Donald and the Truth
17 09 11 23:20 Filed in: My Life
When I was four or five years old in England, my brother and I each had a pet tortoise. Mine was named Donald; I don’t remember the name of his. I have no idea whose idea it was to have tortoises as pets or where they came from. They were pretty low maintenance pets, content to wander the back yard and munch whatever vegetation treats we provided - and they hid a lot.
After several days of the tortoises being in hiding, we found Donald nestled in a tortoise-created nest with a tortoise egg, a discovery that created no end of family excitement. Gender apparently had not been a consideration when the beasts were acquired. Others may have found it amusing, but my young mind was not bothered by the incongruity of Donald’s name and gender. (How do you tell with tortoises, anyway?) A parental phone call to the London zoo provided the needed information on the proper care of tortoise eggs. The egg was carefully placed in a box of sand, almost fully buried, and the box placed near the water heater where it would be warm.
My older brother, who loved all things living, took a proprietary interest in the egg. Never mind the fact that it was MY tortoise that had laid the thing; he was determined to care for the egg until it hatched - and probably long after. He checked the egg two or three times a day and ordered me to keep my clumsy fingers away from it. Which I didn’t. I regularly checked the egg as well, though never when my brother was around; I knew better.
It wasn’t long until the inevitable happened. I broke the egg. It was a disaster of major proportions. Fortunately, I knew exactly what I needed to do. Cover-up! I flushed the egg remnants along with some wet sand down the toilet without being discovered. Now all I had to do was find a substitute egg. A convenient ping-pong ball was the right shape, size and color, and I buried it carefully in the box of sand, smoothing the surface and leaving only a tiny bit of the ball showing. Nobody would ever know! Yes, I know that ping-pong balls don’t hatch, but at that tender age I had mastered the art of living in the present.
Days passed; I don’t remember how many, but it seemed like a lot. My brother continued faithfully checking on Donald’s egg and regularly reporting no progress. Then one day he exploded. Each time he checked the egg it rotated just a bit until finally the day arrived when he discovered “Made in Japan” stamped on the egg. He was livid; I was the picture of phony innocence. No, I had no idea how a ping-pong ball had gotten into the box. Maybe it had always been a ping-pong ball and never an egg! The truth hurt, and so I lied. What I was still learning was that no matter how painful the truth, it never hurts as much as a lie.
Those turtles at Coulon Park have become my friends. Every time I see them, I smile and I’m reminded to thank God for lessons learned - and to pray for people I know who are still learning.
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