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It all started with the brick barbecue pit dad built in the backyard. Then came the big heavy picnic table he constructed and painted bright white. Then, of course, the picnic table called out for mom’s red and white checked tablecloth. And then…it was a party. The flies arrived first, of course…buzzing around rudely as if to ask, “Is it ready yet?” The ants were only slightly more polite. There were hotdogs and hamburgers to roast over the open fire. The smoke hung thick in the air and stung our eyes….a small price to pay for the flavor. The scent of barbecue wafted through the neighborhood and enticed the passersby to stop momentarily and take it in before they strolled on. (Of course, had I known then that the grill had begun life as the grate to our old floor furnace, I might not have been so keen on it. My folks recycled before it was fashionable.)

There were brightly colored aluminum glasses filled with iced tea, sweet and cold. There were tiny gherkins and sliced tomatoes. Mom usually opened a can or two of pork n’ beans, and although ordinary, they somehow became fine dining fare when served on red and white table linens. There was a tall yellow cardboard box of Kas Potato Chips, (a brand I haven’t thought of in years), a treat we were afforded only occasionally. But this was the 4th of July…a day worthy of potato chips. We ate and talked and laughed.

There was a 50’s style backyard swing set where two metal seats hung by heavy chains and the sketchy remains of orangey-red paint brightened the dull steel. There was a two-person apparatus that mom always called a see-saw that I rode with my little sister, Sheryl. I could swing all day long and never grow tired. I would swing high and then low. I would stop and just sit and daydream making circles in the dirt with my toes. I would swing sideways and make figure-eights. Then I would lay back almost flat in the swing, close my eyes and concentrate on the whoosh of air against my bare feet. I would let my hair drag the dirt…at least for a while…until I was snapped back to reality by a hearty, “Janice Lorraine, stop that.” There was a heavy metal sliding board that could be rather treacherous after it sat in the hot sun, but it was worth the risk of a blister. My brother, Bill, showed me how to polish the slide with waxed paper to add a little “excitement” to my descent.

After playing for a while and letting lunch settle, there was watermelon and what my dad called ice cream “sodies”. Orange, grape, or strawberry cream soda floated scoops of vanilla ice cream in those same aluminum glasses that Mom fitted with little knit “sweaters” to keep our hands from freezing. It was what Heaven was made of as far as I was concerned, and I always removed the last bit of it by the “scrape and slurp” method.

As evening began to fall, the anticipation grew for that night’s finale – the fireworks display. Dad would tend to the coals in the barbecue pit while mom packed away what was left of the food and carried it into the house. It was time for the celestial shift change. The sun clocked out. The moon clocked in. The mosquitoes who slept through the afternoon’s festivities were now awake and had a voracious appetite.

We headed around to the front of the house to take our places on the front steps, while the neighbors found their best vantage point. The kids next door walked around with sparklers – something Mom deemed just too dangerous for an eight year old. My brother, Bill, six years my senior, was allowed to escape the confines of the picket fence to sit ever so carefully on the trunk of Dad’s old green ’54 Olds to await the “spectacular”. As soon as it was totally dark, the northwest sky was ablaze with cascading stars of red and blue, and huge bright yellow and pink chrysanthemum bursts. I clapped my hands over my ears in anticipation of the whistle, the boom, and the trailing crackle. There were spinning pinwheels and more cascading stars. Some would shoot high into the night sky, while some seemed to barely clear the trees. Some would be just a white flash, a boom, and a puff of smoke. I was certainly no pyrotechnics expert, but I knew a dud when I saw one.

After the final crescendo, we would head into the house with our ears still ringing, still chattering about how “neat” it all was. It had been a good day.

It never ceases to amaze me all the memories that our minds store away, catalog, and then retrieve with just a little coaxing. I hadn’t thought about those times for years. Then suddenly, there it was. And if I close my eyes and run the action reel, I’m right there – eight years old and not a care in the world.

With the upcoming 4th of July holiday, I began to think about those times and for the first time ever began to wonder about the fireworks, the ones that were duds. What made some of them soar upward and burst so beautifully, perfectly timed and spaced, and others barely launch at all. What made some a dud?

It seems to me that when the crates of fireworks are trucked down to the river and unpacked on the barge, even though they are packaged and categorized differently, they all have one thing in common – potential. Some are intended to be those big bright chrysanthemums or starry cascades or maybe even pinwheels. But I’m convinced that none are intended to be duds.

What happens? Well, I’m told that one or more things can happen to create a “dud”. First of all, there could be a problem with the chemical balance.
Something’s just all wrong in the mix. Too much this – not enough that. Secondly, the fuse or wick could be defective, broken, or improperly placed, or there could be a void between the fuse and the explosive charge because the fuse is just too short. Third, the fireworks could have gotten wet or taken on moisture while in storage or in shipment.

I wonder if we as Christians have the same type of problems that prevent us from being all that God intended us to be. Maybe there’s something wrong with our formula…too much television – not enough prayer, too many trips to the mall – not enough Bible reading. Or maybe our spiritual fuse just doesn’t go deep enough or there’s a void of apathy that either prevents the spark of revival or allows us to burn out too quickly. Maybe we’ve taken on the “moisture” of this world – allowed things to seep in that neutralize our effectiveness.

The Lord said that we would be endued with “power”, and I believe He intended for us to strive to live up to our potential. I don’t want to be a “dud”. Do you?

Happy 4th of July!

Janice Crow

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