Study Leave - Part 4

When I was in primary school I took a packed lunch each day. Mum would wrap the sandwiches in greaseproof paper, stick a drink, some crisps and a biscuit in my lunch box and pack me off to school knowing that I had enough nutrition to keep me going.

But one day, about the age of six or seven, I must have got the end of a loaf because when I ate my sandwiches the bread seemed a bit tough. I decided in my little mind that I didn't like them, but I was canny enough to know not to throw them out in school. A teacher might see; or the janny; or maybe some other kid would spot me doing it and get me into trouble.

So I ambled home after school (those were the days when you could do that, aged six or seven), all the while wondering what to do with my lunch. Again, I didn't want to dispose of it on the way in case some of the kids who lived nearby saw what I was doing. Bereft of ideas, I arrived home with said uneaten lunch in my schoolbag. I knew this was a scenario unlikely to end well.

But inspiration struck! At the top of our first flight of stairs there was a wee room with the hot press, a few cupboards and an old upright piano. In a flash of genius I realised that there was a perfect little space between the back of the piano and the wall, just right for swallowing up uneaten sandwiches. So I clambered up on the stool and dropped the greaseproof paper package down the back and heard a satisfying thud as it hit the floor. Problem solved!

So successful was this little scheme that I made it a daily ritual. You see, I'd convinced myself that my sandwiches would always be hard and that I really didn't want to eat them. So this went on for weeks and weeks. It got to the stage that I couldn't get any more down the back, so I had to start shoving them underneath as well. You can tell that this room wasn't used much, can't you....

And then, judgement day arrived. Mum was hoovering the stairs and saw the corner of a package sticking out from under the piano. She pulled it out. It was a lunch. She stuck her hand in. Another lunch. Suspicions aroused, she moved the piano forward and watched incredulously as three weeks worth of mouldy lunches fell to the floor. Complete with maggots.

She called my name in the kind of way which tells you you're already in trouble, and when I stepped into the room and saw for myself the incontravertible evidence of my utter stupidity it was like scales were taken off my eyes. In my young mind I'd genuinely thought that those sandwiches would just disappear. Now I knew that they'd hung around, and that everything - my not eating, my futile attempts at concealing the evidence - was uncovered.

I hared down the stairs and hid in the wee cupboard under the stairs that folk in Ireland (and Scotland too, I think) call the 'glory hole'. I stayed in there for about three hours, dreading my father coming home. Mum didn't drag me out or anything, and my sister came and played games with me. I think she maybe even brought me some juice. Come to think of it, mum probably sent her.

Finally dad arrived, and I heard voices in the kitchen. Mum came through and told me gently that I'd have to go through and see him. I knew I'd reached the point where resistance was futile and steeled myself for the worst. But to my amazement there was no hauling over the coals. No smack or slap of punishment (they weren't really into that anyway). Dad just looked me in the eye for a long time, reading my face, and then he said "You know that what you did was stupid, don't you son?". I nodded. "And you're sorry, aren't you. You won't do it again, will you son?". I shook my head. "Well say sorry to your mother and let's just forget it ever happened."

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I remembered this story on Study Leave, and tears came to my eyes when I realised that in many ways this is a picture of what Judgement is really like. Judgement is when the truth comes out. When we finally see the truth that we'd hidden from ourselves; the truth that we thought had got lost down some deep dark hole where no-one would ever find it.

God speaks that truth, and we are forced to confront it. Burning pain; shame; running and hiding; shutting ourselves off in the darkness. Hell, maybe?

But at the end comes a gentle summons, and the grace of a Father who only punishes to bring restoration, and refuses to punish when the lesson he needs to teach us has already been learned.

Thanks be to God.