Momma's Fingers

The world is full of acronyms: USA, PETA, CIA, FBI...the list could go on and on. One of the most widely accepted and understood acronyms, especially in the midwest, is VBS. Being raised in a southern Baptist household, I quickly became accustomed to Vacation Bible School. Every summer, my mother would sign my little sister, Lindsey, and me up for VBS. Lutherans had VBS the first week of June, Church of Christ had the second, Methodists had the third...Lindsey and I would attend so many VBSs that when we went back to school from summer break and our teacher would ask us, "So, what did you do this summer?," we'd reply, "VBS."

In fifth grade, VBS is not cool. At least it wasn't when I was 11. However, attending church never was an option in my parents' house; nor, was attending VBS. Each VBS had a theme: "Cowboys for Christ," "Swimming with the Savior," ... you get the point.  One of the churches, however, would always have the fifth graders dress up as shepherds and lead their "flock" (the younger children) around to their different activities. My sister was in kindergarten at the time so you could imagine her excitement when she plows into my room on a Monday morning shaking me wildly to arise out of bed screaming, "Brent, Brent...you get to be a shepherd and lead me around at VBS. Aren't you super excited?"

No. I wasn't. I did not want to don the enormous bed sheet, walk through a strange church (with a over-sized pipe cleaner curved in the shape of a staff) leading annoying little kids around that got to wear whatever they wanted as they pointed and laughed at the queen size bed sheet I had to contort onto my 75 pound body. Of course, what made the outfit was the rope (donated by a local farmer, of course) that served as a belt and a head piece.

I wanted to stay in bed.

My mother is the nicest person in the world. At least as far as the people I have met, there has been no one who I have ever seen who is as kind as she. My mom sings in the shower, sings in the car, sings in the kitchen, dances in the hallway (at our house or anyone's house), cries at commercials, hugs strangers, loves to talk to people as they wait in line, asks wandering kids if they need a ride to school when its raining....I mean, this lady is almost too nice. She has never met a stranger and loves everyone-- -everyone---and everything. Animal, plant, neighbor---you name it....she loves it.

So, you can imagine after I told Lindsey to get the heck out of my room and leave me alone, the passionate, caring, gentle mother tip-toeing into my room to awake me for the day.

"Brent, honey....it's time to rise and shine! Aren't you excited for VBS this morning? I made a great breakfast for you....it's waiting for you in the kitchen...oh, Brent...I am excited for the day. Wake up and meet the day...oh, Brent...there you are! Come on...get up...let's eat breakfast together."
Uh...Grrrrr...I want to sleep, lady.

After rolling out of bed and stumbling into the kitchen, I noticed Lindsey all dolled up for the occasion. Oh, wonderful.  I was waiting for the both of them to break out any minute in chorus of "Jesus Loves the Little Children." Hurrying around to get everything in place and everyone dressed, we readied ourselves by loading up in the 1984 Plymoth Acclaim.

If you have siblings, you know the number one fight all siblings have, every road trip, every day, every jaunt....
"I call front." Lindsey and I both dash out to the car to see who will be victorious. I thought, "I am bigger. I am faster. I am smarter...this should be easy, right?" As I surprisingly watch my sister take a slight lead, I do what any big brother would do. I trip her so I can slide back into the lead, assuring my seat in the front.
Busting tail into the front seat, I quickly lock the door and buckle my seat belt before anyone can pull me away.

Carrying my 5-year-old sister out like a newborn baby Jesus, my mother held my sister, unlocked the passenger's door, and said, "Oh my Brent, even though you might have bruised Lindsey's leg, what hurts the most, is that you have bruised my heart." She continued, "Lindsey and I are hurt, not physically, but emotionally because you would put your selfish desires over the general safety of our family."

Here is where the hammer hit. She finished by saying, "Now what do you think you can do or sacrifice to let Lindsey know you're sorry and that you love this family?" (I knew she wanted me to "sacrifice" the front seat.) So, without mumbling a word, I climbed into the back seat, upset...angry...embarrassed....
As mom gently shut the door and walked around the car approaching her driver's seat, Lindsey looked back and gave the little-sister-smirk; a "Ha, ha--got you this time, bro..." kind of smirk. I gave her the finger.

Mom entered the car and said, "Three cheers for VBS!"

My parents live way (not just a little "way", but a big "way") out in the country. They live so far out in the country, getting to school took twenty minutes....getting to town, minimally, would take fifteen.
As mom and Lindsey sang some Bible song, I sulked in the back seat thinking how this day could get any worse. As I looked up ahead, I knew it was going to go from really bad to super worse.

A strange, middle-aged lady stood in the middle of the dirt road waving her left hand in the air.
If you're from the country, seeing a strange woman in the middle of nowhere waving for you to stop means one of two things.
1. She's hungover from the night before and is lost without a mode of transportation; or
2. She's crazy.

Either way, I categorize anyone who stands in the middle of nowhere waving down oncoming vehicles as the latter. I knew mom saw this as an opportunity. Being the he Good Samari-mom she was, I knew she was going to stop. As we approached Crazy, I knew something looked fishy. This middle-aged woman stood with her right arm wrapped in a filthy, white T-Shirt, kinda bouncing up and down without much patience as Lindsey tried to roll down the manual-powered window.
"I need help," Crazy screams.
"Hit the gas, mom," my voice from the back echoed through the countryside.

"Gooooood morning!" my mom greeted Crazy.
"Uh, hi..." Crazy started. You could tell something was wrong.
She pointed to down the road to a vacant horse trailer attached to a beat-up, green truck. "I was going to take my horse, "Beauty" (Side note: Beauty is way too popular horse's name.) for a walk in the countryside this morning. When getting him out of the trailer, I wrapped the halter around my palm so the excess lead would not be dragging on the ground."
"Great story, lady...Mom...get me to the church." Why I became so persistent on getting to VBS, I have no clue, but I knew I wanted to leave this situation immediately.
Her story continued, "Well, my horse got spooked, and ran off quickly," she held up her hand..."and the halter ripped off all of my fingers."
There stood this strange, fingerless lady in the middle of the country, blood gushing like geysers from her knuckles, and she wanted us to do what?!
Her hand, or lack there of, was a sight to see. Out of her knuckles swayed these thin, limp, white spaghetti-noodle- lookin-things...kind of like a baby octopus tentacles.
I have always been one to adhere to safety, order, and especially, cleanliness. Once I saw this alien-like woman getting ready to suck our heads off our bodies with her crazy fingers, I did what any reasonable young man of eleven would do. I unbuckled my seat belt, leaned up to the front of the car, looked my mother in dead in the eyes and said, "Mom, we're going to die if you don't put the pedal to the metal. Get out of here."
And, without surprise, my mother, said, "Oh, my...well, we must get you help. Come on in."
With a quick assessment of my and Crazy's options, I discovered that the only place for her to sit was...yep, you guessed it, by yours truly.
This was not going to happen. I had already been forced to don shepherd's garb. I had already been humiliated and forced to sit in the back seat. I was putting my foot down. I leaned over and locked the side door. Crazy was NOT invited in to sit by me.
One-handed, six-fingered Crazy attempted to open the door. Duh...who in their right mind would let this, obviously nutso woman into an enclosed vehicle, in the middle of nowhere?
The Good Samari-mom leaned back and unlocked the door. Drats.
Crazy entered. Everyone in the car froze. Mom knew not what to do. Lindsey was still humming some children's song -- probably "Where is Pinky?" (That is what I was thinking about breaking into song with.)
Interruption of Story for Time Period Announcement:  This was before cell phones, so our options were rather limited. Even if we had our cell phones, I am sure they would have not received much, if any, reception. The light-bulb-spark came to mom. "I know. We can take you to church! They have a phone and it's not too far out of the way!"
I am sure the lady thought she made a mistake getting in the car with a lady that, instead of taking this dying stranger to the hospital (like anyone in their right mind would do), my mother decided to have a higher power heal her. Actually, the church was pretty close, so that wasn't too out-of-sorts, but I am sure the lady thought we were out of our mind (We were.).
I have never hugged the door/window as much as I had hugged the 1984 Plymoth Acclaim's door and window. In fact, I think the left side of my face was numb by the time we rolled into the church's parking lot. On the way there, I took a quick look-see over at Crazy. At that exact time, she had unveiled her once-so-nicely-wrapped hand, so she could see what it was doing. Bad timing, Brent. I threw up in my mouth.
As we rolled into the church parking lot, all the VBSers were there, playing outside as participants registered. Before the car came to a halt, I tucked and rolled out of the moving vehicle alarming everyone in my shouting voice to take cover that a fingerless lady was getting ready to appear. Young children hid behind their mothers...older children looked at me like I was nutso.
Mom scurried in to the church to use the telephone to call 9-1-1. Lindsey stayed in the car.
In the time it took the ambulance to get to the church, Crazy needed to speak privately to my family. Mom dragged me back to the car (kicking and screaming) while Lindsey was making small-talk with Crazy.
Crazy started, "My husband died last year and both of my kids live out of state. Would you mind following me up to the hospital so I could have a ride back when the operation is complete?
"Sorry, lady..I got to be a shepherd." I quickly uttered without missing a beat.
"Well, of course we can," mom said with a pat on her back (She couldn't very well shake her hand.).
The ambulance came. Mom told me I could stay at the church and she'd be back to get me sometime (probably Wednesday or Thursday, I thought--I'd sleep in the pew, bathe in the baptismal....I can see it now.). Lindsey stayed with me.
Off went the ambulance to Wichita (I lived in Augusta---no hospital at the time--Andover, neither)...my mom followed close behind.
My mom waited in the waiting room in the Emergency wing of Wesley Medical Center (probably reading the Gideon Bible and praying extensively for Crazy) when the doctor came out and asked to speak with a Connie Wolf.
"Hi Doctor! It's a pleasure to meet you." my mom greets the doctor like he is a celebrity or something.
"Ma'am, the only way this lady is going to get her fingers back is if you go back to the field, pick them up and deliver them to me."
I would have said to the doctor, "Well, that sucks for her!"
But, not my mom. the doctor supplied her with latex gloves and a Ziplock baggie and mom skipped out of the hospital on a mission for four fingers. She drove all the way back to Augusta and the search began.
Through the dust, gravel, mud, animal droppings, brush, mom searched on her hands and knees for hands...I mean fingers. The Ziplock baggie came in "handy" as mom found finger #1 first. With a ker-plunk, she dropped the twelve ouncer in the bag. "It was like a medallion hunt," my mom later told us. Yea, right---you're looking for something shiney, kind of round...but honey, you ain't goin' to get any money when you find the strange lookin--rather phallic-looking- fingers laying in the countryside.
Finger #2 was found...right by Mr Pinky himself. Now, only Mr. Ringman was missing. My mom started crying. Her time was running out-"I have to find this ring. Her husband is gone--please Lord, let me find this ring."
With a defeated look on her face, a Ziplock baggie full of three fingers, and tears rolling down her face, mom handed the bag-of-fingers to the doctor.

Within the hour (or so), the doctors were able to sew back Crazy's fingers on (Well, except the ring finger, of course). Out came Crazy from the ER and instant friendship ensued. BFFs they were---two of-a-kind-, two crazy women...with nineteen fingers.

So, yes...somewhere out there, beneath the pale moonlight, lies a finger...a ring finger...if found contact either of the two aforementioned crazy ladies.

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Hyperbole [hahy-pur-buh-lee] : noun. 1. an obvious and intentional exaggeration

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