Chapter One Hundred One
“PLEASE GOD PLEASE LET US BE SAFE!!”
Puck yelled it as we tore back across the parking lot, the skies cracked with lightening, pounding rain. I couldn’t tell if my son had been terrified, or just very very loud like always, at that moment of truth as we sprinted for the barn Wednesday night. All I knew was that he could run through flooded mud faster than I could. And in my New Mexican moccasins, no less. Later, when the rain had lessened and the all-clear sirens sounded, I got to follow up with Puck on his experience…
“Why did God have to teach us this lesson?” he asked, confused, as I whipped a U-turn to avoid a tree crashed over the road. “Why did He have to teach us a LESSON? We sung to Him today and EVERYTHING!”
I guess the Problem of Evil is relevant even for Kindergartners…
“He wasn’t teaching us a lesson, Puck. Not like that.”
“He wasn’t?”
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t punishing us. Sometimes He sends bad storms like that to show us how much He protects us. To remind us.”
Puck seemed to be ok with that idea. When he went down to sleep that night, drip of rain, away rumble of thunder, he prayed a very practical prayer…
“Thank you for protecting us, God.”
When I finally fell asleep that night – storm-adrenaline hangs around for awhile – I had a difficult time convincing Crackers to get out of my side of the blankets. She incited revenge upon me the following morning by eating my knuckles. Weirdo. Then Puck walked in carrying a tray clattering with my breakfast. An apple [washed, amazingly], a glass of water, and a jar of vitamins. I mean, that’s pretty much all we had left in the house anyway. Time to restock the fridge…
“Thank you, baby.”
He grinned and rejoined his feline in the kitchen…
“MOM! Crackers put a hole in your CURTAIN!”
No surprises.
We spent the whole morning organizing and cleaning, listening – accidentally – to Gregorian chant before a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches.
Occasionally Puck would leave the room to invent something. When I walked back into the kitchen, he had laced a variety of bag straps and things through the fridge handles like a mountaineer…
“I’m going to climb up the fridge with this. When I get my super shoes on.”
“Uh…”
“Mom, those are super grip. Really super grip.”
That made everything ok.
With one disaster avoided in a night, another had already happened and we didn’t know it. Carrie emailed me. The 21 year-old son of Dad’s high school buddy had been killed in a wreck Tuesday afternoon. I stopped cleaning for a little while. Puck and I prayed for his family together on my bed. Such a hard way to go. I called Mom to check in. 37 years later, and Dad still keeps up with these old friends. Uncle Mo is one of them. Dr. Moon – the doctor for almost the whole Snicketts family – is another. A few others. They would all be together again for the funeral now. For one of the worst reasons you could imagine.
I found out later that Puck had painted his desk during Quiet Hour. All green and white washable paint. The pride on his face was glowing.
“Come see, Mom! It will only take a minute!”
I lauded his artistic efforts and snapped a picture to prove my admiration. He even washed out his paint brushes in the bathroom sink without me reminding him. If “washed out” means still clumped with paint. But he tried.
“Will my mood ring ever run out of batteries?”
Puck asked it, driving out on errands. There were just a few, and a cold day, laps of gray cloud like waves in the sky. Library, groceries, fuel up. Back by 3:30. Strawberry Bread. Lemon Asparagus Pasta. Puck helping. He wanted to mix everything, taste everything, clean everything. I love my big guy.
I was happy for a comfy broken red couch by seven o’clock. A fast, active day of work. And marveling over how Lance Berkman still had the second-highest batting average in all of major league baseball. 37 and still pounding cowhide.