It was used for general storage when it was not my personal laboratory or hangout. It had a spring-loaded screen door and one large window. The glass in the window had been replaced with a taught piece of heavy-duty plastic.
Fascinating, that plastic. So, tight. So…tempting. Not sure why, but one day I really wanted to poke my finger through said plastic. Once. Twice. Before I knew it, I was lured repeatedly by the Plastic Demon…and I thrust my index finger into the heart of that monster-- maybe 10 times. I remember it like it was yesterday. Exhilarating, really.
Sweet Gratification. At a price.
A few days later, my dad noticed the plastic mishap. He searched me out and asked, "Matt, did you poke holes in the plastic on the shed?"
"No, Dad, I did not." Looked the man right in the eye.
Daddio makes his way to each of my brothers. "Dennis, did you poke holes in the plastic?" Dennis, the oldest, emphatically denies the infraction, complete with matching hand gestures.
"Rick, did you poke holes in the plastic on the shed?" "NO, I swear, I did not!" my middle brother vowed.
My dad, obviously irritated, said, "If somebody doesn't fess up, I'm going to spank all three of you."
Nobody budged.
I'm in pretty deep at this point, so…
Dennis bent over the bunkbed first. Whack! "I didn't do it-- I swear, I swear!" I can still see him rubbing his buttocks.
Rick was second to bend over the neatly made comforter. Whack! "I didn't do it. I really didn't do it!" he protested.
I was last. I bent over that bed like I had so many other times before. I knew the position to assume--- and took my whack like a man!
Still, no confessions. Gotta love the Group Punishment Method.
We feared waterboarding, but since that is not legal in the Buckeye State, we assumed we were safe. I rationalized that my one brother probably deserved to be spanked for something, and justice comes in many forms, so…
My father then sat us in separate chairs, facing each other. He said he would make us sit there until one of us confessed. Then, he left us in the bedroom with our thoughts. Two bros were not very happy at this stage.
I had nowhere to go, so I was pretty content. Wasn't hungry yet, so I thought I could outlast pretty much anyone.
Then the oldest brother, the peacekeeper in the family, spoke up. He clearly stated that he had not done it.
Then, turning to my middle brother, he asked Rick if he had done it. "Nope!"
Then he turned his gaze toward me. "Matt, did you do it?"
"Yeah. I did it."
My two brothers got up and embraced me. They loved on me for a few minutes and told me that I was special and that they understood why I did that.
Only in my dreams. They were as mad as hornets.
They called Dad in. I confessed. That was about it. No further ramifications. I'm still not sure why my bros, to this day, say that was unfair and that I was a little brat who let them go down for a crime I committed.
Gratification. At a price.
Poking holes felt fun and satisfying but at a price that hurt others. It was selfish.
I get it. It can be fun to poke holes—into other people's egos. To set them straight and deflate their arrogance.
It is temporarily satisfying to poke holes into other people's celebrations and victories—because we are too insecure to celebrate with them.
We feel powerful when we smugly poke holes into other people's choices. Doctrine. Church. Friends. Job. Preferences.
It harms relationships. They, like my brothers, feel hurt, punished, and possibly disillusioned—by those doing the poking.
Want a better, healthier, more joyful life this year? Don't poke others. Keep your finger to yourself. You ain't God. You are not society's hall monitor. People feel punished when it happens, and nobody got time for that.
For extra credit, check out 1 Timothy 1:7.
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