My father was afraid of snakes, terribly afraid. A grass snake would cross in front of his push mower, and he would be in the air taking his first running steps before he hit the ground, calling for someone to come kill it. I do not know why snakes held such a special place in his life because he was a courageous man in all other ways. It was just the snake, any snake. So, as a small boy, I decided to love snakes and would catch them at every opportunity.

There was a day that I caught a great snake about two feet long. I was eight to ten years old at the time. I went to the open, screened window and called for dad, holding the snake behind my back and out of sight. He placed his face near the screen and asked what I wanted. I pulled the snake out in full view and watched my dad leap backwards, turning over a favorite chair and taking out a lamp.

I knew I was dead. My sense of humor was now going to cost me more than I could pay. I knew better. I do not remember what happened as a result of my mean prank. I do remember standing in the yard for what seemed like days holding the snake as my only hope of safety. Dad would not discipline me, or come near me as long as I held the snake.

Mom would occasionally open the back door and ask if I was ready to come inside. I was too afraid to let go and too afraid to run away. No matter what I’d done, I belonged to my dad, and there was nowhere else I could go or would belong. So I stood, locked, with the snake. Eventually I must have put it down and gone in because I’m not still standing there, holding a snake.

I should know better by now, just put the snake down and face the music. I know that discipline is a good thing and the right thing to keep me from harm, especially in the hands of God. Knowing that makes me wonder why holding a snake seems so attractive.