T. GAMBLE: One about God and his mysterious ways

Christmas has come and gone one more time. Like most folks, our family gathers on the days leading up to Christmas and then we sit around reminiscing about when the kids were little, or when I was little, or even when my parents were little. You can learn a lot about folks sitting around after a big meal at Christmas, having maybe a glass or two of wine to lubricate the conversation.

Once in a while a story from the past is brought up that had never before been mentioned, even though we have gathered for ages on end doing the same thing year after year.

This year, my Father related how, when he and my mother first married, she cooked him some type hotdog, split down the middle with cheese for a night-time meal. He told her he really liked it, even though I think he only thought it was OK, but they were newly married and not yet ready to unload on each other like marriages become after a little seasoning.

So the next night she made the same thing, and then the next. On the fourth night, my father said, “Lila, I like these little hotdog thinga-ma-jigs a good bit, but I don’t want to eat them every night.”

My mother said not a word. She got up from her end of the table, took his plate of thinga-ma-jigs and dumped them in the garbage. She then took the plates they were on and threw them out the window. I guess the marriage was seasoned by then. When asked what he thought about all that, my father responded, “I don’t think I ever had those hotdog things again, and worse yet, when she threw the plates away, back then, we didn’t have very many plates.”

I guess the marriage survived OK without the hotdog thinga-ma-jigs, as they have been married 68 years now.

My sister also reminded me of when the Hurricane Boy was just a boy of about 5 years old. Christmas was coming, and snow was predicted as a possibility. But this is south Georgia, so we discussed the fact it was unlikely. Well, the 6-year-old Princess was having none of that and announced she would go upstairs and pray about it, further declaring God would make it snow the next day. The Hurricane Boy, not to be outdone, announced he would go pray that the dinosaurs would return.

This announced prayer was one of the first times I realized that the Hurricane Boy might have issues concerning expectations and desires. It is a family inherited trait, as I once prayed to be an Indian and my cousin Bill wanted to become a dog. I still am not an Indian and, sadly, Bill never became a dog.

The next day, lo and behold, it began to snow. The Princess beamed with the smug assurance that she had a pipeline to God, and her prayers were answered. The Hurricane Boy ran outside, marveled for a moment at the snow and then gazed into the nearby woods. His eyes soon filled with tears, and then a downright complete full-blown meltdown ensued. Between the tears and sniffles he moaned, “There are no dinosaurs in the woods. Why did God answer Layla’s prayers and not mine?”

Oh, yes. The age-old question of why has God not heard or answered my prayers. It was an early lesson, and one that I think he has recovered from. Although every now I then, I see the 6-foot-2, 250-pound Hurricane Man—boy gaze out the window toward the woods and wonder for a moment if he is still looking for the dinosaurs. May the Princess always keep her unwavering faith and the Hurricane Boy always reach high in what he seeks.