“Be sure your sins will find you out.” That’s what the Good Book says, and my mother quoted those words to me a lot while I was growing up. In fact, she once arranged for the public demonstration of this proverb. I’m just glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of her righteous indignation.
I was in the seventh grade, and someone was habitually stealing my lunch from my classroom cubby. When I returned to retrieve my peanut butter and jelly sandwich each day, I would find the brown paper sack long gone. Now, my family was poor, so the daily robbery of my lunch was like stealing from my father’s meager pay check.
My mother did what was expected: She complained, vigorously. Still, the thievery continued. That no one at the school seemed capable of correcting this wrong really sent her five foot, one inch frame into orbit.
So, she then did something unexpected; something I have rarely witnessed in her since I entered the world: She took matters into her own hands. Understand, my mother isn’t a timid, wilting violet, but she is a rule-keeper. A legalist at heart, she plays within bounds. But not this time. My mother made a sandwich combining dog food with that greasy potted meat compost. Then, knowing the thief would only get a bite or two of this down, she sweetened the deal with a nicely baked brownie, Ex-lax being the main ingredient.
The thought of my good Christian mother orchestrating and executing such a devious plan of revenge made my teenage heart leap with joy. Enough of this mamsy-pamsy “turn the other cheek” stuff. Justice would finally roll down like the waters (or at least said justice would be expulsed from every orifice of the offender’s body). Either way was fine with me.