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Sharpen that pocketknife

George A. Reiner

The phone rang at work today. It was Johnny, my 10-year-old. “Dad, I’m calling to let you know that the telescope arrived.”

The telescope in question has been the object of much anticipation in the Reiner household over the past few weeks. “Did all five boxes come?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. . . . Can we open them?”

One thing you need to know about Johnny is that he never washes his hands. He also is likely to be eating some sort of greasy snack food at this hour. The thought of those hands touching the fine optics of the new telescope cancels that idea.

“No, I think you’d better wait until I get home.”

“Can you come home now?”

I do a quick mental check on the likelihood of asking my boss if I can go home early on a rainy day to set up a telescope. My boss is very understanding, but he has his limits. I also go down my list of things to do. We’re short-handed, I’ve wasted the entire day in a training session, and several of the regulars have just dropped off samples in my lab for overnight analyses. It’s looking to be a long while until quitting time. “No, I can’t. In fact, I may be a little late tonight.”

“OK. I’ll watch TV. Bye.”

I catch just a hint of disappointment in his tone. I hang up and return to work so I can get the lab in order before leaving for the day. With a bit of luck, I can be out by 5:30 or so. I figure I’ve been a little late before, so it won’t hurt this time. As I busy myself in the lab, I self-righteously reflect that I’m usually home before a lot of other dads I know, although not as early as some others are. However, as I return to work, I’m bothered by something . . . the disappointing tone of that last “Bye”. It sounds vaguely familiar. And then it hits me – the pocketknife!

It was a day or two after Christmas. I was putting some things away in the workshop and came across my old scout knife. Billy, our youngest son, noticed it and reminded me that I had promised to sharpen it for him. I was too tired from something or other and told him I couldn’t sharpen it right then. He reminded me that I had said earlier that he could have it when he was eight and that his February birthday would soon be coming. So I let him have the knife, but told him he couldn’t use it until I sharpened it. (Safety is important after all. You can get hurt with a dull knife.)

He actually listened to me, and over the next few days I received repeated requests to sharpen the knife. The company I work for closes between Christmas and New Year’s Day, so I was just lounging around the house doing odds and ends. But each time Billy brought me the knife and asked to have it sharpened, it wasn’t the “right” time. It’s funny how we can be blind to the simple things we can do to please those we love. Now, six months later, I can’t for the life of me remember anything I accomplished those few days. But I can remember that I didn’t sharpen that knife until after New Years’ Day.

Johnny and I did sharpen Billy’s knife on a Sunday afternoon right after the New Year. It turned out to be a simple task that only took three or four minutes. We then took the pocketknife down to the church and slipped it into Billy’s hand – as he was lying in his casket. A few days earlier, Billy had come home from playing at a friend’s house, smiled at his mother, collapsed and died of an undetected heart defect. I had waited too long . . . and sometimes you don’t get another chance.

Johnny and I finished putting together our telescope earlier this evening. With luck, it will stop raining in a month or so and we can actually use it. I won’t mind the mess that’s waiting for me at work tomorrow.

It’s been three months since the new telescope arrived. It took three weeks for the rain to stop and the clouds to open, but the new telescope works beautifully. These days when it’s raining, Johnny and I sometimes pass the time in our workshop, setting up to make toys for neighbourhood children. While there, I sometimes glance at an old pocketknife sitting on my workbench that matches the one in Billy’s casket. I inherited this knife from my older brother when he died 30 years ago. Until a few months ago, it was just a piece of junk that I carried around when I moved from place to place, never quite able to throw it away. Now it holds a place of honour, reminding me of all the “pocketknives” I need to sharpen.

You know what I mean by dull pocketknives – all those little requests from our loved ones that frequently are the last requests we fulfill, things like fixing a broken toy, pumping up a bicycle tire, playing a game of “Super-Soaker” on a hot summer’s day, repotting a plant for your wife or calling your mother. Why is it that our society values other meaningless activities more than “pocketknife sharpening”?

George A. Reiner lives in Middletown, N.J.

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Last modified June 5, 2001.

© 2001 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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