The Pick Pocket

 

           Its winter, 1959, in Bettendorf, Iowa and after school a small herd of Washington Elementary first graders was roaming the streets toward home on a cold, gray afternoon.  I was in that herd, strolling through a couple of alleys, and jumping a fence, we shouldn't have, to get to the street most of us lived on.  All would have gone well for me that afternoon if I had just minded my own business and kept on walking.  If only.  

          We were still several blocks from home when I spotted two girls walking a couple of houses ahead.  What made me take notice of them was one of the girls had a pair of gray, warm looking gloves hanging out of her coat's right pocket and I decided it would be cool if I could sneak up behind her and heist the gloves without her knowing.  Then, after whispering the scheme to my buddies, which they wholeheartedly endorsed, I quietly accelerated up behind my target, eyes glued on the mitts.  Heisting them was easier than I thought it would be.  The girls had no idea I was behind them, so far, so good.  After trailing behind a few steps I thought this was too easy, reached for the gloves and slid them out so smooth it would have made a professional pick-pocket proud, if not his mother.  With glee, I turned back to my cronies and silently waved the prize at them in triumph.  They raised their fists back in triumph and, was I proud, as the girls rounded the corner and disappeared unaware of my shenanigans. 

          Now I was in a dilemma, however.  I expected to her to catch me in the act and then laugh it off, no harm done.  Yet there I stood, successful in thievery and not wanting to admit the deed.  What do I do now, I thought to myself.  I couldn't run to her and give them back with everyone watching.  That is not cool and if I do she might tell her mom and she would call my mom and that wouldn't be good.  Therefore, I did what all self respecting thieves do with the evidence; I dumped it.  As I continued home I passed a trash can sitting on the curb, and without breaking stride, deftly pulled the lid up, and threw the gray knit inside.  Smart, quick thinking I thought, and continued home sure my crime would avoid detection.

          Oh, I was so wrong and you know what, I have been a parent myself for some 33 years now and still do not know exactly how, in just the time it took me to finish walking home, my mother found out about the criminal activity.  It had to be less than five minutes later when I got home.  I guess a fellow herdsman immediately rated me out, but to this day, dear mom has never told me how she found out so quickly.  I still bring it up from time to time, but all she does is smile. 

          However, she was not smiling that day I pranced in the kitchen expecting a warm hello: not even close.  Mom comes from a long line of Morgans you see, and many of their clansmen have what we call the Morgan look.  We have all seen it from someone, the look that requires no words.  The look you hope comes with no words, and which produces immediate silence and calm.  Lips tight, eyes squinted with a gaze that burns right through you, vein popping out in the forehead.  When you walk into it, you feel like you have been hit by a Mack truck and the best you can hope for is just minimal damage. 

          Well, as I came through the back kitchen door the “look” stopped me dead, and I knew someone's lifestyle was about to be modified and not my older sister who was standing in the doorway to the living room.  Knowing I needed to keep the modifications to a minimum, I confessed to the crime as quickly as possible.  Mom passed sentence immediately and within moments, she had the family's budding criminal headed back out the rear door, briskly skimming over the stepping-stones leading to the detached garage by the alley and climbing into the cream-colored 1950 Dodge waiting inside.    

          Within minutes, we are parking in front of the victim's house.  Mom stops the car, hands me a dollar bill, tells me it was my allowance for four weeks, and orders me to the front door to apologize for my thievery and make restitution.  She also gives an instruction, which, at the time, I did not understand at all and liked even less than having to confess.  Just before I closed the door she says sternly, “David, when you talk to them I want you to look them in the eye and tell the whole truth about what you did.” 

          That was the longest short walk I had ever taken.  As I climbed the porch steps and approached the door, I was still puzzled over why I had to look them in the eye.  What difference did it make?  It made no sense at all.  One thing I was sure of though, Mom had eyes everywhere and she would know if I failed to look them in the eye. 

          I stretch my fist toward the door, not sure which I am more afraid of, confessing or looking.  I knock on the door.  My knees knock louder than my fist.  I am desperate for no one to answer.  I hear footsteps inside.  I watch the doorknob twist clockwise.   I am almost sick.  The victim answers the door.  My mortification is complete.     

          Now what do I do?  She quickly solved the dilemma. 

          “Mom, can you come here?  David's here,” she called out.

          After what seemed an eternity of being stared at by this girl, her mother finally pulled the door open wide and asked, “Can I help you?”

          With eyes down, all I could get out was, “I'm sorry.”  Then remembering to look up I said, “I took her gloves and threw them in a trash can, this is my allowance,” and held the George Washington out towards her.  She accepted the bill and the apology with a smile and thanked me for being honest.  Then she looked up to acknowledge mom at curbside, which I took as my cue to wheel around and run back to the car relieved the ordeal was over.

          I spent years wondering why mom ordered me to look that woman in the eyes.  What did it have to do with apologizing?  I'm not sure even she knew back then.  It may have just been a feeling she had, but the answer came several years later in the form of an Easter sermon.  The preacher was vividly describing Jesus' last night before his betrayal.  He explained how Jesus prayed so fervently that he sweat drops of blood, and that he anguished over the dread responsibility of the torture and crucifixion awaiting him.  Then the old preacher said of Jesus, “He looked death right in the eye that night in Gethsemane and accepted the responsibility God had for him to fulfill.  Had he not had the courage to 'look it in the eye' he would have shrunk from the task and there would never have been salvation for the world.”

          There it is.  What my mother knew, if only intuitively back in 1958, is what God displayed for us so graphically that long ago night; life is about responsibility.  Christ was not a victim as some scholars want to describe him today.  He spent thirty-three years intentionally plodding toward his vocation and when the time arrived, he accepted what was his to shoulder.  We would say Christ was treated unfairly by the system, and he was!  He could have appealed his sentence.  I would have.  Ask for mercy.  I would have.  Play to the emotions of the crowd.  I would have.  He didn't do any of that.  He never defended himself, nor did he complain to the Sanhedrin, to Pilate, Herod, or the mob screaming, “Crucify him.”  As the old preacher might have said, “Jesus made his decision then lived and died with it.”   

          Wise mothers (and fathers) the world over know that life is not fair and never will be.  They teach their children to make the best quality decisions they can and then deal with the outcomes, good or bad, rather than blame poor decisions and worse outcomes on “the system.” 

          I chose to steal a little girl's gloves and my mother would not let me make excuses or look for a way out.  Instead, she instilled in me a little of the courage I needed to face the responsibility of the shame that came with my decision.

          In a way, responsibility is about living courageously and having the courage to live responsibly is as easy as linking two simple scriptures together and letting their combined truths guide all that we do. 

All things work for good to those who love the Lord . . . Romans 8:28 (NIV

I can do all things through him who gives me strength, Philippians 3:14 (NIV)

          We have to decide, either these scriptures are true or they are not.  But know this, coupled together these two verses are the key to facing life, including the bad decisions we make, head on, no excuses, no complaints, no victims.  The decision is ours, and so are the consequences.

          Such is the nature of responsibility.