We all need a helping hand to guide us into adulthood. Most of the time that helping hand is holding ours. Occasionally that hand is firmly applied to our reset button, located conveniently on our backsides. On one evening that hand was clutching my earlobe in a death grip.
My friend and I were racing through the church. Through the sanctuary, across the foyer, down the stairs, I glanced over my shoulder and I knew there was no way he would catch me. Then the brick wall. She was probably one hundred and ten years old and no taller than a nine year old. Formed entirely of steel, she calmly gripped my tender earlobe and applied pressure. The she spoke, "If you had run into my mother you would have killed her." My friend and I responded passionately, "I'm so sorry, I won't ever do it again, I'm so sorry"
Afterwards I realized how fortunate I was. First, I had not killed a little old lady. Secondly, She never did tell my father.
On cold mornings the ache in my earlobe reminds me to look ahead and slow down.