Timothy Joe was growing up in the Appalachian foothills, where curiosity sometimes got the best of him. Recently he had heard about the cockfights that were conducted almost daily in old man Ewington's barn on the edge of town.
When he asked his father what a cockfight was like, his father became angry. "I don't want ya ever goin' to a cockfight. Ya hear? They're against the law, and worse, they're against God."
"Why?" Timothy Joe persisted.
"Isn't it good enough for ya, that I told ya not to go? Do ya think I would forbid ya just to be mean? Cockfights are horrible, nasty and very bloody. They fix long, sharp, steel spurs on them roosters, and then they set the roosters on each other, while everyone stands around and bets on which rooster will come out alive."
"They let the roosters kill each other? That ain't very Christian, Pa."
"That's why I said you ain't to go to any cockfights. Don't you even go near to Ewington's barn. Ya hear?"
"Yes, Pa."
Timothy understood his father perfectly. He agreed that cockfighting sounded horrible and bloody. He didn't want to go against his father, but still, his curiosity was tugging hard on him to go to the barn on the edge of town. And it didn't take long for curiosity to get its way.
Timothy climbed a tree growing beside the barn on the edge of town. From there he could peek through a dirty window and see inside. This would let him see a cockfight, and also let him tell his father that he had not gone to a cockfight, because he had not gone inside the barn. This might be legal hair-splitting, but Timothy hoped that it might be enough to save his hide if his father ever found out.
As blood and feathers and shreds of meat began exploding from the dusty floor of the cockfighting ring, Timothy quickly sickened of what he saw. His father was right. The whole affair was horrible, nasty and bloody. But even worse than the fighting cocks was the sight of all those men standing around the ring, hands full of grocery money, shouting and yelling for their rooster to kill the other. Their faces were empty of compassion, empty of gentleness, empty of love. Instead, cruelty and desperation carved these faces and fired their emotions. Timothy Joe thought that these men might be the same ones he saw in town every day, but they were no longer recognizable. Yesterday any one of these men might have given him candy and tussled his hair. Today they shook their fists and cried for blood. Yesterday they were neighbors and family men. Today they were possessed and rabid, something less than human.
As he shinnied down the tree, Timothy Joe was glad he had not gone into the barn. His escape might not have been as easy from in there, and the evil that had changed the town's men might have changed him too. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Timothy Joe started running, putting as much distance between him and the barn as possible. He quickly left the barn far behind him, but the picture of the fighting cocks and the men's faces were not so easy to forget.
Timothy Joe had been home for at least an hour before the mail came, and with it the mailman. "That boy of your’s sure is growin'," he said to Timothy Joe's father. "Saw him down by old man Ewington's barn today, and didn't hardly recognize him for being Timothy Joe. I think he's growed at least a foot taller just in the last week."
"That he has," Timothy Joe's father answered.
"Well, have a nice day," the mailman said as he walked on down the street.
"Ya do the same," Timothy Joe's father responded. Then he turned toward the house and called out, "Timothy Joe, come here."
Timothy Joe had heard the whole thing, and he was horrified. He never saw the mailman. How had the mailman seen him? His mind raced as he went out of the house, and approached his stern-faced father. His whole legal defense of just being in the tree, and never having actually gone into the barn, seemed pretty feeble now.
"Son," his father said to him, "we're headin' to the willa tree, aren't we?"
"Yes, Pa," Timothy Joe answered in a shaky, frightened voice.
He couldn't believe the words that had just come out of his mouth! His whole legal defense, flimsy as it was, had been cast into the wind with those words. With just two words, he had admitted his guilt and accepted the judgment and sentencing for his crime.
Timothy Joe's father had always had that affect on his children. Everybody in town knew him to be an honest man. His word was better than what a hundred lawyers could scratch onto a piece of paper. With such a man, the truth always spilled out of anyone around him. So the children growing up in his house never had a chance to speak anything but the truth. But right now, Timothy Joe wasn't feeling much appreciation for his father's good character.
He knew that there was only one reason that a parent took their child to the willow tree. He knew he was about to get a willow-switching. It would be the first time that his father used this drastic punishment on Timothy Joe, but he had often seen the results on his friends, whose fathers were less inclined to use other means for teaching their children. He had seen the big, red welts that a willow switch could raise on a person's backside, and he knew boys who could not sit down for two days after a willow-switching.
Timothy Joe began to tremble as his father walked him to the willow tree in the center of town. He was working hard to hold back tears. He knew he deserved what he was about to get, and he wanted to take his punishment like a man, as if this would somehow help make up for his disobedience.
His father reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pocketknife. "Here, cut a sturdy branch," he said as he handed the knife to Timothy Joe.
Choking back his fear, Timothy Joe took the knife from his father. His hands trembled so much that he could hardly open the blade. Finally the blade popped into position, and Timothy Joe reached up and took hold of a year-old branch of the big willow tree. The sharp knife quickly sliced off a two-foot long section.
"Now strip the leaves off'n it," Timothy Joe's father said, as the shaking boy handed the pocketknife back to him.
As he peeled away the leaves, it felt to Timothy Joe like he was peeling away the remaining years of his life. He knew no one died from a willow-switching, but why did it feel like his life was about to end?
The finished switch emerged as he broke off the last leaves. It felt to Timothy Joe that he held a poisonous snake. He wanted to pitch it from his hands, but at the same time, he did not want it in his father's hands. Once there, he knew he would soon feel its fangs. So Timothy Joe stood frozen, unable to let go of the dreaded menace.
Then he saw his father's open hands, held out toward him. "Get to it, son," he said to Timothy Joe. "Give me a switchin'."
"What?" Timothy Joe, gasped.
"Give me a good switchin', son," his father repeated sternly.
"I can't give ya a switchin', Pa. Ya aren't the one who disobeyed."
"I'm telling ya, son, start switchin' me! Make my hands hurt! Now!"
The tears he had worked so hard to hold back, now began coursing down Timothy Joe's cheeks. "But, Pa, I don't want to hurt ya."
"Ya already made that choice, son. Now's the time for punishment. Then he yelled, "Now hit me! Hit me hard!" he roared.
"Please, Pa. Don't make me," Timothy Joe pleaded.
"I said 'Hit me!' Now!" his father thundered.
Timothy Joe had never seen his father so angry, and it frightened him a hundred times more than the willow switch. And more reacting than obeying, Timothy Joe brought the willow switch down across his father's open hands.
"Do it again! Harder! Much harder! As hard as ya can!" his father demanded.
And Timothy Joe began switching his father's open hands as hard as he could. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His body heaved with sobbing. But he kept switching his father with all of his strength.
At first his father's calloused, strong hands resisted the effects of the willow switch. But as blow after blow landed on the open hands, they began to turn pink and to swell, even as the blows continued to rain down upon them. In a few places the skin even opened, and drops of blood dropped onto the ground under the willow tree.
Finally, his body and his heart both totally exhausted, Timothy Joe lowered the willow switch. "Please, Pa. Please let me stop now."
Then his father looked into the boy's eyes, and gently and lovingly asked, "Have ya learned your lesson, son?"
"Yes, Pa. I swear I will never, ever go to a cockfight again!"
"Son, this ain't about a cockfight."
Timothy Joe looked up at his father trying to understand his words.
"This is about ya disobeying me, and putting yourself in a place where evil could take possession of your heart. It's about a good and loving son nearly being lost to all that is most wicked and wrong in this world."
Timothy Joe thought back to the men's faces as they watched the cocks attacking one another. He knew now what men possessed by evil looked like, and he was glad to not be counted among them.
"I love ya too much, son," his father continued, "to ever let you be lost to evil."
Timothy Joe looked at his father's hands, and he knew, without a doubt, how much his father loved him.
"Now why don't ya break up that willa switch, so it don't hurt anybody else," his father said.
Timothy Joe happily complied, and they headed home together.
As his father reached out to open the screen door on the house, Timothy Joe saw him wince in pain as his hand closed around the door's handle. Timothy Joe knew he really had hurt his father.
"Pa, why don't ya let me pump some cool water to pour over your hands. It'll make them feel better."
At first, his father started to turn down the offer, but then he looked into his son's pleading eyes. "Okay, that'd be nice," he replied as he walked over to the kitchen's sink.
Timothy Joe began working the pump handle up and down. He smiled as the cool water began flowing out onto his father's raw hands. He could see its comforting effect on his father's face. It made Timothy Joe happy to be able to undo some of the harm he had caused.
After a few minutes, his father said, "That's enough. I've got chores to get done. Besides, ya'll empty the well if ya pump any more."
Timothy Joe laughed at that thought. He knew the well was full, and he would have to pump for days on end to empty it. But it made him feel better to know that his father recognized Timothy Joe's desire to heal what he had hurt.
"Fetch the ax, will ya, son. I need to chop some wood," his father said.
Remembering how his father had winced in pain just opening the screen door, Timothy Joe could imagine how much it would hurt him to chop wood. "How about I pour ya a big glass of lemonade first?” Timothy Joe asked. “Then I'll take a few whacks at that woodpile myself, while you drink the lemonade."
"Don't ya want some lemonade for yourself too?" his father asked.
"Nah. I think I'll just chop some wood," Timothy Joe answered.
And that's how it went the next few days. Timothy Joe did more chores than he had ever done in his entire life, and his father's hands had time to heal. And a bond grew that day between father and son that not even death could break.
Questions for Meditation, Discussion or Preaching
Copyright 2020. Robert D. Ingram, 32746 Jourden Rd., Albany, Ohio 45710 (dr.bobingram@gmail.com). Used by permission.
