Y’all know the drill – grab the code from under the True Story Tuesday button on the right sidebar, paste it into your post somewhere - come back and link up and we’ll be around for some comment love!
Rules are easy – and you’ve probably already gotten a post written about some family legend that qualifies as amazing/miraculous/hilarious/outrageous and (mostly) true!
This week brought to you by the extremely old chick who was just outed by her little sister’s birthday card envelope. Read on if you dare.
The Karate Kid
Remember the little blurb about how TST tales are often those stories that get retold at every family gathering?
As sweet as my sister is, she has quite a mischievous streak.
(Don’t believe me? This was taken at a formal tea at CHURCH – even May-May was aghast!)
Anyhoo… I turned a year older last week. No biggie right?
Except that my lovely and creative sibling decided to turn my birthday card envelope into a collection of digs.
I know you believe me this time. But here’s a peek:
Let me explain:
Old Geezer: pretty self-explanatory
Stocky-Legs: a snide reference to my teen angst over my muscular quads in comparison to my skinny ankles
Dancin Queen: Hey, a nice nickname
She-She: My actual nickname according to her daughters – I love it.
Pee-Pee: “She-She” means “pee-pee” in Japanese and Hawaiian – I do not love that.
Poopbutt: Only a sibling knows that this can often be a term of endearment
Rache & Sista: More true nicknames
Mother of a Little Angel Who Says You Have a BIG …? : This totally needs its own post, and it’s hilariously not what you’d expect. Thanks for mentioning that on my birthday card, Poopbutt.
And the TST-worthy one:
KARATE EXPERT - defending helpless little sisters and scared cousins from creepy old men. HYAH!
It was a
dark and stormy night blissfully sunny day. We were at a campground for a day and a cousin had come to visit. I was the oldest at a rockin’ 12 years old. Cousin Banana (yes, we honestly called her that) was a year younger, and Ju brought up the rear at 8 years old.
We had just gotten my mother’s rare approval to walk a quick loop of a tourist trail by ourselves. (Saying that my mother was a wee bit protective would be like suggesting my husband is a wee bit ornery…)
So off we went on our little 15 minute “hike” within a stone’s throw of our campsite. We dutifully stopped at each little sign that proclaimed the wonders of the vegetation and spelled each mushroom variety out in painful Latin.
At about the third little sign, all three of us suddenly startled. The bushes in front of us moved as we stood frozen in fear.
(And right here is where the story turns from just plain scary, to full out creepy.)
An older man rose from the middle of the bushes, smiled and said in a singsong voice:
hello, hello, hello…
It freaked us the heck out.
And being such well-mannered girls, we stammered out “hello?” and hurried along the path in a tight little gaggle.
I hadn’t quite understood what the girls were whispering about when suddenly on the right of the trail, the bushes ahead moved in perfect deja vu.
One again, the man popped up and smiled eerily at us.
hello, hello, hello…
Scared in earnest, we hugged the left side of the trail and practically ran from him.
The girls were nearly hysterical and all I could finally make out, is that the sound they’d been whispering about was the man zipping and unzipping his pants as he watched us.
Truly freaked by this point, we continued the pace and UNBELIEVABLY…
the man popped up in front of us yet again with the exact same routine.
hello, hello, hello… zip, unzip, zip, unzip
and we lost it.
We ran down the trail as fast as our kiddie legs could take us.
We ran down the trail until… oh wait. Where is that trail?
We were so thoroughly panicked, that we’d managed to somehow take a wrong turn and our “trail” slowly disappeared into heavy underbrush. We ran on, through tangles of nettles and scratches of blackberry bushes.
And when we finally had to admit that we were far, far from the tourist loop, we were all in hysterics. But I was the oldest, so I needed to somehow figure a way to keep us safe.
I had nothing. All my 12-year old mind could think of was pure bravado. We were hopelessly lost, with some psycho stalker, and we had no way to defend ourselves.
The girls were crying and I was two seconds away from joining them. My heart was hammering in my throat and I did the only thing that came to mind.
I forced my shaky voice to a yell and hollered the scariest thing I could think of.
Picture a skinny 12-year old:
I KNOW KARATE! I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU!
I didn't know karate.
And I was scared out of my mind.
Banana and Ju could barely talk around crying - and no one was coming up with any better ideas.
So I pretended to know what I was doing. I boldly continued along the non-path and the girls followed. Wracking my brain for anything that would calm us all down, I weakly started to sing.
Yes, Jesus Loves Me.
Yes, Jesus Loves Me.
Yes, Jesus Loves Me. The Bible tells me so.
The girls quietly joined in and as we trudged through the underbrush, it became our little anthem of courage.
We walked what seemed like hours. There was absolutely nothing familiar and we alternated between meadows and treed areas. We looked around constantly - waiting for Mr. Zipper to pop up from behind every brush.
Finally the trees cleared again and across the meadow we saw the first sign of civilization.
We broke into a run, the wind drying our tear-stained faces.
We ran to a huge building with a metal roof and our footsteps echoed on the concrete.
Long tables were arranged in rows, and what must have been a cook finally stepped out from a doorway.
Would you believe we had managed to stumble across a Christian camp in the middle of nowhere? She pointed us to public camp area and we begrudgingly left her company.
As campers and tents came into view, we were surprised by how close we were. It was a huge shock to realize that we had literally walked (or rather ran) around the entire lake in our panic.
You can imagine the jumble that spilled out of three terrified girls' mouths. The park rangers were called, Mama Bear was sufficiently rattled.
To this day, my sister still cannot resist teasing me about my earnest claim to martial arts skill.
But we are both thankful for God's protection - that it never got past hello, hello, hello.
Seriously. I creeped myself out writing this. Got any amazing stories of being protected from dangerous situations? Miraculous rescues? Or something so outrageous it needs to be shared to be believed?
Join up and put the links to work for you! :)