Took Garrett and Eliza to
Kaleo the other day to celebrate its 25th anniversary. Started the afternoon with a walk of the property with Rush, Remus and Dozer, telling stories of days gone by. Crossing the foot-bridge as we headed back to main camp, Garrett did what all kids do: run his hand along the length of the bridge until a sizable splinter set in. Splinters create more fear than pain. A truly painful event overwhelms fear, while splinters are defined by fear.
"Show him," Eliza begins the conversation. Garrett hesitates; finally revealing a sizable piece of Kaleo history embedded in his palm. "No stress, kid. We'll get it out," as we head up the steps past the Worship Center and towards the Nurse's Quarters, as I did countless times throughout the summers of 1995-1997.
Every few steps we stop to talk through the process: Yes, it's going to hurt a little bit. No, it will not hurt a lot. Yes, I can get the splinter out. No, I won't cut your hand off in the process. Repeat.
We enter the infirmary, and while I search through last summer's supplies for tweezers and wet-wipes, Garrett is hunched in a chair, continuing through the same questions. "It'll be alright," I comfort him, letting him know what I'm about to, am doing, just did. "Here is is," I surprise Garrett as I hand him the splinter in all its faded glory.
I hate confession. It is healthy, wise, necessary... but I avoid it if at all possible and let the shards of sin fester. Is it going to hurt? Yes. A lot? No. Can you heal and forgive? Yes. Will you cut me off? No. Repeat. I hesitate, and slowly climb up on the infirmary chair to let God heal and change me through confession, finding that the fear was greater than the pain, and grateful for God's patient response to my reluctance.
sok