From the Improvement Era, December 1969 –

And Thanks for Those Neat Skippin’ Rocks

By Janis Hutchinson

Ruth Harkley gave the smooth dough one more hard knead, separated it into loaves, and plopped the small bulks into the greased bread pans, covering them with clean white dish towel. With a toss of her head, she flipped a brown lock back from her oval face, sighed, then went to the sink and turned the water on.

She looked at her hands as she rubbed them together beneath the tap. Not very pretty ones, she thought. They were short, with stubby fingers and blunt nails. She remembered her son Bobby asking, “How come your hands aren’t like Cathy’s mommy’s?” How she wished for smooth hands and slender fingers. How could her husband, Ralph, stand to hold them?

She glanced at the clock. Her whole day’s schedule had fallen behind. In a way she was glad Ralph had to work late that night. Turning, she threw on a heavy sweater that was hanging on a nearby hook and quickly picked up the old black coal bucket. Leaving the warm, spicy-smelling kitchen, she opened the back door and stepped out into the December cold. Bobby, quite proud of his five years, appeared around the corner of the house.

She called to him as she reached the coal pile. “Go on in now. Time for bed.”

Bobby rushed up. “Look, Mommy,” he shouted, stretching out a mud-covered palm. “What kind of a bug is this?”

Ruth winced. “Do you have to be so loud, Bobby? And you’re so dirty— why can’t you stay clean like little girls do? And where’s your hat? Your ears are
all red.”

Raising her hands, she pressed them against his ears.

“Boy, Mommy, your hands smell pretty! Do you have perfume on them?”

“No, dear— just the smell of bread dough.”

“Can I have something to eat before I go to bed?”

“Yes, yes. Put your bug somewhere and go on in now,” she continued, as she finished filling the bucket; then she added, “You can plug in the Christmas tree lights when you go in.”

She looked at the dry black cracks on the sides of her fingers. She guessed she ought to wear gloves, but it seemed like such a bother. Next year they’d have their new oil furnace installed. She had been somewhat ashamed to have anyone see that in this day and age they were so behind in their heating methods, but then, buying an old house and fixing it up took time, she thought impatiently.

She reentered the back door, wearily set the creaky bucket down, and lifted the squeaky stove lid to toss a few lumps of coal onto the burning grate. The roar of the blaze echoed through the stovepipe, throwing off a delicious warmth.

“Am I clean enough?” asked Bobby, thrusting his hands up to her face.

“Oh, Bobby,” she said, “just look at those fingernails. They’re black!”

“I just been diggin’ dirt, that’s all,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “You know, Mommy— what if I didn’t have fingernails? It’d take me forever to dig. Guess Heavenly Father sure knew I’d be needing ’em.”

“Well,” she said, more hesitantly and somewhat more softly, “give them one more cleaning with the scrub brush. Then hurry up to the table. I’m tired and ready for bed myself, and I’ve still got bread to finish.”

Bobby scrambled onto his stool, bowed his head, and said a quick blessing on the snack of bread and peaches. With weary effort, Ruth asked him to pass the bread.

“Flying saucer coming in for landing!” he squealed, as the bread came whizzing through the air, barely missing a jam bottle.

“Bobby! What if company were here?”

“I forgot, Mommy,” he said.

She methodically buttered her bread and sat in silence through the remainder of their snack.

While Ruth cleared the table, Bobby began struggling to take his shirt off. As she leaned over to help pull his overalls over his shoes, a conglomeration of rocks of all sizes came tumbling out of the pockets.

Ruth sighed. “Can’t you leave these outside?”

“But look, Mommy— look at this one. See how flat and smooth? This is the kind I’m saving to take to the lake next summer. And look at this one— and this one . . .”

Holding one of the extra-special flat ones with three fingers, he leaned over sideways and sent it skimming across the room over the faded and worn rug until it bounced back from the opposite wall.

“Oh, Bobby, summer’s many months away yet. Dump them in the wastebasket. It’s just more stuff to have to find a place for.”

Bobby sadly gathered the rocks up and slowly dumped them into the tall wastebasket standing in the corner. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“They’re awful good skippin’ rocks, Mommy,” he said quietly.

Ruth felt frustrated within herself. “Okay, okay. Save just a few— but only a few.”

Bobby dived head first into the wastebasket, and after a few seconds of close scrutiny, he salvaged three, then headed for his bedroom.

Soon his head reappeared around the corner. “If I promise to go right to sleep, will you turn on some Christmas music?”

His words sent a pang through Ruth’s heart. “All right, the tree does look prettier when there’s music on, doesn’t it?”

She heard the scampering feet, a pause, then the loud grind of bedsprings.

“Bobby— how many times … oh well,” she sighed. “Are you all in?”

“Yep— I’m ready, Mommy.” Bobby’s voice was suddenly reverent. “Put the one on about the quiet night the baby Jesus was born, and the one about where he lived.”

She set the records of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Silent Night” on the spindle and paused for a moment as the strains of “Silent night, holy night, all is calm . . .” came flowing out in peaceful magnificence.

A moment’s joy rested upon Ruth as she turned the ceiling light out and gazed about the room. Bright greens gleaming with glistening berries in the warm glow of the colored lights transformed the room into soft coziness.

Bobby’s low voice, almost a whisper, called, “Mommy?”

She went into his room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I like that song. Everybody sure must have loved the baby Jesus to be so quiet on the night he was born.” After a solemn pause, he added, “I think his mother must have loved him just like you do me, huh?”

Ruth gave him a meaningful squeeze.

“And I guess Jesus knew when his mother was cross at him that she still loved him.”

Ruth felt repentant. “You know that too, don’t you, Bobby?”

“Yep, I guess so. Here comes the Bethlehem one.”

“O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie . . .”

“Was Bethlehem like our town, Mommy?”

“Oh, I imagine so, except it probably didn’t have as many people living in it as our town.”

“Did Bethlehem have any mountains? It’d be awful if Jesus didn’t have any mountains to slide down. Remember when me and Daddy slid down on those cardboard pieces? I bet his mommy let him have lots of fun finding bugs and worms— and even skippin’ rocks. Do you think he kept clean all the time?”

Tears of penitence and a newfound understanding welled up within Ruth. She managed to say, trying to ignore the lump in her throat, “Oh, I imagine the boy Jesus was quite like you. He probably had mountains to explore, and caught worms and spiders, and perhaps he found rocks to skip along the water’s top, too.”

“Boy, Mom— he was sure lucky, just like me!”

With an overwhelming awareness, Ruth loved her son more than ever.

“Mommy, when res’rection day comes, will I go up?”

“Of course you will,” she replied, surprised.

“Will he let me take a toy?”

She smiled. “I’m sure he’ll let you.”

“Can I dig?”

Ruth nodded.

“Can I get dirty?”

“I’m sure our Heavenly Father will let you do it if it will make you happy.”

Ruth’s thoughts were sad. If the Lord were here, he’d have a lot more patience in putting up with the things that were important to Bobby. Why did she let her tiredness make her so impatient and annoyed? Had she forgotten her own childhood and the wonderful world that had been hers?

“Heavenly Father wants us to be happy, Bobby. That’s why we should remember to thank him for everything— especially this Christmas time.” She looked down at Bobby’s head, as he bowed for his prayer.

“I can say it myself, Mommy,” he declared. “Now don’t you help me.”

“I won’t,” she smiled.

Bobby’s small voice hesitated for a moment, then began. “Dear Father in heaven, thank you for my house and clothes, and for our pretty Christmas tree. Thank you for Mommy and Daddy, and for Mommy’s hands that smell so pretty.”

She smiled wistfully at her hands as she scratched at a small piece of bread dough that still stubbornly clung to one finger.

“Thank you for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and wiggly worms to tie knots in.”

A long pause came. Ruth quietly leaned forward to prompt, “Help me—”

“Shhh, Mom,” came his exasperated voice. “I can say it!” Then his voice lowered and became reverent once more.

“Thank you for kitty’s soft fur, and for gravelly mountains to slide down, and— oh yes, for making those neat skippin’ rocks. And thank you for the light switches and our beautiful furniture . . .”

Tears sprang up in Ruth’s eyes. Her glance took in the not-so-modern dresser and the worn linoleum floor.

“Oh yes, thank you for Christmas— and thank you for fingernails to scratch dirt with. In the name of Jesus. Amen.”

As Bobby hopped up into bed, Ruth leaned over to tuck his covers around him.

“I like you to do that, Mommy. Know why?”

Ruth shook her head.

“‘Cause you make me feel little and warm. I bet Mary always kissed Jesus when he went to sleep too.”

She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

“Night, Mommy,” Bobby said sleepily. “I really said a good one this time, didn’t I?— and without you helping me.”

“You sure did. Good night, Bobby. See you in the morning.”

Flipping off the light, she stood for a moment looking at him in the glow that streamed in from the Christmas tree lights. The last strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” filled the house.

“How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given! So God imparts, to human hearts, the blessings of his heaven.”

Boys looked as sweet as girls when they were asleep, she thought, smiling. She thought about his prayer and his gratitude for the simple things that were important to him in his little life.

In these modern times she knew she had let her desires for what others had tip the scales in her balance of values. She wished suddenly that life could go back to being simple again, as it was in the beginning and when Jesus lived.

What if the TV was broken— it wasn’t serious. It wasn’t a life-and-death matter simply because their armchair didn’t match the sofa. No— she didn’t have an electric dishwasher. But doing the dishes by hand helped keep her hands soft.

She decided she had something more important. She had a secure home where a love for the gospel abounded; a husband who loved her; food and clothes; a roof over their heads— and a child. And right now she appreciated that more than anything. What would she ever do if she didn’t have Bobby? Maybe he wasn’t as quiet and clean as a girl, but at least he made life interesting. And if they bought store bread every day, Bobby would miss that “pretty” smell of the yeasty dough on her hands.

Wasn’t that what life was really all about? To add meaning and happiness to someone else’s life, and to enjoy the simple things that God created and meant for everyone to enjoy— like gravelly mountains to slide down on, and those skippin’ rocks? Yes, she could even feel grateful now for fingernails to scratch dirt with.

How foolish she had been! Tomorrow, she thought, I’ll be more patient and less condemning. Starting tomorrow I’ll show Bobby I appreciate his world so filled with the simple things that I’ve forgotten how to appreciate— and what’s more important, I’ll be satisfied with my own blessings.

She walked back to Bobby’s bed, leaned over, and kissed his freckled nose. As she pressed his small hand, she noticed the dirt still tucked beneath his fingernails and wondered if long ago the child Jesus had found dirt and insects so fascinating. She rather felt that he had. Maybe, she decided, that was why he had such a profound love for children, why he could be so understanding.

Tiptoeing out of the room, she suddenly found herself, surprised but pleased, rooting in the wastebasket for the rest of those beautiful skippin’ rocks.