go to a church service a distance away and that is why I am up this early,” he apologized.

“I’ll come over,” I told him. With a satisfied smile he left. I soon followed.

When I got to his house, I stood in line with my neighbor and his children and gazed upon the scene. The big dog was lying beside the limp beagle. We edged closer to the dog. He showed his white teeth and snarled. We stopped the approach. I took a few more steps. He showed me more of his very big teeth. We soon realized that we were on enemy territory. Someone had to come up with a plan.

I never trusted the dog. Every time I went to visit my brother, the dog would try to sneak up on me. My brother would tell me that if I ignored the dog, he would leave me alone. Everything went well until one day we went to visit my brother and did not find the family at home. The dog came creeping around the house, snarling. Edging to the barn, I found a pitchfork. Coming out of the barn with lance in hand, I barreled toward the dog like an arrow out of a bow. The dog stood his ground. I ran straight toward him. He braced himself, showing me that he had teeth. I kept going. At the last minute, the dog turned and ran for the house. I followed like a race horse bent on his first win. The dog kicked it in high gear. High gear did not work for me. I lost him. That dog had it in for me from that time on. It really was a foolish thing to do, since I am not sure what I would have done if I would have caught up to him.

When my brother moved out of state, he asked me to care for the dog until he could pick him up. The dog and I had a mutual mistrust of each other. I fed him and got out of his way. It took a lot of nerve to finally edge my way to his collar to let him loose. When the dog was free from his chain, he sniffed a couple bushes and took off for the woods. That was the last I saw of him, until now, when he was lying beside a dead beagle, snarling at me.

“We have to get the beagle away and buried. I don’t know how to get the dog away unless we shoot him,” my neighbor intoned. I did not want him to shoot my brother’s dog. I don’t like guns, and I don’t like dead things. I had received orders to attend to the dog, which meant feed and shelter him, not kill him. But what else could we do.
I finally consented to the evil deed. My neighbor’s son ran to the house for his big gun. As I watched him go, I thought I detected a little too much eagerness to get that gun.

When Eager came back he held the gun on the dog while Eager Junior held a huge spotlight on the target. I did not think I wanted to watch this. I also did not want to tell my brother that we had exterminated his dog. I looked away. The gun roared, and I had to look. The dog was kicking in the dust. When we were assured that the dog was dead, we walked up to pull him away from the beagle.

We were almost to the dog, when suddenly the beagle lifted his head and looked at us! He took one glance at the dead dog and then rose to meet us. In shock, I gazed at my brother’s graveyard-dead dog for a long time. I tore my gaze away and looked at my neighbor’s living dog. He looked much better than my brother’s dead dog even if we had not been the best of friends.

I wondered which one I would look like once I told my brother that we had exterminated his dog!