How many people think they believe in God when suddenly they experience something extraordinary that prompts them to truly believe?
For me, this happened in 2007 when my attempts to hide a book from my parents failed.
Once upon a time in the 1990s, a book series became very popular overnight. Some called it magical. But like many things that suddenly rise to fame, it was met with scrutiny from concerned parents. Mine chose to ban the books.
For seven years, I was obedient, foregoing sequels despite the plotlines established in my mind by the earlier installments I read before the ban. For me, the series was unfinished until July 21 when I was a rising senior in high school. I found myself home alone for days. I bought the last book in the forbidden series with cash and read it in 12 hours.
Does this mean I skipped a few books in the series? Yes. Was I confused during half of it? Also, yes. Did it really matter? No.
The story ended. It was exciting and epic. I closed the book and was back in reality. Only now, I had the bonus of possessing contraband.
With no book-sock-of-invisibility at my disposal, I had to hide the book the old-fashioned way, but where? I covered it with a book sock, or fabric book cover sans magic; boxed it in a shoe box; stuffed that in a backpack; and secured it outside the house in the storage box of my pickup truck bed, which, lucky for me, also had the camper shell covering it. Only then did I sleep, confident I had gotten away with it.
I awoke Sunday morning to the sound of the garage door. My dad surprised me by arriving home a day early from his trip. Together, we went to Mass. Little did I know that while I was in church asking God to forgive my venial transgressions, my mother was calling my mobile phone, which was off. With no idea of dad’s presence, she started to panic.
She called our neighbors, who informed her that, yes, my truck was still parked outside the house. Now frantic, she had them look in all the windows, banging on doors. With no response, the husband decided it was time to break into the house and went to get his tools. The wife decided to check the back of the truck. But she didn’t stop there. She climbed into the truck bed, opened the storage box, unzipped the backpack, opened the shoebox and removed the book sock.
“There is nothing here but a Harry Potter book,” she informed my mother. At that point my mom was now convinced I had been taken by witches.
Just as my neighbor was about to force his way into the house through a window, my dad and I pulled into the driveway. I stepped out and the wife handed me the book. All she said was “I’m sorry,” and I knew the jig was up.
I’ve mulled over this event for the past two decades. Trying to figure out God’s reasoning for foiling my plan. My initial reaction back then was that God was real and loved my mom and dad more than me. With time and maturity, I’ve realized it had nothing to do with the book and everything to do with my relationship with my parents. Despite what some would have you believe, 759 pages of fantasy is not worth damaging a relationship through deceit.
As it were, my mom was just thankful I hadn’t been thrown in a ditch somewhere or, worse, turned into a toad.
Kassock is a freelance writer in Fredericksburg.
Feast for the Son