My Papa, a Knife, and Forgiveness

The following is the second guest post from David Roberts, who is one of the best high school English Teachers in the land by day and a defender of all things awesomely manly by night. He also happens to be my brother-in-law.

Enjoy!

[michael]

A little over a week ago, I posted a piece in defense of the pocket knife. Composing that post prompted me to think about a story involving my grandfather–my mom’s dad, whom I call “Papa”, pronounced “Paw-Paw”–a gift from him to me, and something he taught me about forgiveness.

My grandpa has almost always carried a pocket knife. As a child, I mostly saw him clean his fingernails with it, though occasionally I’d see him cut some rope or skin a raccoon with it. As a child, I also wanted to do exactly whatever my Papa was doing. So if he carried a pocket knife, I wanted to carry a pocket knife.

About 10 years old when I expressed this desire, I was just a bit young to get my own Buck or Case. However, my grandpa came up with a solution. He somehow came in the possession of a little one-blade pen knife probably no longer than your pinky. He gave it to me during a weekend visit to his house, and I immediately went to the front yard to start throwing it, blade out, into the dirt.

I threw it a few times near my feet, each throw ending with a satisfying little thump as the knife went blade-deep (about two inches) into the black, soft dirt of the front yard. But after a throw no more than two or three minutes into my session, I couldn’t find the knife. It was brightly colored–yellow or green, I can’t remember now–but I somehow couldn’t locate it among the grass in a two-feet radius around my feet. To this day, I still don’t know if I threw it too hard and buried it, or if it got lost in some standing water close by. Either way, I’d managed to lose this present from my Papa, and my childhood self already felt guilty about it.

After futilely looking for several minutes, I went back inside, hoping my grandpa wouldn’t mention the knife. He didn’t, not that day. But over my next several visits, he mentioned it a couple times, always asking me how I liked carrying it and what I’d been doing with it. I’m getting a little choked up even now thinking about how proud he was to have given me that token of his affection, his love. Still, every time he asked about it, I felt another longer, sharper knife of guilt go a bit deeper into my conscience.

Eventually, maybe a month or two later, I confessed to my mother what had happened. And I admitted I couldn’t bring myself to tell Papa what had happened, and worse yet that I’d lied to him about it–several times–since then. She suggested a solution: I should write him a letter. Knowing I had to assuage my conscience, I agreed. I composed it, she put a stamp on it, the postman delivered it.

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Now here’s the best part. My grandfather never again mentioned the knife, nor did he ever mention the letter. I think he knew my heart was too tender.

I also think he knew what forgiveness really is. Of course, he would say there was nothing to forgive, that I’d merely lost something and been ashamed to admit it, but I think otherwise. When a man forgives, it’s got to be absolute. Immediate. Total.

Like Michael, my grandpa taught me a lot about manhood. This was just one of many lessons and examples, one I’m so glad to share.

**********

I supposed I’ve fibbed a bit here, too. My grandfather did mention the knife and the letter, but only many years later, and out of a sense of sentimentality. He’d kept that letter for years, and showed it to my teenage self on another weekend visit. He smiled as he pulled it out and asked me to read it. We both laughed.

Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out another gift for me. This one a little bigger, with three blades and a bone handle. A pocket knife.

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Music from the Man Cave – James Taylor

My beautiful wife is taking me to see James Taylor at the Civic Center Music Hall tonight.  I have to say, for a heavy metal guy I’m pretty excited.

James Taylor recorded some of the great songs of the 70’s and 80’s.  And I can add another great musician to the list of great musicians I’ve seen at the Civic Center; not an extensive list, Frank Zappa and Jethro Tull, but what terrific shows.  And the renovation of the Civic Center a few years back has truly made it, once again, the crown jewel of central Oklahoma music venues.

So get your “Handyman” chores done, grab the one you tell “You’ve Got a Friend”, don’t go to “Mexico” but jump on your “Steamroller” and meet us downtown tonight with “Your Smiling Face”!  And click on the link below to watch James doing his rendition of another superb Carole King song. (click photo to see video)

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The Righteous Nest

With the experience of Easter 2011 fresh in my mind, I decided it was fitting to share a story about my daughter’s ability to inspire those around her with her insight into God’s word.  I originally documented this story back in 2009, so she would have been 4 years old.  Enjoy!
Bailey has always had big thoughts and a big attitude.  These attributes serve her well in many situations, and contribute to her downfall in an equal number of others.  On the positive side, her big thoughts also apply to things of a spiritual nature.  From an early age, she was always asking questions, and regularly offered simple yet poignant interpretations of favorite Bible stories.  In fact, we loved to engage her in deep conversation about any and all things as, if nothing else, her theories provided a new perspective on “old” ideas.
Out of the blue one day, she came to her grandmother (my MIL Jeanne) and asked, “What is a righteous nest?” While questions were not uncommon, even ones that required a good deal of head scratching before a response could be summoned, this particular question seemed quite odd.

“What do you mean, a righteous nest? Where did you hear it?”

Bailey, as she was known to do, sighed with exasperation.

“It’s in that song. The one where God has a righteous nest.” Continue reading The Righteous Nest

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My Little Victory Garden, Entry 10: Teaoli, Delivery Day and “Garden Improvement”

Sometimes I go back and re-read my posts then really cringe.  Take last week’s “Victory Garden” entry, for example.  Here are all the Blog Boo-Boos I found: a) I talked about Teaoli and didn’t even provide you with photos or information.  b) I wrote some sort of introductory statement like, “And now…here are the finished quiches, feast your eyes!” and followed that up with a photo of my broccoli. Wha?? And, 3) I talked about Teaoli and didn’t even provide you with photos or information.  The Teaoli little faux pas is worth two bullet points.

Nestled in the northwest shopping corner of 15th & Bryant in Edmond awaits a very special place for you to explore.  The owners would love you to come in and taste olive oils, infused olive oils, balsamic vinegars, blended balsamic vinegars, and teas…and teas and teas. Every time I go shopping for olive oil, I always want to taste it.  And now I finally can.  I’ve spent between $7.00 and about $30.00 for approximately 14-18 oz of olive oil.  Their 14 oz bottles are $14.50, a mid-range price-point for oils by and large from California.  I can recommend my first purchase: Arbequina Extra Virgin Olive Oil.  The description reads, “Fresh and lively with a mild to medium intensity with notes of green apple peel and herbs.” I just uncorked it again to take another whiff and see if I agree with their narrative.  (*inhale….okay, another inhale*) Yes. Continue reading My Little Victory Garden, Entry 10: Teaoli, Delivery Day and “Garden Improvement”

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Simple Sabbath: All Things New


Several years ago I lived through a nightmare. A very close friend lost his thirteen year old son. He was a good kid, a little bit goofy, but a handsome young man who sparkled with innocence and energy.  The doctors did not save him; there was no option for an experimental drug or miracle treatment. In a terrible accident, this teenager died — a healthy boy who awakened that morning with his whole life ahead of him; a child lying in a funeral home that night.

It was horrible.

My friend and I sat on the back porch late into the evening.  I could feel the emptiness, the darkness of Dad’s soul. I’ve never felt more helpless; it was so final, and it felt so unfair, unnatural and wrong. I spoke at the funeral. I was angry. I was angry with the boy, I was angry with me . . . and I was angry toward God. Death was not welcomed, it was wretched. By faith I summoned words to convey a better life to come and how we would all see our young friend someday in heaven. The whole time I never once doubted that God is good, and that we can trust Him. But, I can still remember the anger. Continue reading Simple Sabbath: All Things New

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