The Gift

Knives and I do not have a great history.

It was the summer of 1964. I was 11 years old, and I had a cast on my left arm from a roller skating accident. I was with my family on a southern vacation at a place called Rock City in Chattanooga, Tennessee. As with many tourist places, after viewing the rock formations, they made you exit through a big gift shop.

I begged and begged  my Dad to buy me a small pocket knife, arguing that I was old enough and responsible enough to have one. He relented, and I had my first knife.

Before we had reached the parking lot, I had cut my finger, and had blood all over my shirt and shorts. I just wanted to see how sharp it was. Needless to say, it was MANY years before I got another knife.

Three weeks ago, we had finished our Sunday School class, and I was looking to cut a plastic strip before putting something back into my briefcase. I asked..."Who's got a knife? I never carry one." One of my older guys took out his knife, and cut the plastic.

Last week on Sunday morning, he handed me a gift bag, and inside the bag was a nice wooden box with this nifty knife. So thoughtful of him, and it has even got my name engraved on it.

For years I did carry a small Swiss Army knife. Perhaps I'll try it again.

Do you think I should ask my Dad first?