DEBATABLE CHOICE?
Sid was traveling with his father-in-law. During the trip they had a long conversation about what was right and wrong. They stopped for lunch and, before resuming their journey, his father-in-law stopped at a pay phone to make a call. When he hung up, six dimes were returned in the money return slot.
His father-in-law put them back into the phone box.
“What are you doing?” Sid asked. “That’s your good fortune if the phone doesn’t work right.”
“Not for me.”
Sid and his father-in-law had a “twenty-five mile” discussion about the six dimes. Sid remained unconvinced that it was wrong to keep the money. Even his father-in-law admitted that his decision was debatable.
The punch line to this story came a few months later. Sid was using a pay phone, and when he hung up the phone released two dimes. He happily put them into his pocket and drove off. But his decision bothered him.
He told himself that he was fortunate, but he kept thinking he was wrong. Finally, he pulled up to another pay phone and inserted the two dimes.
Was he right or wrong? He wasn’t sure, but he was relieved. Deciding is often difficult.
For Sid, this was one of those times. But there is a clear principle involved. The intent to do right, the effort to practice righteousness, leads to peace. Your choices are within your own control.
A CLEAR-CUT CHOICE
On the other hand, many choices are clearly right or wrong. When I was a boy, we lived in the suburbs. A neighbor had a fine raspberry patch. My instructions were to stay out of that patch—unless permission was given by my parents and the people who owned the patch.
One day I wandered past the patch. The berries were ripe, and there was no one around. I slipped into the patch and started eating cool, juicy raspberries. What a pleasure!
Suddenly, there was a noise behind me. I turned around and was face to face with the owner. Instantly, I was a bundle of tensions. My heart pounded wildly, and I began to sweat.
Desperately, I pleaded with the lady not to tell my mother. But she wouldn’t promise. Those delicious berries suddenly felt like a rock in my stomach as I headed away from the scene of the crime. I was even fearful of seeing them again. For the rest of the day, a nagging question plagued my mind: had she told my mother? I had a miserable afternoon.
SURELY, SHE KNOWS!
This was a conscious, deliberate choice to do wrong. Now, I was suffering agony because of it. Soon, I heard my mother call:
“Hennnnnrrrreeee!
Did she know? Had the neighbor lady called mom? What would happen to me? Filled with fear and tension, I went into the house, expecting the worst. My mother looked up.
“Henry…” “Yes, mom.” Scared to death. Here it comes.
“Henry, I want you to go to the store.”
What a relief! Maybe she didn’t know. But how could I tell?
At dinner, I was fidgety and nervous. Finally, my father said:
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing wrong with me, dad. Nothing at all. Nothing.” I realized I had protested too much. I’m going to give myself away if I don’t calm down.
“Then, why don’t you eat?”
“I’m eating.”
I was eating but the food gave me a sick feeling. I glanced nervously back and forth between my father and mother. Finally, she said:
“Henry, there is too something wrong with you.”
“Nothing wrong, mom.” I resisted the temptation to say it again, then got out of there as quickly as possible.
DAYS OF AGONIZED MISERY
It was a terrible evening. The frightening climax came when dad called. Usually, when he called me, something was up. Again there was the same reaction within me—tension, sweating, and a pounding heart.
“It’s bedtime!” That’s all he said.
Whew. What a relief to disappear into the bedroom. But, it proved to be a most uncomfortable night.
The next day I was playing outside and, to my dismay, here came the lady who owned the raspberry patch. I ducked behind a corner of the house, and spied on her as she approached.
She came closer. Closer. Closer.
Then, she went past the house. And on down the street.
Whew. Safe again.
So it went for days of agonized misery. And I never did find out if she told my parents.