Memories from a "Delightful" Childhood

Somewhere a frail, aged, retired elementary school teacher is sitting in her rocking chair, combing through memories of her students. She has a stack of class photos from the late '60's to the late 90's in her lap as she sips from a cup of quivering tea.

She smiles at her pictures of all those bright, shiny young faces. Boys and girls whose lives she once touched are now all grown up with children (and in some cases, grandchildren) of their own. She picks up the class picture from 1972 and smiles at each face...until she gets to the back row, far left.

Her smile turns to an evil scowl. Spittle rolls down her chin. She reaches a trembling hand out and picks up a pair of scissors from her table. Grimacing and muttering indiscernible words, she steadies her trembling hand as best she can and begins cutting the picture of one of the students out!

Cute little boy. Big smile. Blonde hair. Hole in his jeans at both knees. Wearing a blue t-shirt that has the number 18 on it...

HEY WAIT! THAT'S ME!!!

To say that I was an outstanding student is accurate if you separate the "out" from the "standing." I was usually out standing in the hall waiting for my next encounter with the Principal.

It wasn't that I lacked correction at home. Trust me, I got plenty of that! I was just really good at being mischievous. The "imagination" side of my brain leaked over into the "think twice before you do that" side of my brain.

Back in the day when we had only wooden pews in church, most kids could get away with playing paper football during the sermon without the preacher noticing. Not me! Nooooo... I would get so into the paper football game that I would not only forget that I was in church, I would forget that my dad was the preacher!

When I heard the name "Perry" rumble from the pulpit, I knew enough Bible to know that that particular name was not in the Book. Whenever Brother Crisp had to call a time-out from preaching to gain the attention of his youngest child, I knew I was in trouble. There was no such thing as "time out" in my dad's parenting manual.

Those were the longest sermons my dad ever preached. He had my attention for the rest of the service. All I could think about was where I could hide when I got home. My plan was always the same: Sit still through the rest of the sermon. When church is over, run home, grab the cookies, and hide. Maybe -- just maybe -- Dad will forget all about the 30 yard field goal attempt that landed in Mrs. Whitmeyer's hair.

He never forgot. It didn't matter where I hid, his voice penetrated into my hiding place and drew me like a zombie out of hiding and into his bedroom. On one such occasion, I looked up at my dad and said, "Can't I just cry real hard and save us both a lot of pain?"

Discipline is not fun. But it is often needed. It's like deodorant. You can tell when someone hasn't had any. The Bible (that book that doesn't have the name "Perry" in it) tells us that discipline is a good thing. "But don't, dear friend, resent God's discipline; don't sulk under his loving correction. It's the child he loves that God corrects" (Proverbs 3:11-12, The Message).

The New King James Version reads a little differently: "My son, do not despise the chastening of the Lord, nor detest His correction; for whom the Lord loves He corrects, just as a father the son in whom he delights." According to that translation, my parents were very delighted in me!

I'm thankful for the discipline I received at home from loving parents who kept me on the right path when I was prone to wander off it. I'm also grateful for a heavenly Father who loves me enough that He will get my attention with discipline in order to protect me from great harm.

My apologies to all the poor saints staring at class pictures with holes in it, and to Mrs. Whitmeyer for all the paper footballs that entrenched themselves in your bouffant hairdo during church.

I Put the Haste in Chasten,
Perry Crisp

Getting to the "Bottom" of Discipline

Dad, I hope you read this. This is one of your favorite stories to tell whenever I ask you to preach in my absence. And, by the way, Dad - thanks for everything. You're the greatest dad, pastor, husband, and man I've ever known. I love you.

Whenever someone tells me that I look just like you, Dad, I bark back an answer that sounds just like you. I always say, "I keeping hoping I'll grow out of it." Thanks for giving me a sense of humor. But in all honesty, I hope I do look like you. Not just in physical appearance. But in my whole person. On with the story!

There are several things my readers should know to understand the whole story. This is the part Dad always leaves out when telling it. I must plead my case, you understand.

First, I was ADD before ADD was invented. It certainly wasn't excusable. Back in those days, your parents just grabbed an ear and twisted, or slapped the backside of your head. If that didn't work, they applied a few solid reminders to your backside. Second, church pews didn't have cushions in those days. It was bone on wood for a solid hour. And finally, it was Andy's fault. He was my best friend. He folded a bulletin into a paper football and thumped it at me first!

But I was the one who got caught. Dad was behind the pulpit preaching his heart out to the good folks of First Baptist, Bevil Oaks, Texas. Andy and I were playing paper football. I scored. As everyone knows, when you score a touchdown in paper football, you get to kick an extra point.

Andy made a goal post with his fingers and thumbs on the sitting part of the pew. I held the pointy end of the paper football up with my left index finger and thumped the ball with my right one. It not only cleared Andy's finger-goal-post, it cleared the top of the pew, too. Dad saw it.

He stopped preaching. I stopped breathing. I didn't want to look toward the eyes of wrath, but I did. Yep. They were looking at me. Through me. They were reading my future. I heard more from Dad's eyes that morning than from his sermon. Those eyes said, "Son, you're getting a whoopin' when you get home."

For the rest of the service, I tried everything short of walking the aisle and getting saved to make up for my transgression. But I knew that extra point was going to cost me dearly.

I ran home after church and looked for a hiding place. The toy box was too full. The shelf in the closet was too high. Under the bed was too obvious. But I ran out of time and ducked under the bed when I heard Dad enter the house.

He didn't even look for me. He spoke with voice and belt simultaneously. I heard, "Perry, come to my room NOW!" The leather belt slapped loudly against each belt loop as he ripped it out. It was like the low-humming music in a horror movie.

I crawled out from under the bed, walked toward my dad's room with my head hung low, completely surrendered. Dad was sitting on his bed with belt in hand. He said, "Now, son, this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."

With one last desperate plea, I cried, "Couldn't I just cry and save us both a lot of pain?"

I missed the point. The point of discipline is not pain or tears. It is correction. I confused the reason for discipline with the results of discipline. Obviously, this wasn't my first rodeo. I'd grabbed my ankles a few times before. Okay, so it was more than a few.

Dad didn't want to make me cry. He loved me and wanted me to respect him. More importantly, he wanted me to respect God. I thought crying was the purpose of this exercise. Just like we often think the trials and disciplining we go through in life is meant to torture us and make us feel bad.

I knew my Dad better than that. I should have known that what he was doing was for my own good. We ought to know God better than that, too. God isn't mean or evil. God is good. God wants only the best for His children. So He disciplines us when we choose that which leads us astray or could harm us.

God sees the snake in the tree coiled behind the apple we reach for.

"My son, do not despise the Lord's discipline and do not resent his rebuke, because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in" (Proverbs 3:11-12, NIV).

Thinking I should've bought Dad some suspenders for Father's Day after this incident...

I love you, Dad,
Perry Crisp