The Sunday Sermonette – Decisions.

In the 1950s, Gulfport’s Angelo’s Italian Restaurant was nationally known for its spicy spaghetti and meatballs, scrumptious stuffed flounder, and delicious salads. Owned and operated by Mr. Angelo Xidis, it was THE place to dine. Many a Sunday after church, Mom, Dad, and I would savor the food and take in the restaurant’s atmosphere.
As a child of three, I was fascinated by the two giant oaks “growing” inside the restaurant’s dining room. Between them was a vast stone fireplace used on rainy, cold days. In the spring and summer, huge windows opened onto the Gulf, and ceiling fans stirred the air, as did oscillating fans strategically placed around the room in the days before air conditioning. To a child with my vivid imagination, the room was a fascination—as were the fans on a particularly sweltering summer’s afternoon.
“Anthony, get away from that fan,” Dad said in his stern Marine voice. “You’ll get hurt.” Of course, I pranced on my merry way, rambunctious, inquisitive child that I was, paying no attention to Dad’s warning. The minutes passed as we waited for our lunch to be served. “Anthony, your father’s told you to get away from the fan,” Mom said in her stern, teacherly voice. “The blades will cut you.” Paying no attention to my parents, I marched around, going from fan to fan, standing in front of them, charmed by the whizzing, silver-colored blades glistening in the afternoon sunlight.
Young children, spreading their wings, like to make their own decisions concerning what they like and what they want to do. I was no exception. I liked the swirling fans and the breezes they created. Like a child often does, I wanted to see how close I could get without getting hurt. So, I made a split-second decision. Little bad, me eased my thumb closer and closer to one of the sharp, swirling blades. In a split second, I touched it. It sliced through my thumb, blood flew all over me, and my screams filled the air. In a flash, my frightened parents and Mr. Xidis rushed to help. My thumb, dangling in two little bloody halves, was tied up with a white linen napkin, and off to Memorial I went.
I have no memory of that day other than what my dear parents told me. They often teased me about that day, but both were thankful that the doctors saved my thumb and that I learned a valuable lesson: More often than not, it’s best to listen to those who have your best interest at heart.
Growing up, my parents emphasized the importance of making good decisions. But to do this, I needed to learn to make them myself. Making bad ones…the fan…helped me learn to make good decisions on my own. If my parents had made all my decisions for me, I would never have learned how to make the right decisions for myself and, thus, always depend on others to make them for me.
If you’ve lived as long as I have, I’m sure you remember many of the back alleys and slippery paths of your life and how they affected your life. However, your decision to walk down them, hopefully, taught you not to go there anymore. Bad choices are helpful—they help you remember to make good ones in the future. I remember the fan whenever I look at my old, scared thumb. And it reminds me to make the best decisions I can. Got decisions to make? Talk to family. Talk to friends. But first, talk to God.
Ponder this and go forth.
(Originally published July 30, 2023)

