[Paladin54]

A few months before I was born, my dad met a stranger who was new to our
town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting
newcomer, and soon invited him to live with our family.
The stranger was
quickly accepted and was around to welcome me into the world a few months
later.

As I grew up I never questioned his place in our family. Mom taught me to
love the Word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it. But the stranger was
our storyteller. He could weave the most fascinating tales. Adventures,
mysteries, and comedies were daily conversations. He could hold our whole
family spellbound for hours each evening.

He was like a friend to the whole family. He took Dad, Bill, and me to our
first major league baseball game. He was always encouraging us to see the
movies and he even made arrangements to introduce us to several movie
stars.

The stranger was an incessant talker. Dad didn't seem to mind, but
sometimes Mom would quietly get up - while the rest of us were enthralled
with one of his stories of faraway places - go to her room, read her
Bible, and pray. I wonder now if she ever prayed that the stranger would
leave.

You see, my dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions. But
this stranger never felt an obligation to honor them. Profanity, for
example, was not allowed in our house-not from us, from our friends, or
adults. Our longtime visitor, however, used occasional four letter words
that burned my ears and made Dad squirm. To my knowledge the stranger was never confronted.

My Dad was a teetotaler who didn't permit alcohol in his home not even for
cooking. But the stranger felt like we needed exposure and enlightened us
to other ways of life. He offered us beer and other alcoholic beverages
often. He made cigarettes look tasty, cigars manly, and pipes
distinguished. He talked freely (too much, too freely) about sex. His
comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally
embarrassing. I know now that my early concepts of the man/woman
relationship were influenced by the stranger.

As I look back, I believe it was the grace of God that the stranger did
not influence us more. Time after time he opposed the values of my
parents, yet he was seldom rebuked and never asked to leave.

More than thirty years have passed since the stranger moved in with the
young family on Morningside Drive. But if I were to walk into my parents'
den today, you would still see him sitting over in a corner, waiting for
someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.

His name?......We always just called him...TV.

Judy Boyne