Salt for Sugar
“Wisdom is a sweet treat paid at a bitter price.”
Seconds, you only have seconds until Mom comes back to the kitchen. You quickly glance right then left before you mantled onto the countertop where you teeter like a tipsy drinking bird. You reach for one of the baking canisters that your mom has lined up on the back of the countertop. Rocking tenuously on the fulcrum of your stomach, you quietly remove the top of the tall metal baking tins. With the alacrity of a cat burglar, you lick your finger and plunge it deep into the contents. You pull out a frosted finger. You carefully replace the lid and silently rock back onto the floor.
Then you hear the familiar rustle of Mom’s skirt. It is your cue to skedaddle out the backdoor. You run, holding your frosty finger aloft like a burning torch. Once behind the garage, a congratulatory smirk covers your face.
Mission accomplished!
You stick your finger into your grinning gob and suck.
With your mind running down the pathways of sweet pleasure, your tastebud delivers the bad news. It is not sugar that your capper has captured. It is salt. Your greedy grin contorted into the bitter frown of a mouthful of salt.
Salt for sugar.
Bitter needs sweet.
Pain before pleasure.
A life lesson often tastes like defeat.
And the years roll on, leaving their lessons like tracks in your rearview mirrors until the next opportunity arrives.
The kid is only ninety-five-pound as he lines up with the bigger boys trying out for the high school football team. They pointed, snickered, and laughed as he walks in for practice on that first day of tryouts. They can not imagine the boldface audacity it takes for this whisp of a boy to compete for a place on the team. Yet after the first week of “Hell Week,” they are too exhausted to mock him.
This runt runs every sprint. He completes every pushup. Even running on all fours, all under the glare of the coaches and the hot summer sun. The pain is the only gift for those who make it to the second week, the second week of “Hell Week.”
After every drill, the field is littered with gasping and puking bodies. Then the coach yells, “Line up!” The survivors stagger to the goal line and face a hundred yards of pain. The small boy stands shoulder to shoulder with his larger brethren. The competitive grin on his sweat-drenched face could not be quelched by his weeklong sore muscles, the burning in his lungs, or the blisters inside his oversized cleats.
He wipes the sweat from his eyes and licks his salt-encrusted lips in anticipation of the coach’s whistle to run.
The small boy prevails over “Hell Week.” Yet when the football pads go on, physics takes over, and the ninety-five-pound boy is no match for the mass of his mighty brethren.
He is cut from the squad.
Salt for sugar.
Bitter needs sweet.
Pain before pleasure.
A life lesson is found when your best is not good enough.
And the big wheel in the sky keeps on turning as you search to find your place under the sun.
The sport of wrestling demands balance. The scales of blind justice balance the weight equity of each competitor. Yet equity evaporates when the referee blows his whistle and shouts, “Wrestle.” Within the circle on the mat, you stalk your prey. With lunges and feigns, the wrestlers attempt to unbalance each other. Then in a flash, you are grappling down on the mat, testing for advantage, straining for balance.
You find yourself on your hands and knees, ridden by your opponent. He probes for your weakness while you search for an opening to escape. Muscles strain as each opponent vies for advantage. Then, your opponent pulls you down as you explode up at the exact moment. The back of your head collides with his nose, and his blood erupts everywhere.
You feel woozy as his blood drips across your face. The referee blows his whistle to call the coaches to the mat. With the back of your hand, you wipe his blood from your brow and mouth but not before you taste the metallic saltiness of victory. Your coach asks you if you are okay. You smile as you look at your opponent, who is sitting, head back, with a bag of ice on his nose.
Salt for sugar.
Bitter needs sweet.
Pain before pleasure.
Our lives teach lessons that are lost in the moment’s passion, especially when it arrives as blood begins to flow.
Lessons continue if the student remains.
The phone rings. It’s your sister. You hear her voice strain. During her emotional breakdown, you catch the words “Cassie” and “tumor.” You piece together that your two-year-old niece is going in for emergency surgery. By the time you arrive, your sister and brother-in-law are exhausted by their ordeal. You meet outside of little Cassie’s hospital room. You and your spouse hug them in an embrace meant to imbue them with compassion and strength. They shuffle off to get some food after countless hours bedside.
You look at your spouse and muster a brave smile. In silence, you both nod an understanding to be strong for little Cassie. You push open the door. It feels unnaturally heavy as you enter the dimly lit room.
Holding on to the bassinet guardrail is a two-year-old little girl. Her face radiates a smile of recognition. A bright and broad smile almost obscures her shaved and swollen head. The most disturbing is the black spider-like stitches that migrate from ear to ear. As you approach, she begins to bounce with excitement. Our souls cringe as we mentally adjust to the juxtaposition of a child’s joy and the gravity of her procedure. With every ounce of strength, we return her precious smile. Your spouse pulls a stuffed dolphin from her bag. Cassie hugs it with the pure love reserved for saints and children. We give her every affirmation that comes to mind. Always smiling, “Cassie, you are such a strong girl. We love you, Cassie.”
Then your voice cracks as you repeat, “We love you, Cassie!”
Your sister and brother-in-law return. We hug again. As you embrace your sister, you start with a gentle hug that grows stronger as you whisper, “Cassie is strong. She’ll come through.” We walk back to Cassie and, in soft voices, tell her, “We love you this much,” expanding our arms to demonstrate the vastness of our affection. Her smile grows to the row of stitches that crown her head like a martyr’s thorns.
You and your spouse walk out of her room, and the door closes slowly behind. Wordless, you and your spouse embrace. Your tears race down your faces to splash on the floor. You hear the sniffles. You feel the sobs. You taste the salty tears.
Bitter needs sweet.
Pain before pleasure.
Our lives teach lessons of strength from the smile of an innocent’s face.
Salt for sugar.
Bitter needs sweet.
Pain before pleasure.
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