Rustling Raspberries
Stealing?
Well, yes -- I guess we WERE stealing, if you want to get all
technical about it. But in our 13-year-old brains we were just using
the raspberries as God intended them to be used.
The matter of ownership never occurred to us. We just knew that
the Jordans had the best raspberries in the neighborhood, and that
their bushes were always heavy with fruit. And suddenly that summer
Friday night, a handful of freshly picked raspberries sounded good.
Maybe TWO handfuls.
So we snuck into the Jordans' backyard -- which, come to think
of it, should have been our first clue that we were doing something
wrong: we "snuck." Anytime sneaking is involved, it means you don't
want to get caught, which usually means you shouldn't be doing it.
But we snuck into their backyard and positioned ourselves carefully
around the bushes and started harvesting their sweet, juicy berries.
Now, I've got to tell you, there isn't anything that tastes
better than vine-ripened raspberries, fresh off the bush. I probably
shouldn't admit it, but they seem to taste even better if there is a
little subterfuge involved. And we were savoring every bite of
ill-gotten berry when all of a sudden the Jordans' backyard lights
flicked on, and Mr. Jordan came charging outside.
"What you boys doing out here?" he shouted as my friends
scrambled off in all directions, uneaten raspberries flying every
which way.
He made a valiant attempt to grab one or two as they dashed past
him, but they were too quick for the older gentleman to catch, and
within seconds the boys disappeared into the dark of the summer
evening.
All except one.
Uh, that would be me.
Speed was never my strength. I was tall. I was strong. But I
wasn't very fast. Fast was for the little quick guys. I was all
about size and power, neither of which come into play when you're
trapped in a back yard, your lips red with juice from a neighbors'
precious raspberries.
So I stood there, deer-in-the-headlights style, and quickly
considered my options. I could run, but I knew perfectly well that
even as old as Mr. Jordan was, he could probably out-run me. I could
lie, but I couldn't come up with a believable story that would
explain why I was in their backyard wearing a t-shirt stained with
fresh raspberry juice. Or I could just stand there and accept
whatever punishment would surely come my way from the Jordans and my
parents.
To be honest, I didn't like that last option, but I didn't
really have a choice. I took the tongue-lashing that Mr. Jordan gave
me as he marched me down the block to my house, where my mother took
over and escalated the harangue to new levels of righteous scolding.
My friends said they could hear every colorful word she uttered from
the darkness of our back yard, where they had gathered to celebrate
their escape -- and to observe my capture.
They teased me about it for days afterwards, while all I could
do was complain about how unfair it was that I had to pay the full
price for doing the exact same thing all of them had done without any
noticeable consequences.
After about a week of this, I complained to my father about the
inequity of the situation (and in case any of the boys are reading
this: no, I didn't rat you out. I think the statute of limitations
on raspberry rustling had already elapsed).
"I don't think it's unfair at all," Dad said. "You took
raspberries without asking, and you got exactly the punishment you
deserved."
"But what about the other guys?" I asked. "They didn't get
punished at all!"
"That's not my concern, nor should it be yours," Dad said. "You
can't control what happens to other people. You can only deal with
what happens to you. You made a bad choice that night, and you were
punished for it. To me, that is completely fair."
Back then I thought Dad just didn't get it. But through the
years I come to realize that, as usual, he knew what he was talking
about.
We didn't come to earth with a guarantee that life would treat
us fairly. And it doesn't. That's why we can't get bogged down
comparing the various vicissitudes of our lives with the lives of
others. Like Dad said, that isn't our concern.
The only thing we can actually deal with is what happens to us.
How we choose to respond to what happens to us is truly the standard
by which the quality of our lives will be measured.
Whether or not we think it happens fairly.
~ Joseph Walker ~
<ValueSpeak@msn.com>
Copyright © 2009
Joseph Walker began his professional writing career as a staff writer for the Deseret News in Salt Lake City,
eventually becoming that newspaper's television and live theater critic. Since 1990 he has written a weekly newspaper column called ValueSpeak, which has appeared
in more than 200 newspapers nationally. His published books include How Can You Mend A Broken Spleen?
Home Remedies for an Ailing World for Deseret Book, The Mission: Inside The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints for Warner Books and three ghost-writing projects.
Please take a minute to let Joe know what
you think of his story: Joseph Walker
[ by: Joseph Walker Copyright © 2009 ( ValueSpeak@msn.com ) -- {used with permission} ]
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