Mercy

I remember a day, long ago, when I was about six years old. I had done something, committed some nameless sin, for probably the thousandth time, and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, or more accurately, my mother’s. I honestly don’t remember what I did to push her over the edge that day, but push her over I did. In fact, I pushed her so hard that she gave me the dreaded “wait ‘til your father gets home” line.

What made that unusual was the fact that I lived in deep fear of my dad, or more to the point, his wrath. Don’t get me wrong, he never abused me or anything like that, but his spankings were legendary. Once, after being spanked for some other heinous six-year-old crime, I cried so hard that he spanked me again! SO, whenever mom threatened to tell dad anything I had done wrong I was pretty good about shaping up. This time however, I had gone too far.

I remember feeling desperate, queasy even, at the thought of dad being the bringer of justice. And I remember the sinking feeling I had when he opened the door to come in after work. And whatever hope I might have had for leniency on the part of my mother vanished almost instantly thereafter as she immediately launched into a diatribe against my rebellious spirit. I think in hindsight that dad too was shocked at the ferocity with which she laid out the argument for my necessary punishment.

So dad did the only thing he could, he called me over, and led me into the next room to receive my just desserts. Mom was still so mad that she stayed out. Not wanting to observe the proceedings, she was content to hear my cries for mercy and the impending screams of pain. Yes, I cried. Yes, I screamed. Yes, I did both before my pants were even down. (No way was this not going to be a bare-bottom spanking.) Then, my father did the most AMAZING thing. He let me go!

First, he made me pull down my pants. Then, he bent me over his right knee. Third, he told me, “Boy, you’d better make me look good…” Finally, he started slapping his left knee as loud as he could. Of course, I was so hysterical by the time that the actual slapping began that it took me several whacks to figure out what was going on, but once I did it was the most amazing feeling of joy I’d ever had. In all my long years of life I’d never been so happy. I had been shown mercy in a way that even a six year old could appreciate, and it changed me forever.

I write this story now at the age of thirty-five. It has been nearly thirty years since it actually happened. Honestly, I don’t recall much of my early childhood, but that memory is emblazoned in my mind such that I shan’t ever forget it. It is mercy, perfect and sweet. And it is my hope in sharing this tale that everyone would one day share a similar story, not of their father on earth sparing a spank one terrible afternoon, but of their Father in heaven sparing them Hell for all eternity.