(Rockwall) July 23, 2013 – My niece whimpered as she sat cross-legged atop my parent’s kitchen counter. She tried to give her grandfather a good view of the tick burrowed into the back of her skull. Tears fell from Alana’s face as she bent her head low, clenching divided bundles of her thick hair in each fist.
My father straightened up to wipe away beads of sweat from his brow. The tiny parasite remained unmoved by Dad’s efforts, which included a freshly extinguished match stick and tweezers, alternately.
I stood across the room that morning as a quiet spectator while Dad worked. My two young children peered around the corner of the brick fireplace to check on their cousin. Perhaps they wondered if ticks had invaded their own heads while playing tag last night under their grandparents’ oak trees. Our summer visit from out-of-state provided their first acquaintance with that insect.
Dad had plenty of experience extracting ticks. And we all thought he could fix anything, maybe even save a sinking ship with duct tape, like the image on a Fathers’ Day card I’d given him suggested.
But I became as fixed in place as the tick while I resisted an inner voice. I felt God wanted me to pray about the tick. And Dad might not welcome that idea.
At that time, Dad viewed verbal prayers as strictly for the dinner table or the church pew. And I knew from past conversations that he didn’t enjoy hearing my spiritual perspective as a born-again Christian.
The guidance of the Holy Spirit had been so helpful to me since I’d given my life to Christ. But I hadn’t always shared my faith in the best way—especially with my extended family. On my yearly visits, I typically said too much or nothing.
Psalm 46:1 says “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” And as I stood there, seeing my niece’s distress, I wanted to call on God. But what if He didn’t show up? Little eyes were watching.
When Alana cried out, Dad stepped back in frustration, and I grew bold.
“Dad, I think we should pray.”
My kids stood by quietly. Dad looked over at me in exasperation. “OK.”
I closed my eyes and made a simple request, that God, the Creator of all creatures, would command the tick to let go—in Jesus’ name.
Without a pause or an ‘Amen,’ Dad grabbed the tweezers and leaned over Alana’s head to work again. Then, just as suddenly, he stood up straight and held out the tweezers, with a fat wiggly tick.
Such a small thing for God became a big thing for me that day. I thank Him for caring about even the smallest things in our lives. And for showing up.
Blue Ribbon News special contributor Patti Richter of Heath is a journalist who writes news and feature stories, book reviews and more for Christian publications.
Read more by Patti Richter:
Does your faith travel?
Mother of the Graduate
The God who heals
Not forgetting the least of these
Beholding wonders
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