One of life’s greatest lessons is learning to pick up the pieces and get back in the game. To live well in the brokenness of our world, it’s a lesson everyone must learn.
Looking back at my childhood, I am so thankful my parents had learned this lesson. Despite my foolish mistakes, and yes, my sins, they never gave up on me. Instead, they patiently helped me pick up the pieces and try again.
When we were twelve, my cousin Mickey and I discovered the fun of smoking rabbit tobacco. While could not smoke it openly, we found clever hiding places where we indulged in this terrible sin.
The last place we ever smoked it was behind our Uncle Mac’s hay barn. We are not sure it was Mickey’s match or mine that started the fire, but somehow, we managed to burn the barn down. That fire, and the well-deserved licking that followed, ruined our love for rabbit tobacco.
I may have been 14 the first time my dad took me deep sea fishing. The Gulf of Mexico was an awesome sight to a boy whose only excursions outside Elmore County, Alabama, had been to nearby Montgomery. The Gulf made the Tallapoosa River, where near my home I learned to swim, look like a creek.
My dad had grown up in south Florida, near Bartow, and wanted me to enjoy the fun of catching big red snappers in the Gulf. But, ashamed and humiliated, I ruined the day for both of us when the rod slipped out of my hand, and I watched helplessly as an expensive rod and reel disappeared in the water. My dad’s patience in that awful moment remains an amazing memory.
I was born in 1932 during the Great Depression when times were hard for everyone, especially farmers. Years later I would realize that living on a farm in those days was in some ways a blessing. We grew most of what we ate so food was never scarce. Dad worked as hard as any man I have ever known from daylight till dark. But like most farmers his good years were followed by bad ones. He would do well with cotton, corn, hogs and cattle one year, and lose his shirt the next.
The first new car I remember dad buying, after the World War II years, was a 1947 Frazer. It was built by Kaiser-Frazer in the former Ford bomber plant at Willow Run, Michigan. Dad was justly proud of that car. The top speed on the speedometer was 120. Dad never knew it, but I drove it past 110 a couple of times.
One night when I was 17 Dad let me use the Frazer for a date with Dean, and I stayed out past my midnight curfew. Driving home about two o’clock in the morning I fell asleep. I woke up horrified as that beautiful Frazer was rearranging some pine trees in a deep ditch beside the road. I was only a half mile from home. Scared silly, I ran home and rushed into my parents’ bedroom to break the news.
Dad dressed quickly and we drove in his old pickup truck to the scene of my crime. The Frazer was a total wreck, but what seemed to matter most to my dad was that I had not been injured, not a scratch on me. I have never forgotten that instead of a whipping, which I expected, dad put his arm around me and said quietly, “We can get another car, son. I am just thankful you were not injured.”
We drove back home in silence and went to bed. The adrenalin in my bloodstream kept me awake for a long time and I cried myself asleep finally, so ashamed of what I had done.
I am still amazed that dad and mom did not give up on me. Eventually it dawned on me that the way they raised me caused me to have more understanding with my own sons when they made a mess of things.
I love the story of the little boy who worked hard in kindergarten and make an ash tray for his dad. At home, as he walked proudly across the room to present the gift to his dad, he stumbled and fell, and the ash tray was broken into pieces. Heartbroken, the boy began to sob.
His dad, with the sensitivity of a Billy goat, said, “Don’t cry, son; it doesn’t matter.” The boy’s mom was wiser. “Oh, son, she said, as she began crying with the boy, “It does matter.”
Quickly she was on her knees beside her son, hugging him and saying, “Come on, son, let’s pick up the pieces and see if we can glue it back together.” Shout a glad “Hallelujah!” if you had a mom or dad like that!
All of us drop the ball from time to time, for there are no perfect people. But, with a little help and encouragement, we can pick up the pieces and go at it again – and again.
The Gospels show Jesus helping broken, discouraged people make a fresh start. He did it for Paul and Peter. In his Gospel (8:1-11), John shares the touching story of a woman who, having been caught in adultery, was about to be stoned to death. Jesus shamed her accusers into dropping their stones and walking away.
Finally, Jesus was left alone with the frightened woman standing before him. He said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” She said, “No one, Lord.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you; go now and leave your life of sin.” With those redemptive words Jesus was helping a broken woman pick up the pieces of her life and make a new beginning.
And He is still doing that. If you need a fresh start, turn to Jesus. He will help you pick up the pieces and get back in the game.