"They Comfort Me"

[Page 61]

     I just had to sit down for a minute to rest, for although I am sore beyond description from having been jabbed in the hindquarters with that sharp stick my tiredness exceeds my soreness. I look back and wonder, now, about this custom we have of Jabbing. It seems like I recollect back there, somewhere, we all used to make our way down the road unassisted. Oh, we didn't break any speed records, but we were getting along. Then someone, I understand thought we were not

[Page 62]

stepping lively enough and he whittled himself a pointed stick and appointed himself a kind of prompter for us all. Thus were the Jabbers founded.

     I will admit that it is probably good for me to be reminded once in awhile, but now it seems that my travels are an endless succession of punches and prods. It's depressing, but some of my friends insist that we have begun to expect the Jab, and even enjoy it. They maintain that we don't step out and take the initiative because we want to depend upon someone to remind us (ouch!) forcibly. There is even talk that we might all kind of chip in and pay someone to poke us. Now you explain to me the psychology of that--especially since he probably enjoys poking us anyway.

     I'll bet he feels satisfied, serving as pace-setter for the rest of us. It makes his own pace seem like the ideal one. Perhaps I should not be too hard on our Jabbing tradition. My oldest boy mentioned the other day that he was considering entering the Jabbers Service. Well, I guess I really ought to get up and get moving. But, then, the Jabber will be along in a while anyway with that blessed instrument of torture. Then I'll get hopping. Here he comes--ow!--already. "O.K! I'm going! I'm going!"

     Editor's Note: This subtle "jab" at the professional ministry was written by Rod Langston, 3700 Procter Street, Port Arthur, Texas 77640. Ouch!