My first encounter with death happened when I was ten years
old. My sister, Danielle, had received a sea frog as a gift on her birthday.
Christened “Junior,” this diminutive, slimy pet was ensconced on the top of our
bookshelf soon after his arrival. There he paddled around his plastic aquarium
with his little webbed feet to his heart’s content.
Only two inches in length, this squirrely pet soon wriggled his way into my heart. Being the recluse that I was, I spent many long hours each day propped up on my bed with a book. My bed happened to be on the top bunk, the bottom of which was occupied by Danielle, or Dani. From this perch I had an excellent view of our amphibian friend.
I would resurface form the world of sword-wielding mice and menacing dungeons that occupied the pages of my books, to find two beady little eyes staring at me. His legs, never still, flapped behind him as he nosed the plastic barrier that separated his watery world from mine. My ten-year-old heart felt somewhat sorry for him, always cold, always wet, and eternally bound to the confines of his aquarium.
I talked to him. If he could not experience my world, I would at least let him catch a glimpse of what my world looked like. And as I talked, my little reclusive heart began to open up. Out poured the stories I never told anyone, the excitement I found in the imaginary worlds I had created. And all the while Junior sat quietly blinking his beady black eyes back at me and endlessly treading water.
Upon receiving Junior, Dani was given specific instructions for how to feed him and change his water. We were all warned not to touch him overly much, for it would traumatize him and he could possibly die. Heedless of this warning, we removed the lid of his aquarium at least once a day to reach in and stroke his bumpy back. It felt weird, and he would squirm away when we did.
We thought nothing of it, for we did it out of idle curiosity. A few days later we noticed that he was eating less and less. Then one morning I hopped up into my bed and looked over at his aquarium. He was floating on his back, his smooth, white belly exposed. I knew then that he had died. I yanked the lid off of the aquarium and poked his lifeless body in disbelief. No, I thought, he can’t just die.
I poked him again. He remained limp. With a heavy heard I went to tell Dani and our Mom the sad news. We “buried” Junior that afternoon. A subdued group gathered around the toilet as mom flushed our little pet down. Later, in the stillness of our vacant bedroom, I shed a few tears for my little friend. For days afterwards I would mount my bed and look over at the place where my tiny companion once resided. A twinge of loss passed through my heart each time. Even with such a small loss I caught a glimpse of what death truly was like for those left behind. It is alien to the living and so terrifying. We do not understand it; we only understand that it is wrong. I felt the wrongness of death as a child. It would be several years before I understood the beauty that lay on the other side of death, the beauty of the Gospel.
Only two inches in length, this squirrely pet soon wriggled his way into my heart. Being the recluse that I was, I spent many long hours each day propped up on my bed with a book. My bed happened to be on the top bunk, the bottom of which was occupied by Danielle, or Dani. From this perch I had an excellent view of our amphibian friend.
I would resurface form the world of sword-wielding mice and menacing dungeons that occupied the pages of my books, to find two beady little eyes staring at me. His legs, never still, flapped behind him as he nosed the plastic barrier that separated his watery world from mine. My ten-year-old heart felt somewhat sorry for him, always cold, always wet, and eternally bound to the confines of his aquarium.
I talked to him. If he could not experience my world, I would at least let him catch a glimpse of what my world looked like. And as I talked, my little reclusive heart began to open up. Out poured the stories I never told anyone, the excitement I found in the imaginary worlds I had created. And all the while Junior sat quietly blinking his beady black eyes back at me and endlessly treading water.
Upon receiving Junior, Dani was given specific instructions for how to feed him and change his water. We were all warned not to touch him overly much, for it would traumatize him and he could possibly die. Heedless of this warning, we removed the lid of his aquarium at least once a day to reach in and stroke his bumpy back. It felt weird, and he would squirm away when we did.
We thought nothing of it, for we did it out of idle curiosity. A few days later we noticed that he was eating less and less. Then one morning I hopped up into my bed and looked over at his aquarium. He was floating on his back, his smooth, white belly exposed. I knew then that he had died. I yanked the lid off of the aquarium and poked his lifeless body in disbelief. No, I thought, he can’t just die.
I poked him again. He remained limp. With a heavy heard I went to tell Dani and our Mom the sad news. We “buried” Junior that afternoon. A subdued group gathered around the toilet as mom flushed our little pet down. Later, in the stillness of our vacant bedroom, I shed a few tears for my little friend. For days afterwards I would mount my bed and look over at the place where my tiny companion once resided. A twinge of loss passed through my heart each time. Even with such a small loss I caught a glimpse of what death truly was like for those left behind. It is alien to the living and so terrifying. We do not understand it; we only understand that it is wrong. I felt the wrongness of death as a child. It would be several years before I understood the beauty that lay on the other side of death, the beauty of the Gospel.
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