Living on the Knife's Edge

Living on the Knife’s Edge                                                                           August 1, 2021

 

My fingerprints were already on the glass showcase and now I was adding my nose print as I longingly looked at the Case knife on display in its little box. I studied the Amber bone handle on the double blades. I had to have that exact knife.

 

Every boy in Arkansas had to have a pocket knife.  I had one already. Pa, my grandfather had given me one of his and then traded with me each time we’d visit. But his knives were never Case Knives. Plus they were not strong enough for the various activities young boys would subject them to.

 

“What are you looking at, Bob?” Pop asked.

 

I was so lost in dreams about the knife, I had not noticed him come up beside me. “I’m looking at the Case Knife, the second one back.” I replied. “That’s the one I want and I almost have enough money to buy it.”

 

“That’s a nice one.” He volunteered. “Don’t you still have one of Pa’s old knives? You haven’t lost it have you.”

 

“No, I still have it but it is not good for playing mumbly peg.” I explained. “It’s too light and the blades are on each end. It doesn’t throw well.” Arkansas boy knives were for more than carving. They were also for games at recess. I did not mention “Spread” where you take turns throwing your knife into the ground and, if it stuck up, the other person had to move one of his feet to that place. The object was to get the other person with legs so spread out he could not stand up and throw his turn.

 

About that time, Mom informed us she had finished shopping and we needed to head home. I took one last longing look before I followed them from the store still pondering on how many Grit Newspapers I would have to sell to purchase my ideal knife.

 

About a month later, Pop stood beside me as I handed the clerk a wad of bills and a handful of coins. He smiled as he put them on the counter and asked me to count them with him. Then he handed me the Case Knife in its box. 

I could hardly wait to get into the car and open the box and check out my exciting purchase. I carefully opened the big blade looking at the shiny new metal. I  turned it left and right letting the light reflect from it. The spring in the back was strong enough to hold the blades open which you need in a good throwing knife. and it snaps the blades shut when they are about half way closed. I opened it and closed it just to see it snap and to hear the loud click it made as it closed. 

 

When Sunday came, Mom said, “I think you should leave your knife at home and not take it to church.”

 

“Why?” I asked. “I want to show it to Gary and my friends.”

 

“I’m afraid it will be too great a temptation to play with it during church.” She explained.

 

“No, it won’t. I can keep it in my pocket during Sunday School and Church.” I stated confidently.

 

After more discussion she agreed to my promise it would stay in my pocket all through Sunday School and Worship. I was sure that I had the willpower to do that.

 

“Gary! Look at my new knife!” I exclaimed as he arrived at church, even before he got out of their car. 

I opened it and closed it a few times enjoying the loud click as we walked toward the building. I let him hold it for a few minutes just to see how great the bone handle felt. As Mr. Ladner started the lesson, I closed it with the snap and slid it into my pocket. I kept my hand touching it through most of the class time.

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All my friends gathered around during the short break while the women went into the auditorium and the men gathered beside the porch for a quick cigarette. I let a few touch it and some got their knives out to compare. Too soon it was time to go inside.

 

My friends and I usually sat on the third pew from the front. Most of the mothers could keep a check on their boys there so we knew what was expected of us. Mom would sit on the front row after she finished playing the piano.  

 

I had good self control during the music and the offering. Then Pop began to preach. I tried to listen but being ten years old with a new knife was more important and exciting than what he was saying. 

 

Soon it became impossible to keep that glorious treasure in my pocket unobserved for a whole hour. 

 

Gary didn’t have his first knife yet and was very interested in mine. I took great pride that I was among the first to get a knife.

 

All those facts added up to an overwhelming need to show the knife one more time even though it was during the worship service. I resisted for as long as I could.

 

I watched the back of my mom’s head as I took it out of my pocket. Sometimes moms can see out of the back of their heads so I made sure she was focused on what Pop was saying.  

 

I carefully opened the blade. I felt how sharp it was. Gary wanted to hold it but I shook my head. I knew it needed to go back into my pocket before Mom’s rear vision caught me. I slowly started to close the knife.

 

Now you remember that great spring in my new knife.  Somehow that fact had slipped my mind as I slowly began to close the blade as Pop made a dramatic pause for emphasis. In the quietness that followed, the blade flew from my fingers closing with the loud “Click.” 

 

Since I had been holding it lightly, the sudden movement of the blade snapping closed caused it to slip from my fingers. It hit the edge of the seat with a “Klunk!” and dropped on to the floor with “Thud!” To me, the “Snap, Klunk, Thud” seemed to echo off the ceiling and the walls in the quietness of Pop’s pause.

 

My friends all looked to me to see what was going on. I tried to look innocent but it is hard to do when ten eyes are focused on you. A couple of members on the row in front glanced back to see what created that sound.

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I didn’t know if I should pick it up or let it lay there until the prayer time when everyone would have their eyes closed.

 

I looked up at my dad as he continued his message as if he had not heard anything unusual.

 

Then I looked again at my mom’s head expecting her to turn around and give me “the eye.” “The eye” is a look that says, “You are doing something you should not be doing so just wait until we get home.” Every boy knew “the eye.” Every boy dreaded “the eye.” The best thing you can do is look somewhere else so you don’t see “the eye,” hoping she will give up. But every boy knew “the eye” would last longer than his ability to look somewhere else. I saw my mom’s head turn.  Sitting at the front of the church meant that when she gives me “the eye” everyone in the rest of the building would know I had received “the eye” and was in trouble. But her head stopped turning as she glanced down at Jerry next to her. Then she looked back at my dad and he was preaching loud again.

 

Reaching over with the toe of my black shoe, I moved the knife closer to me. Then I leaned forward in an attitude of deep meditation and slowly reached down, picked it up, I carefully slid it into my pocket where it stayed until the closing benediction.

 

I was sure Mom heard but she must have forgotten by the time we got to the house. I wasn’t punished.

 

In those few seconds I had gone from guilt, to fear, to relief, to a commitment to never, ever take the knife out of my pocket at church.

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Proverbs 21:8

“The way of the guilty is devious, but the conduct of the innocent is upright.”