I was in second grade when Miss Barzley came to town. Like little lambs, we were lined up single file in the hallway and shot one by one. I stood near the back of the line. Those who had gone on ahead filed by saying “OWWWW!” and clutching their arms.
Miss Barzley was an imposing figure, even without that long needle in her hand. She would have done well as a Sumo wrestler, but had gone into nursing instead. Her glasses were so thick she reminded me of a huge insect. “Roll up your sleeve. It won’t hurt,” she lied. Then she stabbed us.
Twenty-three years later, it was my son Stephen’s turn. I volunteered to take him to the nurse. It’s something brave fathers do.
“Will it hurt, Daddy?” he asked. I remembered an old lie told me by a young dentist: “It’ll pinch a little.”
“What’ll they do?”
“They put the needle into your arm and it comes out at your knee.”
“Naw,” he laughed and wiped his tears. Anything Dad jokes about can’t be too horrible.
The nurse was slender and kind. But the needle was the same shape of that needle decades ago. Stephen was terrified.
Incentives to bravery were offered: pencils that smell nice, stickers, a coloring book, no-charge-checking, retirement savings plans—anything, JUST RELAX, PLEASE. Finally, the nurse asked me to hold the horrified child as she delivered the goods.
A month passed since. We were on our way to another clinic to have our warts removed. I know. Truth is stranger than fiction.
“What’ll they do?” asked Stephen.
“Tell you what, Son. I’ll be there. I’ve got a wart, too. And if we’re real brave, we’re going out for ice cream after.
At the clinic the doctor walked in with a bubbling vat of something. The boy looked at it, wide eyed.
“Liquid nitrogen,” said the doc. “Minus two hundred degrees.”
I thought, Oh good, he’s gonna freeze our feet off.
Dad went first. He dipped a Q-Tip and rubbed it on my wart. “See, Son, it’s gonna b-be okay.”
When it was Stephen’s turn, he was calm. He looked into my face as the doctor dipped the Q-Tip.
“What were you thinking,” I asked. Our visit was over. We sat in a restaurant eating our bravery awards. Chocolate and raspberry ice cream.
“You were okay. So was I,” Stephen said.
I smiled.
“Will our warts stay gone?”
“I think so, Son.”
“Did yours hurt?”
“A little bit.”
“Mine hurt a lot.”
As we licked the last of the ice cream, I told him of Miss Barzley. Of her wobbly arms. And the sharp needles. “My dad wasn’t there. I’m glad I was there with you today.”
“Ya.” he said, “I’m glad you got poked.”
I saw God in the words of my son. You see, as much as I have marvelled at the reality of Jesus’ presence in my life; never before had I realized why His suffering meant so much to me.
As Isaiah 53:5 put it, “He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.”
This means nothing will haunt us that He hasn’t handled. Because He conquered death and fear and pain, we can look an uncertain future in the face.
Whether you’re standing in a hospital ward, an empty house, or at the back of the line in a long, dark hallway, it’s worth smiling about.
Phil Callaway is a speaker, best-selling author, and host of Laugh Again Radio. Check it out at laughagain.org
