The splinter

 We’ve been doing grandparent duty for the last ten days while our daughter, son-in-law, and their two older children go diving in the ocean off Honduras. The youngest grandchild, Peter, is 14 and on the autism spectrum. Like most people with autism, he needs to control his environment. One of the more difficult places for environment control is beneath the surface of the ocean. So there was no way Peter wanted to go on this dive.

Which meant we got to spend all this time with him, something we enjoy. We went on some mild adventures, played a lot of games, watched some good movies, swam in the pool, and read. That is, when Peter wasn’t on his iPhone or one of his computers. He is a genius (in my opinion) at computer technology, the one we go to with our technical problems.

During our stay, we also fed and played with the beasts (two large dogs, three cats, and one tortoise), and watered the multitude of outdoor flowers. They live in the middle of a forest and so we were outdoors a lot. Not surprisingly, one day I picked up a splinter in the bottom of my foot.

And that’s what this story is about.

The splinter was so tiny I couldn’t see it, partly because looking at something on the bottom of my foot is challenging at best. It was tiny but fierce. It made its presence known. I hobbled around for two days, not saying anything, thinking it might come out on its own. I’m not a fan of the process of removing splinters, especially in a sensitive area.

But after two days and no relief I knew I had to act responsibly, so I said to Hal, “I’m going to need your help with something.”

Always kind and concerned, Hal assembled his tools, and I knew I was in trouble. Tweezers, a needle, a knife, and a small flashlight. The flashlight didn’t bother me. He had me sit on a chair with my foot elevated on another chair near a light-powered lamp. He sterilized my foot and his equipment and got to work.

As it turned out, he couldn’t see it either. With the flashlight between his teeth, he had to poke around until I yelped. Over and over. He scraped, prodded, and pulled for an hour, while I practiced the same breathing exercises I had used years ago during labor pains. The breathing sort of helped. I kept thinking, “How can this thing be so tiny and hurt so much?”

After an hour we were both exhausted and needed a break. Hal went to a pharmacy to buy Epsom salts for our next approach. The soak in hot water felt delicious. But afterward the painful spot persisted. We tried soaking it again several hours later, and at the end my foot was numb so I felt no pain. The painless state persisted even after my foot regained feeling. I’ve been pain-free for several days now, and we believe the thing is gone, probably dissolved. Or maybe it loosened up and swam out into the salty water. We’re telling ourselves that the agonizing hour of scraping and poking and tweezing helped prepare the flesh for letting go, and the soak provided the opportunity. But, what do we know?

The next day, in the early hours of the morning, I was remembering Hal’s stoical yet gentle persistence, doing what I know for him was an unpleasant task. He knew he was hurting me, yet he also knew it needed to be done. The truth is, I don’t think I could have done the same for him. I’m too squeamish and can’t stand the thought of giving pain to others. Even when it’s the right thing to do. It made me very thankful for him.

As a poet, I went metaphorical, of course, and started to think about all the splinters in life, especially in the process of growing older. This old growth forest is full of splinters. And not all the pains and challenges we feel are easily extracted, if at all. But there is One by our side who is strong, patient, and good, who accompanies us even in “the valley of the shadow of death.”

Belief in the goodness of God isn’t the same as being Pollyanna-ish. The valley of the shadow is real. Evil exists in the world. Sometimes we make bad choices and pay the consequences. And, as the saying goes, “Growing old is not for sissies.”

And yet…there is One beside us. And there is more ahead.

Julian of Norwich’s famous words depict a reality beyond splinters, old age, and even death: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” Yes.