The
annoying phone rang for the third time in the last hour. Hattie was
at the grocery store, so Blaster Jackson (her husband) was stuck with answering the
thing. If it wasn't for the hip problems Hattie has been having
lately, he'd think seriously about unplugging the noisy phone for
most of each day. This time he was glad he answered it, and with just
a twinge of courtesy too.
The
phone receiver said, “Hi Mr. B. This is Max. You know Max Litton.
How you doin'?” “Not too bad, Max. This stormy weather coming in,
is sure stirring up my aching bones. But... I guess it's better than
never having any pain at all.” Blaster's statement wasn't meant to
be a hook, but that's exactly what it did. “Well, how you getting
along, young man? And I want to really know. You've been on my mind a
whole lot since we had cokes at the lake. I wasn't going to say
anything, but I think some tree ants took a shortcut down through my
shirt.”
“The
reason I called, Mr. B, is to tell you how so very much I treasure
our time together in your busy schedule. It means a whole lot that
you listen to my hurts and don't jump on me for all the stupid
choices I've made before. Well, anyhow, I was wonderin' if I could
sort-of pay you back by picking up sticks in your yard, or something
that'd save you from having to bend over a lot. I could come
anytime... anytime I'm not in school.”
Blaster's
mind raced to find the answer to the question immediately shouting to
his soul. The simple question is why is this troubled teen, full of
pain in his spirit and soul, caring about my aching back muscles? Is
pain (in any form) some kind of magnet that draws two quite different
generations together? Is there some kind of two-way compassion going
on. Is pain some kind of language that needs no alphabet or polished
grammar?
Almost
without testing the thought, Mr. B. asked the 16 yr old Max. “Max.
I was just wondering. Some of us older people are taring apart old
computers and using the parts to make teaching toolkits for
missionaries. And we've got 32 old computers that need to be taken
apart. Maybe, if you were free next Saturday, you'd like to help us.
I'd provide the transportation, and I'll bet I could find a pizza
that needs our taste test. How about it?”
“Sounds
fantastic!” was the reply in the phone receiver. The silver-haired
coal mine blaster felt like it was his birthday, and he was about to
open the biggest best present of them all. Little did he realize that
orange hair was to be part of that present.
Saturday
morning promised to be a bright sun-shiny day. Blaster Jackson was
just finishing loading some needed tools in Nothin'. Around the
garage rode Max Litton, pulled to a stop and almost dropped his bike.
But right behind him was another boy in his middle teens, with orange
hair the color of beautiful Autumn leaves.
“Mr.
B. When I started telling Duke here, about how great I feel when you
listen to me, he said right away, he wanted to come along, and just
maybe, you'd let him help us with the computer trash.” Blaster
didn't know how this was going to wind up, but said, “Great. Get
your bikes loaded into Nothin' then we'll be about ready to leave.
I'll be able to drop you both off at your homes when we're done.”
Duke
always suspected old folks were a little strange – even more than
his orange hair, but he asked anyway. “Mr. Jackson, ummm. How do we
load our bikes in nothin'?” Blaster smiled at the boy's confusion.
“Well, Duke. First off, I'd really prefer you call me Gramps.
Second, I named my pickup truck, Nothin'. My wife Hattie always tells
me, that ol' rattlin' bucket of rust, isn't worth nothin'. So I
decided that's what I'll call it, Nothin'.”
If
Gramps could have read the minds of the two teens, he'd hear them
thinking they ought to call themselves, Nothin'; I'm a teen not worth
nothin'. I'm just a bucket of painful stress not knowing where I'm
headed. Duke wondered if God, wherever He is, cares anything about
orange hair. Maybe when He looks down from heaven, His gaze doesn't
get past my orange hair... 'cuz that's sure what people do.
