Jim was a white haired old gentleman who attended the same church as I back in Portland, Oregon. I was a new Christian back then, in the early '90's, while Jim had been a Christian, more or less, forever. He was not the sort of person I would have talked to in my life beforehand, because he was old, and usually rather rumpled, and sometimes smelled strong, like mothballs or mold; but church has a way of bringing unlikely people together, of challenging barriers, of exchanging sour with sweet, arrogance with humility, reticence with readiness.
Sometimes, the pastor would have us pray with whomever was sitting closest to us in the pew (with the caveat that you could not choose your own wife or child), and sometimes it would be Jim who was sitting closest to me.
Prayer breaks down barriers, too. It makes all people equal. And it makes them a little bit more human than usual.
After prayer one time, I struck up a conversation with Jim. I had always admired his full head of thick white hair, whereas I, at least 20 years younger than he, was already rapidly losing my own. So I complimented him on his hair, its ivory whiteness (with just the slightest yellow tinge) and how it seemed always so perfectly in place.
"That's because I leave the soap in," Jim explained.
"In … what, the dish? The bottle?"
"In my hair."
"Ah."
On another occasion, Jim commented on a band-aid I was wearing on my finger. I had cut myself the night before while making dinner.
"I should probably get some medicine for it, so it won't get infected," I said.
"You got a dog?" Jim asked.
"A dog? Well … yes."
"Well, sir, this is what my dog told me. I had cut my finger, just like you've done, and I was settin' out to put a bandage on the cut when my dog said, 'Hold on, Jim. Lemme see that cut.' So I showed the dog the cut and straightaway he set to licking it. Licked it till all the blood was washed off and it wasn't bleeding no more. 'That oughta fix it,' he said. And by God, it did. I've never since used any bandage or medicine for a wound, but just showed it to my dog and let him cure it with his tongue."
"Well, that'll sure save you the money for medicine or a doctor," I said.
"Yup. Long as I got that dog."
I thought it was funny back then, a story to share with my younger friends. But I'm old now, just like Jim was then--and though I don't have enough hair on my head to paste in place with soap, I do regularly talk to the dog. And the dog talks to me. Moreover, I'm not shy about admitting to it. Both dogs and people have a lot more to offer than one might imagine at first sight.
Sometimes, the pastor would have us pray with whomever was sitting closest to us in the pew (with the caveat that you could not choose your own wife or child), and sometimes it would be Jim who was sitting closest to me.
Prayer breaks down barriers, too. It makes all people equal. And it makes them a little bit more human than usual.
After prayer one time, I struck up a conversation with Jim. I had always admired his full head of thick white hair, whereas I, at least 20 years younger than he, was already rapidly losing my own. So I complimented him on his hair, its ivory whiteness (with just the slightest yellow tinge) and how it seemed always so perfectly in place.
"That's because I leave the soap in," Jim explained.
"In … what, the dish? The bottle?"
"In my hair."
"Ah."
On another occasion, Jim commented on a band-aid I was wearing on my finger. I had cut myself the night before while making dinner.
"I should probably get some medicine for it, so it won't get infected," I said.
"You got a dog?" Jim asked.
"A dog? Well … yes."
"Well, sir, this is what my dog told me. I had cut my finger, just like you've done, and I was settin' out to put a bandage on the cut when my dog said, 'Hold on, Jim. Lemme see that cut.' So I showed the dog the cut and straightaway he set to licking it. Licked it till all the blood was washed off and it wasn't bleeding no more. 'That oughta fix it,' he said. And by God, it did. I've never since used any bandage or medicine for a wound, but just showed it to my dog and let him cure it with his tongue."
"Well, that'll sure save you the money for medicine or a doctor," I said.
"Yup. Long as I got that dog."
I thought it was funny back then, a story to share with my younger friends. But I'm old now, just like Jim was then--and though I don't have enough hair on my head to paste in place with soap, I do regularly talk to the dog. And the dog talks to me. Moreover, I'm not shy about admitting to it. Both dogs and people have a lot more to offer than one might imagine at first sight.
1 comment:
I heard it too with dogs saliva and though I haven’t tried it myself, I think there is truth in it...
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