And Then There Was Ponybail Tand

How is it possible that we have arrived at this final moment? For years we lived with hangaburs, peasghetti, arts and crabs, aminals, and other delightful, childish mispronunciations. Each of these had its day of glory and then passed away in its time. Now we are down to just one – "Ponybail Tand."

Lillian’s hair is too short to ever need a ponytail band, but sometimes she wants one when she is playing one of her complex games with her stuffed animals and her little toy horses. She will burst out of her room, impatiently asking if anyone has a ponybail tand. There’s something about this that reminds me of Moe Szyslak on the Simpsons, clutching the phone and desperately shouting to his bar patrons, “Is there an Al Caholic here?” while everyone laughs.

The older girls snicker behind their fingers and hand one over. She doesn’t notice the giggling because her mind is still wrapped up in the drama unfolding back in her room. Love Monkey is having tea with the Big Horse, only the horse needs her tail wrapped up with a ponybail tand because it’s a fancy affair and even the Valentine Doggy has been invited.

The two older sisters have been warned, on pain of immediate death, never to say it correctly in her presence. I’m afraid if she ever hears “Ponytail band,” the spell will be broken and the whole family will be forced to board the ship that is even now ready to set sail upon the turbulent waters of girlish adolescence. My oldest boarded this ship a few years ago, and I will allow that she seems to be doing fine. The middle one finally released her white-knuckle grip on the railing and went aboard, though I notice with pleasure that she still has her blankie tucked under her arm.

Little Lillian holds our last lifeline, and the name of that blessed tether is “Ponybail Tand.”

Gracious and loving Heavenly Father, please do not send me to Nineveh today. I’ll gladly go tomorrow, or better yet, some unspecified day in the future, but not today. I will not get on the boat bound for Tarshish, but neither am I ready to leave these shores. I plan to do your bidding, eventually, but if you try to drag me onto this ship, I will make a terrible scene. I will shout and cry aloud. My fingernails will rip ugly furrows into the dock.

Today, just for today, let your servant hear again those blessed words that I love. Let me hear her say, “Ponybail Tand” just one more time. I have left ponytail bands lying in strange places in her room. I even put one around her toe one night when she was asleep in hopes that she would wake up the next morning and say, “Hey, who put this ponybail tand here?”

But she is silent. In the morning, she removed the ponytail band from her toe with a puzzled look but said nothing. I’m afraid she is suspicious. I’m afraid she has seen the older girls giggling after all and knows there is something wrong with the way she says it. The whistle is blowing and they are announcing the final boarding call. I am holding tight to my last lifeline, but I feel it growing slack in my hands.

     For everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
     A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted.
     A time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
     A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain.
     A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
                                                               Ecclesiastes

For everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. These things I have known since I was a young man in the faith. But somehow I am never ready.

rlp

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