When the Fathers Speak

Within the heart of a boy, now grown and graying, memory lay dormant for thirty-five years until Providence decreed its ripening. That memory rested under the accumulated experiences of those many years. However, like crocus buds beneath the receding snows of winter, nothing could thwart the appointed time of springing forth. The flowering of that memory forever altered the landscape of his manhood.

To all boys of seven and eight years, the most important business of each summer day in that suburb of Boston was to gather for play, for adventure, for re-modeling of last week's grand fortress hideaway. Bobby Stahler and I were probably the more serious and reflective of that tribe of friends. Among our stamp collections and books we were drawn together, and his Jewish home was different and wonderful in its mysteries. There was always a welcome there, and Bobby always seemed to have the newest and most fascinating toys. Yet, sadly in the midst of that abundance, as all boys seem primed to do, seeds of strife were set and a contentious competition sprouted.

For I was the leading pitcher of the Little League Red Sox, a baseball team of our neighborhood gathered from among that tribe of friends. But, Bobby had not been picked: he had been left behind. The rest of us went on to victory upon victory, and banquets, and newspaper stories, and to---glory of all glories---a radio interview on WBZ in Boston. Bobby was left to a pain and loneliness, an isolation I suspect partially imposed by his parents, nonetheless left unmitigated by me or the rest of our chums on that street---I was simply more concerned about perfecting my curve ball pitch for the up-coming tournament play-offs. I had neither the will nor the desire, nor the discernment to contend with all the demons of history.

There was no way for boys of that age and time to prevent the day of falling out. The demons of that awful day on Parker Street stole upon us with stealth and cunning, twisting the inconsequential trivia of the events of youthful friendship. To this day, the cause is unremembered: perhaps one of us bested the other in trading some stamps, but the argument, accusations, and harsh words fell like hammer blows on our friendship and fueled hot fires of destruction. How could I stand against the mocking words that slammed shut the door of our special world of stamps and faraway places of adventure?

That one stone, in my hand, the hand of a pitcher, could be launched with swift accuracy to close off the mind and the mouth that fashioned those clever words that hurt and drew hot, angry tears. For one moment, as my arm coiled, the heavens caught their breath, and Bobby and I looked into each other's eyes. He knew it was coming: the flash of terror in his eyes and the lurching, stumbling backwards revealed everything.

The course of that one stone was set, fixed, sure, and certain, for unknown to that pitcher lad, it carried the whole weight of history from that day at Shechem to the present (1 Kings 12:1-19).

There was none of the exhilaration and shout of triumph that had accompanied the "thunk" of David's stone on the head of Goliath of the earlier time. Just a sickening horror as my stone lacerated the flesh of Bobby's brow. There was no more talk, only a cry for his Father from a mouth edged with drops of blood; and a fleeing down the street home.

There are times in our lives when the God of our Fathers presses hard upon His land and His peoples. A dread and foreboding mounted upon the soul of that pitcher lad as he made his way up the street to his home, because when the Fathers speak, the earth shakes and trembles. An hour or so later Bobby's Father was speaking to my Father, and I knew there would be a reckoning with the son.

The gentleness of my Father took me by surprise---perhaps he knew the fear I was in---but that gentleness did not hide or compromise the determined purpose of my Father. I really expected to get a thrashing, altogether deserved and greatly feared. Instead of proceeding directly to the punishment, he asked me what had brought about such a falling out. I had no explanation in my tears, and whatever it had been was stupid and senseless in the re-telling. I shall always remember the love and tenderness of my Father as we talked, the much feared wrath tendered by some mysterious wisdom. My Father was angry and disappointed, and I was punished, yet what I most remember with fondness and admiration was my Father's character in those moments: his absolute determination that his will would prevail, seasoned with a real concern for Bobby and myself, and his loving insistence that things were to be set right. I knew in all this that my Father was quite serious.

The following morning was a Saturday. My Father was home for the weekend, and early on he told me he had spoken to Bobby's Father, and that Bobby was going to start up the street in a few moments. "You are to go down the street and meet Bobby," said my Father. "You are to apologize and tell him you are sorry, and you are to ask his forgiveness, and you are to make things right between the two of you. Do you understand?" my Father asked. I nodded and set out down Parker Street.

In a neighborhood such as ours, where the houses are close, and everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows everything about the neighborhood happenings, I knew all the neighborhood was watching as Bobby and I walked up the street toward each other. As I walked down the middle of Parker Street, I knew Mr. MacMillan and Mr. Frost, who tried to look busy with their small patches of grass, were watching and knowing and wondering.

In a little patch of warm sunlight surrounded by the shade trees of Parker Street, Bobby and I met. Words of sorrow and forgiveness were spoken in the shuffling of feet that only lads of that age seem prone to. Our hearts were tender toward one another again. Neither of us, I am sure, realized the special grace it would take to act out the hidden meanings of those fleeting moments in the sun of that morning in the middle of Parker Street.

Not long after, Bobby's family moved, and then my own family moved out of state. Even now years later, I wonder if those words of reconciliation were sufficient for Bobby. I wonder what marvelous and wise words Bobby's Father spoke to him that made it possible for him to walk to that very special place in the sun of that Shabbat morning, because it takes a special grace to receive an apology, forgive, and go on with life.

Now years later I hope that that day signalled the time of the Fathers when Ephraim would no longer be jealous, nor harass (and kill) Judah, and Judah would no longer harass (and kill) Ephraim. (Isaiah 11:13)

Midst the patch of sun on Parker Street, it was that very day for me.