Trick or Treat?
Let’s hope they’ll be only treats, and not tricks this year,” I said to my husband.
“Just to be on the safe side, I’d like to get a spotlight mounted on the side of the house,” Paul said. “I don’t want to take any chances that this year it will be our car that gets sprayed with paint.”
I felt my stomach tighten into a knot. Halloween was anything but fun or funny in our neighborhood.
The next morning, I saw the tricks had already begun even though Halloween was two days away. Obscenities scribbled in soap covered our car windows. I grumbled to the Lord about “those kids” as I used a razor knife to scrape off the filthy words.
That evening was Mischief Night. Paul was determined not to have any more pranks. He mounted the new spotlight and left it on all night. He also kept the dog on the front porch. Several times he went outside to check on things, but everything was quiet.
To our relief, there was no sign of any more tricks the next morning. But later, when I was reaching into the mailbox, I felt something strange.
“A dead mouse!” I screeched.
Moments later, the phone rang. It was Paul calling from work.
“Our gas cap is missing, and shaving cream has been sprayed into the tank,” he said in a weary voice.
I felt my blood pressure leap. “Those kids! What’s the matter with their parents? If they can’t teach them to respect other’s property, why don’t they keep them in on Mischief Night? This wasn’t a prank. This was vandalism!”
“I’m going to talk to their parents,” Paul said.
“But they’ve never listened before. Besides,” I added, “we can’t prove anything. We can’t make enemies of our neighbors.”
“What are we supposed to do? Just let them get away with it?” Paul asked. “Next time they’ll only be bolder.
On Halloween night, we discovered that “the next time” already had happened. Something told Paul to go and check on our pop-up camper that was parked in the back yard. I came running when I heard him yelling for me. To my horror, his flashlight revealed holes had been poked in the roof.
“Oh no,” I groaned. We had insurance but, of course, we had opted for a high deductible to save money.
“You still don’t want me to talk to their parents?” Paul asked.
I sighed. I knew as well as he did which kids were responsible. Several of the teenagers on our block were running with a rough crowd. Increasingly, they had been mouthing off at me–probably because on several occasions I had dared to comment on their language and behavior.
“If you have to curse, you could at least go where there are no little ones around to mimic you,” I’d said. Another day I asked them to please move their bikes so I could pull into the driveway. “You also could turn that music down a little,” I’d added.
“What do you want–hymns?” one boy had snarled.
I was startled back to the present by my eight-year-old son tugging on my sleeve. “Look, Mom,” he whispered, pointing over to the tree. A doll was hanging by her neck from a limb. Her head was missing. “I don’t think I like Halloween tricks,” he said.
“I don’t either,” I said, my voice trembling with anger. But then my anger was replaced by fear as the beam of Paul’s flashlight fell on some numbers spray painted on the side of our house – 666.
“What are you going to do, Dad?” Robbie asked.
“I don’t know, Son. We have no proof to file formal charges.”
“Well, I know what I’m going to do,” I said. “If those kids are going to harass us, I’m going to harass them. Maybe they’ll realize it isn’t fun to play tricks when I start calling the police every time they get rowdy. I’ve overlooked a lot, but no longer.”
“But getting even won’t fix the roof of our camper,” Paul said quietly.”
“Aren’t we supposed to love our enemies?” Robbie asked.
Out of the mouth of babes, I thought as I bent down to hug him. “You’re right, Robbie,” I said, trying not to choke on the lump in my throat.
Halloween passed without any more incidences. Several days later, Paul mentioned what had happened to the father of one of the boys we suspected.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” the man said. “Halloween has gotten entirely out of hand. I made my son stay in.”
“Maybe we’re also judging the rest of them unjustly,” Paul said to me later. We agreed to let it drop, but I still felt angry every time I passed that group of boys hanging out on the corner.
But then God began nudging me to see them through his eyes. Finally I began to pray for them. To my surprise, I also began smiling at them. One day, I even stopped to talk to them–and not about a complaint.
It was a beginning.
In the months that followed, I saw my attitude, and theirs, slowly changing. Whenever possible, I stopped to talk to them. When they were rowdy, I didn’t say anything. I hoped that my silence was speaking louder than my previous words of condemnation.
It may be just my imagination or wishful thinking, but the boys seem to be swearing less. In any case, they no longer make smart remarks to me. And one of the boys often says hello to me and initiates a conversation. I have a feeling he’d like to be friends.
Halloween will soon be here again. I still dread it, but this year, with God’s help, I’m going to confront Halloween pranksters with love. I’ll show them that treats are better than tricks.
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