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[Introduction] [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] Who put the skunk in the trunk?
"How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?" –Woody Allen Life’s surprises rarely give ample warning. Just ask Patricia and Christopher Smith. When the couple and their two sons checked into a Maryland Comfort Inn recently, they were hoping for a warm bed, a hot bath, and maybe a few extra shampoo bottles to sneak home. What they got was a whole lot more than they paid for. At 1:30 a.m., Christopher awoke and got up to turn off the television. That’s when he noticed that the carpet was moving. Now, if you spend any time at all in hotels, you know that this is rarely a good sign. The carpet, as it turned out, was a live 10-foot boa constrictor, which to the best of Christopher’s knowledge had not been featured in the hotel’s promotional literature. At this point, he had three options:
The Smiths went with option number three, without bothering to check beneath the bed for forgotten items. Then they called the police. The snake was later cornered and forced into a large trash can, but not before the Smiths were cornered and forced to spend the night at a nearby 7-Eleven. Describing it as "a terrible ordeal," (they’ll get no argument from me) the couple sought therapy, then filed a $1.5 million lawsuit against the motel’s parent corporations, charging "negligence and intentional infliction of emotional distress." I have to admit that, like the Smiths, I’m not real fond of reptiles. In third grade, I watched a friend put a salamander down Mrs. Hill’s blouse (if you’re reading this, Mrs. Hill, I trust you will remember my finer points and not seek legal counsel), but for some reason I didn’t want to touch the salamander. I merely supplied the idea. But the best impractical joke I ever had the joy of participating in was launched when my friend Bobby and I discovered a small skunk waddling through a neighbor’s garden one hot summer evening. The sun was sinking just beyond the pine trees, but it was not too late for some excitement. After managing to coax the critter across the backyard with a trail of lettuce leaves, we took the keys from the ignition and opened Mr. Finney’s trunk. Now Mr. Finney was our third grade Sunday School teacher at the time, a fine accordian player, and just about the most nervous person I ever had the pleasure of sneezing behind. On Saturdays, he polished his late model Ford Fairlane until he could hardly see the initials the neighbor kids had etched into the hood. Mr. Finney was a particular man. He shined just about everything to which he was attached, and you rarely saw him with so much as a cufflink out of place. Though we didn’t know it, this was the eve of the Finney family vacation. Mr. and Mrs. Finney and their children Joshua and Josiah had carefully organized and packed everything they would need to have a peaceful holiday free from the worries and cares of our small town. As they slept, a vegetable trail led a hungry skunk past their bed of petunias, across their front yard and onto their woodbox. From there it was an easy hop into the trunk where the poor skunk hunkered down between a suitcase and a sleeping bag nibbling on a generous portion of carrots. Bobby and I cautiously shut the lid, replaced the keys, and went to bed. About 8 o’clock the next morning, we crept back to the Finney house and waited behind a blue spruce tree while an unsuspecting Finney family filed down their front walk and climbed aboard the Fairlane, anticipation etched on their eager faces. What happened next I will carry with me into old age. Mr. Finney started the car and revved the engine. Then he slipped her into gear. After a tight U-turn and about 30 feet of gravel, the car screeched to a halt, spewing stones in all directions. Inside, Mr. Finney glared at his wife with a wrinkled expression. Then he turned to the children with an accusing glance. Finally he thrust open the shiny door and sniffed the air. By the time the key was in the trunk, he had his suspicions. By the time he opened it, they were confirmed. Whatever glue had held the man together until this point in his life seemed to lose its grip then. Slamming the lid down, he stood with clenched fists, kicking the bumper, his language matching the color of his car—a deep blue. We watched from behind the spruce tree, Bobby and I, wondering if we should laugh. Or cry. Or go tell our mothers. Later that summer I was informed that the Finneys were relocating. No one quite knew why. No one but Bobby and me. What Mr. Finney, Mrs. Hill, and the Smiths discovered during those unforgettable moments is something that all of us humans learn as we walk through this life: Sometimes the room service is suspect. Sometimes life slithers. And sometimes it stinks. Less than a year after Ramona’s seizures began, I picked up the paper on my way to work, quickly dialed home, and read from the front page: "The gene that causes Huntington’s disease has been discovered after a decade-long search, sparking hope a cure can be found for the deadly neurological disorder." Ramona held her breath. Huntington’s affects one in a few thousand families. We are one of them. At the age of 46, Ramona’s oldest brother Dennis lies in a nursing home, his once endearing smile and warm wit are distant memories. Two of her sisters have the dread disease. And though Ramona had not been diagnosed, she was sure she was next. As the seizures continued, we wrestled with the decision of whether or not to be tested for Huntington’s. One day a wise doctor sat across from me talking of his own troubles. Of a wife whose body was riddled with cancer. He had made the diagnosis himself. "Phil," he said, his eyes growing moist, "When my worst fears were confirmed I was faced with a simple but complex decision. Run or hang in there. You must make that choice too. I’ve counseled many others who have walked where you walk. For most it spells divorce, followed by depression and disaster. Phil…don’t go there." I thanked him and stood to my feet. "A tree is best measured when it’s down," he told me, as I shut the door. A few days later I sat in a coffee shop swapping jokes with a friend. As sunshine parted the clouds and flooded our table, my friend said, "You keep laughing in the midst of all this. How do you do it?" I sipped a Coke thoughtfully. "I’m not really sure," I said. "Maybe it’s the medication." He laughed. "I guess I’m learning that I can’t control the wind, but I can adjust my sails," I said. "Some people live like they have limberger cheese on their lips. To them the whole world stinks. I’m learning to wipe the cheese off my lips. To adjust my attitude." Thinking about it later, I realized that the fact we’re still laughing after all these years is no tribute to us. It’s not a testimony to our courage. It has much to do with a simple decision made in a doctor’s office. I will stay faithful to my wife and kids. And I will hang on for dear life to God. I don’t always understand His ways, but I believe that He will never take me where He has not been. In the Bible He promises to give joy, peace, hope—even laughter—in the darkest night. So let’s see where this adventure takes us. Tom sees things this way. At 55, he lost both of his legs in a boating accident, then watched his multi-million dollar business go down the drain as a result. Looking up at me from his wheelchair one day at the back of a church, Tom said: "I have more questions for God than I did before this happened, but I do know that the Bible has come alive to me like never before." His eyes misted over and he looked away. His wife was standing behind him resting her hands on his wheelchair. "Tom likes to hang verses on our fridge," she said, smiling. "We’ve got this big picture there of our family standing outside our headquarters in happier times. Tom wrote out some verses yesterday and stuck them below the picture." Flipping her Bible open to Habakkuk 3:17, 18, she read out loud: Even though the fig trees have no
blossoms, "He also stuck a magnet below it," she laughed. "It says: It’s always darkest Tom and his wife deserve the Veteran Skunkbuster Award (VSA). What they seem to understand is something I’m just beginning to learn. The ability to laugh in the face of life’s surprises comes not from knowing the future or understanding the past. But from a choice we make. One that says, "No matter what goes right, no matter what goes wrong, God is in control. And one day—maybe not tomorrow, or even next week—I’ll see things His way. So I might as well just throw back my head and laugh." Of course it can take us years to develop this attitude. Believe me, I didn’t feel this way one wintry day back in ninth grade when I regretted my decision to pick up a set of barbells. But before I tell you about it, let me issue a warning: If you’re reading this late at night in a strange hotel, you may want to check the floor before we go any further.
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