Who hasn't had a splinter? My youngest slid his foot against a rough spot on the floor this afternoon. A needle of wood punctured the sole, and the alarm bells sounded. Instantly, every family task was set aside so we could gather around the patient. Cradling his foot gingerly, mother, father, and brother leaned in with our advice about how to remove the foreign body.
One grabbed the tweezers; another ran the bath. All hell broke loose when someone offered a needle. Only eleven years old, one might assume he'd give up his foot, squeeze his eyes shut, and clench his teeth until it was over. That was not what happened.
His blood boiled, but he found the words to call off the campaign:
"I dislike it when someone attempts to touch my wound because, almost always, I have it completely under control."
The group retreated respectfully. I stayed for moral support only. Taking one moment at a time, he faced the beast head-on. With a perfect balance of technique, tools, and patience, he coaxed the enemy out of hiding. A quarter-inch shard now lies upon the soap dish, a vestige of his pain.
In one's personal timeline, there are moments when we surrender and moments when we seize control. Today, I was proud to witness the latter.
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