One of my life’s pleasures when I was a child was chewing gum. I loved its taste, and the way I could maneuver it through every crevice of my mouth. I blew bubble after bubble, and entertained myself with one stick for hours on end. Big Red, Juicy Fruit, Bubalicious, Hubba Bubba, and Trident. Those were my childhood friends who stood by me thick and thin, or at least until their flavor dissolved.
Then on the Mardi Gras when I was six-years-old, my relationship with gum took a new turn. I was sitting on my bed and taking inventory of all I’d caught at the Kaplan parade. There were peppermints, Mary Janes, Chicklets and lollipops that melted into gum. I felt thankful for my treasures, and lined them up in the order I was going to devour them.
But my dad walked into my room, interrupting my plans for domination over the sweets. He was there to recommend that I forgo one of my life’s pleasures as my penitence for Lent. He said that through self-denial for forty days, I’d be re-born on Easter Sunday and would be filled with strength.
“If I can’t chew gum, the only thing that’s going to be stronger is my breath,” I said.
I think I might have burped and then tried to give my dad a high five. But unfortunately, he didn’t always find me as hilarious as I found myself. So his recommendation for penitence suddenly became a punishment, and my pile of Mardi Gras treasures was taken from me like candy from a baby.
Gone were the Mary Janes and magic lollipops that melted into gum. Gone were the chocolate doubloons and candy that I couldn’t identify, but was sure was delicious. Even gum related products were confiscated, leaving me alone to drown in a pool of tears as my dad carried away my baseball cards, Booza Joe jokes, and a Hubba Bubba t-shirt.
My first week of Lent consisted of basic childhood tantrums. These included, but were not limited to, a hunger strike, kicks and screams, and threats to either go blind or run away and live in the forest with my imaginary pet alligator.
The second and third weeks, the tears stopped. But my fight continued on as I walked around our house shirtless in political protest against having my Hubba Bubba t-shirt ripped from my body.
By week four, I knew I had lost the argument. So for the rest of Lent, I changed my focus from protesting, to finding anything in our house that resembled gum. My brothers had eaten all of their Mardi Gras stash, so I searched desk drawers, in-between sofa cushions and through my momma’s old purses. I was finally successful when I found an old cough drop on the floor of the family car. For ten whole minutes, I sat in the back seat sucking on the Halls and pretending it was a Chicklet. A dirt flavored Chicklet.
Then Easter morning came, and before the sun rose, my eyes popped opened like someone had scared me or sprayed me in the face with vinegar. It was still dark, but imagines of Dentyne and Bubalicious danced before me and led me down our hallway to our living room.
To avoid waking anyone in our house, I carried a flashlight and shone its beam underneath our front picture window. There stood a row of baskets filled with chocolate covered rabbits, marshmallow chickens and gum that looked like robin’s eggs.
I stepped towards my prize, fantasizing about pouring the candy all over me. It would be a rain of life’s pleasures, softly kissing my skin before it floated down to my feet.
But before my hand could touch the Easter basket, before I could rip open the cellophane, before I could even smell the sweetness of my reward, my conquest was interrupted. A glow of light seemed to evolve from thin air as if conjured up by a mystical force. But after I caught my breath, I realized it was only my dad turning on a table lamp.
“Happy Easter,” he said. “Right after mass, I’ll give you back your Mardi Gras candy and you’ll be able to open up your basket.”
Regardless of how much I cried or begged or even reasoned, there was no changing my dad’s mind. The few hours I had to wait for my Easter basket were the toughest of the forty days of Lent. Every inch of my body pulsated in pain, and I seriously wondered if I would die before ever blowing a bubble from the robin’s eggs made of gum.
But several years later, I realized that it wasn’t death I was experiencing. It was re-birth. My dad’s promise had been kept, and I was no longer the freewheeling gum chewer who let the likes of Juicy Fruit and Big Red control him.
To honor my late dad, I continue to give up gum for Lent. It’s not as difficult anymore because I’ve outgrown it. But it reminds me of what I can accomplish, and that I have the power to be born again whenever I wish.
To many Christians, this Easter Sunday is about the resurrection of Jesus Christ. To others, it has different religious significance. But regardless of how you celebrate, or what you believe, this day is the first day of the rest of your life. Like spring flowers fertilized with strength as they sprout through the dead leaves of winter, it is our time to blossom.
1 comment:
Post a Comment