“The ‘Broken Boy’” Friend, Aug. 2003, 42
One day, my grandchildren, Seth, Cole, and Paige, were visiting me. Paige and I were playing a game in our downstairs family room. Seth and Cole were upstairs in the living room, playing “cars.” They were taking turns to see whose car could go the fastest and farthest.
I didn’t actually know what they were doing until Seth came downstairs and said, “Grandma, you need to come upstairs for a few minutes.”
I went upstairs, and he pointed to my favorite porcelain figurine of two boys playing marbles. “Grandma,” he said, “my car accidentally hit the figurine and broke the head off the boy.”
I was pretty upset, and he knew it. But I said, “Maybe my superglue will fix it.” We got it out, and I was able to very carefully mend the figurine. I didn’t tell Seth how proud I was of him for admitting what he had done, because I was still upset. Both boys know that they shouldn’t play cars in the living room!
The next day, after Seth had gone back home to Idaho (I live in Logan, Utah), I started to think about how much courage it must have taken him to choose the right and tell me the truth about the broken boy.
I wrote him a letter right away and told him so, and that I was proud of him. He could have blamed it on Cole, or he could have never told me at all. I also told him how glad I was that only a porcelain figurine had been broken and not his testimony of choosing the right.