We all pay for our sins somehow.
The cousins ran like mad from the way-back yard where I’d found my Easter basket to the group of adults watching in the spring sunshine.
“Wait!” I yelled. “Stop! Oh– Wait!– No!…,” as their backs receded from me, around the corner of the house to the south side of the Jund home in Zeeland, N.D., to all my aunts, uncles, grandparents… everyone.
“Dad! Dad!” shouted a breathless cousin to one of my many uncles waiting there in the yard with their wives. “You’ll never guess what Marty got in his basket!”
The parents were already looking my way, many with smiles on their faces. Several looked at my Grandpa Ben, hiding a grin behind his hand.
Ten years old. My face, red hot. Shame in a can.
Continue reading “Jesus Christ and Happy Days in Three Tiny Towns”
