Struck Down on the Way to Damascus
Do your kids ever get struck down on the way to Damascus? (refer to Acts 9)
Mine get struck down. Frequently.
Usually it happens like this: Brandon grabs a handful of Corrine's hair and tugs. Hard. Laughing as she cries, he turns and bolts out of the room. And runs smack into the wall. Thwack!
Now look who's crying.
And inadvertently the hubby pipes up, "Oh! Struck down on the way to Damascus."
It also happens to me on occasion. One such occasion was this past Tuesday. Allan and I left the kids with my parents and Jill while we went skiing. It was sunny and beautiful. Blue skies, brilliant, fresh white snow, tall green trees and an aqua Lake Tahoe in the background. The hubs and I were riding up the ski lift and soaking in the perfect, responsibility-free (child-free) day. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the two of us riding up the mountain. I texted it, with a little gleeful chuckle, to my sister, far, far away. I knew she would be jealous. I tucked my phone back into my pocket and turned to pull my glove back on.
Shouts came from the lift behind us. Simultaneously, something black caught my peripheral vision as it fell down, down, down to the ground.
My glove.
My glove in the middle of mogul territory. Oh, that it were in Sugar 'n Spice (and everything nice) territory.
I had been struck down on the way to Damascus.
Farewell, sweet glove. You have been a true and dear friend to the end. So warm, kind, gentle and protective. I will miss you.
"I'll ski down a ways, then hike back up and get it for you. You'll be freezing without it," said Allan.
"Really? You're kidding. Hiking in ski boots?" I replied.
Then I spied my savior. A man 25 feet below me. A man in the middle of no-man's land. Minus one glove. And he was working his way toward a lone glove that had suffered the same ill fate as mine.
I know a Good Samaritan when I see one. And fortunately for me, I'm not too shy.
"Hey, if you want, you can pick up another glove at pole number ten," I called out, flapping my glove-less hand at him. He said something that I couldn't understand, but it sounded promising.
Halfway down the mountain I was wishing desperately for that glove. It was cold, I tell you. Cold, cold. The hubs insisted on me wearing one of his. I don't remember complaining, so it must have been out of the goodness of his heart. Unless, of course, I was complaining and just don't remember complaining. Then he did it to shut me up. There you have it. Two possible scenarios. Pick whichever you prefer. I choose the former.
By the time I got back to the lift, there was my glove, waiting for me.
Good, kind Samaritan (who will never read this), thank you.
Mine get struck down. Frequently.
Usually it happens like this: Brandon grabs a handful of Corrine's hair and tugs. Hard. Laughing as she cries, he turns and bolts out of the room. And runs smack into the wall. Thwack!
Now look who's crying.
And inadvertently the hubby pipes up, "Oh! Struck down on the way to Damascus."
It also happens to me on occasion. One such occasion was this past Tuesday. Allan and I left the kids with my parents and Jill while we went skiing. It was sunny and beautiful. Blue skies, brilliant, fresh white snow, tall green trees and an aqua Lake Tahoe in the background. The hubs and I were riding up the ski lift and soaking in the perfect, responsibility-free (child-free) day. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the two of us riding up the mountain. I texted it, with a little gleeful chuckle, to my sister, far, far away. I knew she would be jealous. I tucked my phone back into my pocket and turned to pull my glove back on.
Shouts came from the lift behind us. Simultaneously, something black caught my peripheral vision as it fell down, down, down to the ground.
My glove.
My glove in the middle of mogul territory. Oh, that it were in Sugar 'n Spice (and everything nice) territory.
I had been struck down on the way to Damascus.
Farewell, sweet glove. You have been a true and dear friend to the end. So warm, kind, gentle and protective. I will miss you.
"I'll ski down a ways, then hike back up and get it for you. You'll be freezing without it," said Allan.
"Really? You're kidding. Hiking in ski boots?" I replied.
Then I spied my savior. A man 25 feet below me. A man in the middle of no-man's land. Minus one glove. And he was working his way toward a lone glove that had suffered the same ill fate as mine.
I know a Good Samaritan when I see one. And fortunately for me, I'm not too shy.
"Hey, if you want, you can pick up another glove at pole number ten," I called out, flapping my glove-less hand at him. He said something that I couldn't understand, but it sounded promising.
Halfway down the mountain I was wishing desperately for that glove. It was cold, I tell you. Cold, cold. The hubs insisted on me wearing one of his. I don't remember complaining, so it must have been out of the goodness of his heart. Unless, of course, I was complaining and just don't remember complaining. Then he did it to shut me up. There you have it. Two possible scenarios. Pick whichever you prefer. I choose the former.
By the time I got back to the lift, there was my glove, waiting for me.
Good, kind Samaritan (who will never read this), thank you.
Ha ha ha! I am laughing laughing laughing! I'm glad you posted this because I hoped on here hoping for a new post, and I was NOT disappointed.
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