The Confession

We're visiting my mom in my hometown of Great Bend, Kansas. She still lives in the same home where I grew up. This morning, I got up and went for a morning walk around my old neighborhood. I headed toward my favorite street - WIlson - where at one time three of my grade school friends lived right next to one another. I had every crack in the sidewalk memorized between my street and theirs.

But as I passed their houses, another house came into view. The house on the corner - the one with the little white fence and the manicured lawn. Suddenly, I felt the familiar guilt that came over me every time we drove by that corner. How many times had I thought of stopping the car and knocking on that front door. But I never had. And it had been 23 years.

But as I walked by, I noticed a man and woman out in the yard working on a project together. I could walk right by. I could even smile and say "good morning" and they would smile back, never knowing what I had done to them - to their little girl.

After arguing with myself and feeling my heart pounding in my throat, I forced myself to walk up to them and say hello. They smiled, a very kind-looking couple in their 60's. I asked them if they had lived at this house in October, 1986. They looked a little curious and said they did. And then I proceeded to tell them the story.

I was so nervous, afraid that what I had done had scarred their little girl for the rest of her life. I was 17 and easily pressured. I was normally a pretty good kid, hanging out with girls who would never have done what we did that night. But that fateful Friday, I was with the tough girls. I felt very excited that they had chosen to take me along with them. I was a cheerleader, for goodness sake! But for some reason, they overlooked that fact and invited me to spend that Friday night out with them.

We were driving around town, listening to Ratt and trying to find something to do in our small, uneventful small town. Suddenly the toughest girl had an idea, something they thought would be fun and exciting. I started to panic inside. I could never do THAT! Surely they wouldn't ask me to do it, too. But they did. It was the moment of truth: do I prove myself to them or be humiliated as the gutless cheerleader the rest of my life?

They chose the house and pulled the car over down the block. I got out and made my way quietly down the dark street. I hesitated in front of the house, crouching behind some bushes. I could see the silhouette sitting on the porch, lamplight escaping from inside the house, barely illuminating my target. I crept toward the house and then gained speed, grabbing my victim and turning to run. Just then a man exploded from the house, "You come back here!" He was right behind me, chasing me in the dark. I ran, accelerated beyond my athletic abilities by the rush of fearful adrenaline. I barely made it into the car when my accomplices gunned the gas and sped off, the father still yelling at us from the street.

There are times in our lives when we justify an action. Or we picture it ahead of time in our minds and see it turning out not as bad as it could...as it would. That night as we drove off, I looked down in horror. Suddenly I knew that what I had done was far worse than I had expected - that it wasn't an anonymous victim, but a little girl who I had hurt with what I did.

The tough girls had asked me to prove myself by stealing a pumpkin off of a porch. Just a vegetable, nothing expensive or precious. But the pumpkin I had grabbed was no ordinary Jack-O-Lantern. Some little girl had spent much time and effort creating a beautiful princess pumpkin. It had a painted face, real earrings, and an actual wig for hair. And now it sat on my lap, smiling at me with it's beautiful, lop-sided lips.

I kept it in my car for probably a week, wanting to take it back to the little girl. It was like the Tell-Tale Heart, sitting on the floor behind my seat, a constant reminder of my guilt. But I was afraid. Afraid of the man who had chased me. Afraid for anyone to find out I was a thief.

So I never returned it.

I couldn't keep it. I couldn't throw it away. A friend finally took it when it started to rot. I didn't want to know what she did with it.

And the years went by.

Every time I came back to Great Bend, I had to drive by that house. Every time I thought of stopping...but I never did. Until this morning.

And when I told them my story, they remembered.

And they couldn't wait to tell their grown daughter how I had come by to apologize.

And they forgave me.

It was just a pumpkin, but that wasn't the point. It was a matter of character, honesty, and caring about the feelings of another. And, thankfully, 23 years isn't too long to ask for and to receive forgiveness. I thanked them and thanked God as I made my way back to my mom's house, walking a little lighter than I had before.