Another bomb story

Instead of sitting around moping about Hannah being gone, I decided I could either get productive and take down the rest of the Christmas decorations or else take advantage of Jim being out of the house so I can hog the computer. Let me see, work or tell stories? Hmmm, guess I'll hang out here a bit longer.

I realize that in continuing to share stories I face the increasing likelihood of blowing my cover and being revealed as the perfectly imperfect mother I really am. Maybe I'm just taking my friend Lila's advice and example in her book, Diving off the Pedestal. (If you want a good read for the new year, you can buy this book on Amazon by clicking this link.)

So, bomb story number two happened about eight years ago when some friends returned to Oaxaca. The boys had disappeared with their friend, Nathan, who by then was 17 or 18 years old, I think. Mine were younger teens. The adults were innocently visiting in my living room when suddenly a loud explosion shook the house and rattled the windows. The other mother very sheepishly said, "Oh, dear, I hope your boys don't have any gun powder. My son knows how to build a bomb!"

Well, in fact my boys owned quite a stash of gun powder which they used for making their own fireworks (I know, I know - bad mother! what was I thinking?). We all ran outside quickly to see what damage had been done when we saw our next door neighbor (a retired school principal) walking his dog. This is the funny part. He sees our distress and surely figures out why we are alarmed, but only calmly informs us, "If you are looking for the boys, I told them to take that bomb up on the mountain. I didn't want them scaring my dog!" What was he thinking?

Looking up toward the mountain, sure enough we saw the poof of smoke from the explosion. Of all the dangers I had envisioned with hanging out with an older friend, it never occurred to me to warn them against bomb building! They were hooked. The first time we went to the US after 9/11 we had lengthy discussions about NOT mentioning things like guns, bombs, and explosives, especially at the airport. Still the subject would come up among friends, and I'm convinced many boys are jealous to this day of the wild and free childhood my crazy children enjoyed. I'm just thankful they made it to adulthood with their sight and all their fingers intact. God is truly merciful.

A good missionary would be able to come up with some spiritual application to this story, but honestly I can't think of a thing. Any suggestions?