My new buddy Jim invited me to his garage to take a peek at his newly rebuilt racecar. We swapped a few racing stories then headed for the house to get a cold drink. Stepping out of the detached garage into the heat of a late summer’s day, I was affectionately greeted by a large black lab Jim introduced as Benson. Catching his huge head in both hands, I scratched Benson’s ears as he beat me with his thick wagging tail. We were happy to meet one another.
But then, from the house, I heard the undeniable bay of a beagle. I heard Jim shout, “No Bogey, stop!” A blur of black, brown and white fur raced toward me, baying at the top of its lungs. I looked furtively in Jim’s direction who squeaked out, “Don’t worry, he won’t bite?” It sounded more like a question than a promise.
Apparently Bogey didn’t hear Jim’s promise, because within a matter of seconds he launched himself at my midsection and connected right below the belt. With one clean motion he tore open the front of my jeans from the pocket down to my knee. Jim immediately tackled Bogey while I accessed the damage, grateful I had followed Mom’s advice regarding clean underwear.
I stood dumbstruck halfway between the house and the garage as Jim trotted toward me from the garage, apologizing profusely. His wife Jill had leapt from the back porch, both hands in the air, praying for my well being with one breath and pleading my forgiveness with the next. I was most concerned about my modesty. Bogey failed to connect with anything more important than denim, leaving me grasping for fabric. I was pigeon-toed and knock-kneed—discreetly taking inventory—praying I still had all my original equipment.
In an effort to reduce the tension, I soldiered on toward the house, holding up my ripped jeans with one hand as I extended the other toward Jill, as though I meet new people on that basis every day. The three of us met in the middle of the yard, all talking at once—me waving it off as though it was nothing while they fell over themselves in apology.
With Bogey, the Kamikaze dog, now safely locked in the garage, I accepted their invitation and joined them on the porch. Soon Jill produced a tray of tall, perspiring glasses of ice water. The three of us chuckled nervously, laboring to push past the embarrassment of the moment.
It started slowly at first—a snort, then a snicker… then several… and soon we were crying with laughter. The air cleared and we relaxed, sipping ice water with Benson, the lovable lab, on the porch. He declared me his friend and kept gently nudging me for more attention. I rubbed his ears as I chatted with my hosts.
At some point, I sat my water glass on the arm of my chair. When Benson, wanting my undivided attention, thrust his nose under my right elbow, his unexpected force dumped the entire glass of ice water into my lap.
Sucking for air, I jumped straight up out of my seat, hopping on one foot and then the other, frantically trying to free the ice that had lodged inside my ventilated jeans. Once again, Jill pleaded to the heavens while Jim scolded Benson. We must have looked like an homage to the Three Stooges as we darted in all directions at once, repeatedly crashing into one another! The scene would best be described as three adults dancing to no music while an unconcerned Labrador lapped ice water from my now-vacant seat. He was the only one who kept his cool throughout the entire ordeal.
I’d like to be more like Benson. Situations like this convince me that I shouldn’t take myself too seriously.
I love this verse from the Bible. I believe it expresses God’s sense of humor.
“On a good day, enjoy yourself; On a bad day, examine your conscience. God arranges for both kinds of days so that we won’t take anything for granted.”
Ecclesiastes 7:14 The Message
I would add, “…and so we won’t take ourselves too seriously!”
Go ahead and laugh. It makes God smile.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.