I was a crazy kid. Teachers didn't appreciate me and my parents wondered if there was hope for me. The trouble with being a crazy kid is that God has a sense of humour and one day He may give you some children of your own. The other night after scolding my sons and sending them to bed snackless, I sat in the living room, wondering if there's any hope at all for my descendants. "Do you ever wonder," I asked my wife, "what will happen to a generation that doesn't even know which way to wear their hats? Or how high to pull their pants? A generation raised on Nintendo and Eminem?"
"I sometimes worry about the kids," admitted my wife. "Because, well Honey, they're a lot like you."
Thankfully the phone interrupted our conversation.
The caller was a friend I hadn't seen in years. Would I care to join him and a few others for a friendly game of floor hockey? Quicker than you can say cardiac arrest, I said yes.
By the end of round one my face was roughly the color of a ripe plum. "I think I pulled some fat," I told my teammates, and suggested we retire to my house for a healthy snack, namely pop and chips. The suggestion was welcomed by two childhood buddies. The three of us were trouble when we were kids. Saturdays we took black felt pens and added a single consonant to garage sale signs so that they read Garbage Sale. We used to sneak into the church nursery and place limburger cheese in diapers. Once we called the morgue to inform them that Mr. Amstutz, our tenth grade math teacher, was dead.
As we enjoyed our snack that night we told tales of super-gluing salt-shakers to restaurant tables, of signing classmates up for the military, and the strategic placement of outhouses, whoopee cushions, shaving cream, and Saran Wrap. "Most of the stuff we did you couldn't put in print," admitted Dave. "My teachers hated me. Every time I turned around they spanked me. You check the dictionary for brat and you'll find my high school picture."
Pete's list of accomplishments rivaled Dave's. "I was chased by security guards, banned from talent shows, and kicked out of Bible college…and that was during one of my better weeks. On countless nights my parents lay awake wondering when the police would call. And praying for the day I'd come home."
God heard those prayers.
"On my 20th birthday God got my attention," Pete told us. "I was going 80 miles an hour on a motorcycle when we crashed. I was lying in the ditch unconscious and I had this dream where everything was pitch black. I knew I was going to hell. When I woke up, I decided to give up running. And come home for good."
Today Pete is senior pastor of a Baptist church. He just named his firstborn daughter Karis — Greek for grace. And Dave? Well, he's quit taunting his teachers, and joined them. When he isn't playing practical jokes on the natives, he teaches the Bible to a remote tribe in Papua, New Guinea.
Pete and Dave know a few things for sure. They know that God has a great sense of humour, that He loves nothing more than watching wandering boys come home, and they'd tell you anytime that their lives have never been more exciting than they are right now.
The clock moved toward one as we said goodnight. The children were asleep, so I slipped silently into their rooms, placing a soft hand on their heads, and praying, "Dear God, Thank you that there's hope, after all. That you delight in changing people. Will you do as much for my kids? Will you take their energy, and shape it for good? And may they find in me something worth imitating? And may they find in you everything they'll ever need to make a mark on this old world."
On the way to bed, I switched off the kitchen light and pulled aside a curtain. Sure enough. Pete and Dave were still in the driveway, the hood up.
I guess they hadn't found the potato I put in their exhaust pipe.
