Tony* was a good enough kid, but he frosted my cookies every time he rode his chrome-laden, store-bought bike into our driveway. He came for only one reason: to show off the newest accessory he’d bought. A new bike was definitely a rich-kid deal in our neighborhood. Tony’s family owned a successful business. As a result they had “spending money,” whereas my parents worked hard every week to provide “food and gas money.” At the Grubb household, we continually massaged mismatched bicycle parts into a workable unit—different size wheels, a green fork on a red frame, etc. My bike spent more time upside down on the sidewalk than it did on the road as I fumbled with loose chains and broken brake lever straps.
I shouldn’t have resented Tony, but it seemed he always had the best of everything. The fact that he was several years younger than me made it even more difficult to tolerate his precocious attitude.
One hot, summer day, Tony skidded into the drive to show off a new horn he’d just attached to his handle bars. It was a huge coiled affair that wrapped around itself like a trumpet with a big red squeeze bulb. He rode right up to Dave, my older brother, who—enjoying the independence of his 18 years—had managed to acquire a cache of illegal firecrackers.
Dave had been busy blasting empty Campbell soup cans into the air when Tony performed his signature gravel-slinging stop and gave a blast on the new horn. Without a word, brother Dave nonchalantly lit a ladyfinger using the ember of the Marlboro dangling from the side of his mouth (obviously both our parents were away) and popped it into the wide opened mouth of Tony’s new horn. Time stopped as we all froze in position, waiting to see what might happen. Finally, after I was convinced it was a dud—there came the strangest toot from the bell of any horn I’ve ever heard… like a canary had been squished under a whoopee cushion! ”Sssffeerrrt!!” A plume of yellowish smoke wafted skyward.
Dave and I laughed out loud, but Tony failed to see the humor. He tenuously touched the red rubber bulb, kinda’ poking at it, like a cat checking to see if his mouse had any life left in it. Dave and I stifled our laughter as Tony cautiously squeezed the bulb. We waited. The once obnoxious “Aa-oo-gha!” horn simply whispered a feeble, “Blurt…” followed by another puff of yellow smoke. Dave and I fell down in hysterics. Tony rode home in tears.
Later that evening, Tony’s dad called our dad. Dave paid for the horn and I got a good chewing out.
I think I resented Tony not because he had nice things, but because he insisted on blowing his own horn. Makes me wonder how many times I’ve acted like Tony toward others.
Now, a lot older and little wiser, I recognize that whenever I get puffed up about what I have or who I am, I’ve lost track of who my Heavenly Father is. Paul addresses this issue in a letter to one of the churches he helped establish, when he wrote:
“Everything that we have–right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start–comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That’s why we have the saying, ‘If you’re going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God.’” I Corinthians 1:30-31
Beep! Beep!
* Although the facts in this case are true, some names have been changed to protect the innocent.