This could have been the fate of the library books.“Remember those books I left at your house that I said you could have?” my friend on the other end of the line asked me after I answered the phone.
Indeed, I did. In fact, I’d just thrown them into the trash a little earlier. They weren’t books I wanted to read, and I’d been on a “de-cluttering” binge.
“I’m sorry, but I made a mistake,” he continued. “Those were borrowed from the library and we have to return them.”
Beads of sweat suddenly popped out on my head, although I answered confidently, “No problem. They’re right here.”
But were they “right here” and covered in tea leaves? After all, I’d cleaned out my tea pot that morning. I could hardly wait to get off the telephone and begin digging through the garbage to find out the fate of the five paperbacks. Were tea leaves now affixed to their covers or caught between their pages? How was I going to explain to my friend?
Fortunately, the tea leaves hadn’t yet sifted to the bottom of the trash can where the books were buried. I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief and wiped my forehead, glad to have narrowly averted a disaster. It wasn’t the first time.
We were living in Kobe then. I’d been working in the pastor’s office when the telephone rang. It was a woman in our church who wanted me to come to her house, if possible. She’d just discovered that the family’s pet hamster wasn’t breathing—or so she thought. Would I come down and check it out? (Pastors field some interesting requests!)
Chuckling to myself, I made my way to the parishioner’s house. Although I’m not a coroner, I confirmed that the beloved pet—already gripped by rigor mortis—had indeed died. But suddenly it occurred to me: was I now going to be asked to conduct a pet funeral? As much as I cared for this woman and her two young daughters who would learn the sad news when they got home from school, I had never officiated at a pet funeral and wasn’t about to start now. But how could I tell her that without risking offending her?
Fortunately, a funeral for the fur ball was not what she had in mind. Instead, she asked me to carry him back to the church and bury it on the property since she, an apartment-dweller, had no land in which to lay him to rest. Thrilled at the simple request, I returned home, toting Toto-chan in my backpack. En route, I decided it would be simpler just to throw the little creature over the edge of the steep slope at the back of the building than to dig a grave in the frozen ground of February. What would it matter anyway?
I’m happy to say that my conscience got control of me before I got home. A promise is a promise—and I’d told her I would bury her pet. I was duty-bound to do so, no matter what. So I did. There were no frills in this committal, just a simple, shallow hole with a couple of spadefuls of dirt over the top, and it was finished. But at least I’d kept my word.
Imagine my relief three hours later when the phone rang and I learned that my friend was bringing her daughter to lay flowers at the hamster’s grave! As with the paperbacks, I was suddenly drenched in sweat over the close call. It was too close for comfort, but I’d survived.
Indeed, I did. In fact, I’d just thrown them into the trash a little earlier. They weren’t books I wanted to read, and I’d been on a “de-cluttering” binge.
“I’m sorry, but I made a mistake,” he continued. “Those were borrowed from the library and we have to return them.”
Beads of sweat suddenly popped out on my head, although I answered confidently, “No problem. They’re right here.”
But were they “right here” and covered in tea leaves? After all, I’d cleaned out my tea pot that morning. I could hardly wait to get off the telephone and begin digging through the garbage to find out the fate of the five paperbacks. Were tea leaves now affixed to their covers or caught between their pages? How was I going to explain to my friend?
Fortunately, the tea leaves hadn’t yet sifted to the bottom of the trash can where the books were buried. I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief and wiped my forehead, glad to have narrowly averted a disaster. It wasn’t the first time.
We were living in Kobe then. I’d been working in the pastor’s office when the telephone rang. It was a woman in our church who wanted me to come to her house, if possible. She’d just discovered that the family’s pet hamster wasn’t breathing—or so she thought. Would I come down and check it out? (Pastors field some interesting requests!)
Chuckling to myself, I made my way to the parishioner’s house. Although I’m not a coroner, I confirmed that the beloved pet—already gripped by rigor mortis—had indeed died. But suddenly it occurred to me: was I now going to be asked to conduct a pet funeral? As much as I cared for this woman and her two young daughters who would learn the sad news when they got home from school, I had never officiated at a pet funeral and wasn’t about to start now. But how could I tell her that without risking offending her?
Fortunately, a funeral for the fur ball was not what she had in mind. Instead, she asked me to carry him back to the church and bury it on the property since she, an apartment-dweller, had no land in which to lay him to rest. Thrilled at the simple request, I returned home, toting Toto-chan in my backpack. En route, I decided it would be simpler just to throw the little creature over the edge of the steep slope at the back of the building than to dig a grave in the frozen ground of February. What would it matter anyway?
I’m happy to say that my conscience got control of me before I got home. A promise is a promise—and I’d told her I would bury her pet. I was duty-bound to do so, no matter what. So I did. There were no frills in this committal, just a simple, shallow hole with a couple of spadefuls of dirt over the top, and it was finished. But at least I’d kept my word.
Imagine my relief three hours later when the phone rang and I learned that my friend was bringing her daughter to lay flowers at the hamster’s grave! As with the paperbacks, I was suddenly drenched in sweat over the close call. It was too close for comfort, but I’d survived.
