“No, that’s not right. This is not a battery, it’s a cell!”
“But it says ‘battery’ on the package.” A rather flustered cashier stood like a deer in the headlights.
My sympathies sided entirely with this unfortunate woman enduring his tirade.
“Come on, Dad. Let’s get going. It doesn’t really matter.” I tried to tug him away, but he wouldn’t budge until he was satisfied he’d made his point: what we call batteries (AAA and the like) are cells. True batteries are groups of cells.
Whatever. As though anyone really cares.
The package says batteries and that’s what people call them. But it was a point of distinction important to this electrician who insisted words be used correctly.
What was beneath this staunch need to be right?
My mind went back to what I knew about this only son and brother, the one who didn’t fit in. The loud, outspoken, impulsive one in a family of steady, predictable, and thoughtful people. His older sister even became an accountant.
Did he have to fight for his sense of self—his right to be who he was? His grandmother, my great-grandmother, was firmly established as the matriarch, a no nonsense woman who ruled with strictness and propriety.
She terrified me. Not because she was mean, just stern. Uncompromising.
When my dad was three, she informed my grandfather that hugging his son so much would spoil him. In the face of her insistence, Grandpa stopped. It wasn’t until Dad was 56 years old that he discovered the truth behind what he felt was the loss of his father’s love.
How devastating to a child whose love language was physical touch. That, along with all the other ways he was disdained for his out-loud personality and random ways, hurt.
Mom loved his outgoing nature, his big heart, and his wonderful deep singing voice. Despite any flaws, she loved him completely and loyally. That love was a steadying influence and an anchor to him for over half a century.
Despite this, deeply embedded was the need to prove himself, to show the world that he knew better. It looked like pride, but it was a need birthed from lack.
In his later years, I saw a shift, a release of this need. He simply rested in his Heavenly Father’s care, choosing instead to be thankful for everything people did for him.
And I wonder if the power of God’s love finally settled deeper than the hurt, uprooting and replacing it with belonging.
The flawed man who tried so hard to prove himself worthy is in his heavenly home, now. I like to imagine the first thing he heard from God was “Well done, good and faithful servant”. It was a verse he often quoted, one I knew he used as a compass.
He might have been a challenge at times, but he exemplified a boat, though tossed by waves, deeply and firmly anchored on Jesus, the Rock, who loved him most.
