Week #3—Tank To The Rescue

At nine years old, I towered over other kids my age—and some older. Unfortunately, I was almost as wide as I was tall.

Growing up in a small town, we knew pretty much everyone. Auburn was just a farm town of two thousand, but we had our share of bullies. Since I towered over kids three or four years older than me, they never bothered me.

But with a headfull of bright red hair, I got my share of nasty remarks hurled from a safe distance:

“I’d rather be dead than red in the head!”
“Hey, carrot top!”

No one ever got within arm’s length. If I could get my hands on them, I’d wrestle them to the ground and sit on them.

My best friend was Norman Smith. Norman looked like his name implied—short, scrawny, but feisty. We were inseparable. Back then, everybody had nicknames. I was The Tank—huge, square, and slow. I wore it with pride. Norman never had a nickname. He was just Norman.

In a small town, most people were related one way or another. There were no cell phones, but parents always knew where their kids were. If we screwed up somewhere in town, the landlines lit up—the news got to my mother faster than a text message. More times than not, a thirty-six-inch leather belt was waiting to greet my behinder.

One day Norman was on his way over to my house—unusual, since both his parents worked and we usually went to his place. On the way, he ran into Harold, one of the nastiest bullies in town. He and his gang started calling him names and punching him.

Not one to back down, Norman started swinging. But his scrawny frame wasn’t a match for seasoned bullies. In a flash, he was on the ground fending off punches and kicks.

I saw the action from my front yard and took off running to help my little buddy. Slow but sure, I got there, grabbed one bully by the scruff of his neck, and threw him aside. The other stumbled backward, looking up at me with raw panic in his eyes. Slithering away like snakes, they took off.

Once alone, I asked, “Are you all right?”

With tears in his eyes, Norman said, “Yeah… but why do they always pick on me? Everyone hates me.”

I crouched beside him, my voice low.
“Norman, not everybody hates you. Jesus loves you.”

Unbeknownst to us, my mother had seen the whole thing and was hurrying over, broom in hand, like the Wicked Witch of the West. We got Norman picked up and dusted off.

Later that day, my mother said sharing Jesus with Norman was the nicest thing she had ever heard me say.

“I’m proud of you, Son.”

Wow, that felt wonderful.

…until the next spanking threat reset the mood.

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Sixty years later, I ran across a verse that brought that day back to me:

Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have…
1 Peter 3:15

So, following Gramma’s counsel, I’ll share the hope that’s within me—reminiscing about stories from the past, sprinkled with a good dose of the Gospel.

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God bless.
Gramps