Phil,

That was such a good story.  The best thing about it is the truth in it.

Vicki

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Phil Scovell" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, December 30, 2006 5:59 PM
Subject: Full Story


>I have no idea why only the beginning part of my article appeared.  This
> should be the complete version.
>
> I Killed My Best Friend
>
> By Phil Scovell
>
>
>
>
>
>
>     I was born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa.  Every year, my
> parents took us to the Iowa State Fair.  As a little boy it was an
> amazing place to visit.  The rides on the Midway, the snow cones,
> the hot dogs, the farm animals, the tractor pulls, the full sized
> replica of a cow carved from butter and displayed behind a glass
> refrigerated showcase, the fireworks, the balloon man, the
> demolition derby car races, and the special guests that always
> came to the Iowa State Fair defied a little boys imagination.
>
>     I was only about 2 years old at the time, maybe 3 perhaps,
> when Roy Rogers came to the fair.  Following his performance, he
> came around the fence and as thousands of us stuck our little
> hands through the wires, he shook hands.  As my sister held me up,
> I actually got to touch his sleeve, believe it or not, and I
> remember it as though it were yesterday.
>
>     We never spent much money at the fair because dad said
> everything was too expensive.  Just going, however, was always a
> thrill because there were many free things to see.
>
>     The most exciting experience I ever had at the fair became a
> annual tradition.  We were walking down one of the sidewalks on
> our way to find our car and to go home, when we innocently passed
> a man on the sidewalk selling something.  I never even paid any
> attention to what he was selling because, as I said, we often
> didn't get much at the fair.  I was the closest to him and the
> man reached over and placed a small green lizard on my right
> shoulder.  It had a string loosely tied about its neck and there
> was a safety pin tied to the other end of the string.  The
> salesman quickly pinned the chameleon to my shirt and said, "Say
> little feller.  That looks great on you.  Wouldn't you like for
> your dad to buy you this little lizard as your pet?  They are only
> a dollar.  Surely your dad can afford a dollar."  I had never been
> so excited in my life.  I don't recall if I began jumping up and
> down but I felt like it inside.  I began begging my dad like never
> before, or after, to please let me have him for a pet.  That old
> sidewalk barker sure knew his stuff.  There was no way my dad
> could say no so I went home with a little box that had a clear
> plastic window in the front, air holes punched in the sides of the
> small box, and my first chameleon lizard inside.  I was in love.
>
>     From then on, I was always asking how soon before the fair
> came back to town.  "I want another lizard.  Can you buy me
> another lizard this year, dad?" I always asked long before the
> fair came.  I wanted to make certain dad promised to get me one.
> They never lived through the cold Iowa winters so I had to get a
> new one each summer.
>
>     I soon determined that dad liked the chameleons as much as I
> did because he always helped me take care of them.  He even got an
> encyclopedia out and read up on what they eat and how to care for
> the chameleons and that just wasn't like my dad at all.
>
>     The first one we brought home, dad pinned the safety pin at
> the other end of the string to one of mom's artificial plants she
> kept in a bowl.  Dad had read that the lizards lick the dew from
> the leaves of plants for water so he would sprinkle water on that
> artificial plant and we would watched the lizard lick the plastic
> leaves.
>
>     The next year, we tried something new.  With the new lizard
> in hand, we opened a side window, one on either side of our living
> room picture window, and let the lizard climb onto the screen.
> Pulling the window down, he could stay in their all day eating
> flies until he just couldn't stand it any longer.  He also could
> not get out unless we opened the inside window so we removed his
> string leash.  He could then climb up and down the screen as much
> as he desired.
>
>     I played with my chameleon frequently.  I would ride my bike
> out in the street in front of our home.  It was a quiet side
> street and I would pin the lizard to one of my shirt pockets and
> stick him inside.  As I would ride around, he would climb out of
> my pocket and up my chest until he was partially beneath my
> collar.  On one occasion, I was riding my bike and wearing a dark
> rusty red shirt.  That lizard changed to the deepest color of red
> I had ever seen before and you could hardly notice him peaking out
> from under my collar as I rode because his color was so much like
> my shirt.
>
>     I experimented with the various colors my chameleons could
> imitate.  I could get them, by placing them on different colors,
> to change from a very pale green to a deep dark, almost black at
> times, leafy green.  I learned various ways to change his color
> from a light tan to a dark earthy umber brown.  As I already
> mentioned, even placing him on something dark red would make him
> slowly change colors to almost a copperish mahogany.  My dad
> taught me that God made them this way so they could hide from
> their predators.  "Predators?" I said; puzzled.  Dad explained
> that meant other animals that wanted to eat them.  "Eat them?
> Like what," I said with some alarm.  Dad explained bigger lizards,
> maybe snakes, and things like that.  "I won't let my lizard get
> eaten by anything," I vowed.
>
>     Every summer became more exciting than the prior.  I would
> get a new lizard, learn more about them, and take him everywhere I
> went.  I even took him in the car once to Kansas when mom and I
> drove down to see her sisters.  He loved the trip and the hot
> weather.  He especially enjoyed the Kansas flies for supper I
> discovered.
>
>     One day, when I was still quite young, I learned my lizard
> could run.  That wasn't the word for it.  They could dark quickly
> from one side of the room to the other in a split second.  My
> lizards became my number one hobby.  I studied them carefully and
> knew how they could stay in one position for hours, if need be,
> their thin skin slowly changing colors to match their current
> environment.  After remaining what appeared to be motionless for
> prolonged periods of time, you suddenly realized they had actually
> been moving closer to their prey all the time.  Flicking their
> long sticky tongue out, they would snag an unsuspecting fly and
> make it disappear so fast, you could hardly believe there had even
> been a fly there in the first place.
>
>     When I discovered how fast they could move, I took him out of
> the window one day without his string collar.  We had gotten so we
> never used the string collar much any more since he lived all
> summer in the closed window where he could keep the window frame
> clean of flies and spiders for us.
>
>     Getting on my knees, I would hold my lizard in my hand and
> slowly place him on the floor.  I would speak to him and encourage
> him to run.  Eventually, he realized he wasn't hooked to his
> string and he would dart across the room.  I scrambled after him
> on hands and knees as fast as I could go.  He'd stop, I'd pick him
> up and talk to him, and then would sit him on the floor pointing
> in the other direction.  He eventually would dart across the room
> with me on hands and knees in hot pursuit.  Man, was I having fun.
>
>     I can remember this day as clearly as any memory in my life.
> It was fun watching my pet lizard darting back and forth in my
> mother's living room, and the fact he would let me pick him up
> now and hold him and talk to him was thrilling, to say the least,
> to a 6 year old boy.  Then tragedy struck.
>
>     My lizard was on the floor next to me.  I was excited and
> encouraging him to, "1, 2, 3, go!"  I had to repeat it sometimes
> because he didn't always run when I instructed him.  Sometimes I
> might have to poke him gently in the side until he got the
> message.  Bang!  He shot across the room faster than ever before
> and I chased in on hands and knees.  This time, he stopped after
> only a yard or so and I was going way too fast.  You guessed it.
> I squashed my little friend flat as a pancake with one of my
> knees.  My mother came running it to see what was wrong.  She
> tried everything to console me but nothing worked.  We couldn't go
> get another one because the fair had left town.  I circled the
> outside of our house for hours crying and crying and repeating
> over and over again, "I killed my best friend; I killed my best
> friend."
>
>     Few people could identify with such a story but to me, all
> such creatures were wonderful.  Snakes, frogs, crickets, bugs of
> all types, minnows, small bullheads we kept in a trash can full of
> water, cats, dogs, horses, birds, rabbits, squirrels, butterflies,
> dragon flies, fish of all sizes, grasshoppers, bumble bees, honey
> bees, worms, caterpillars, ants, tadpoles, animals of all sizes,
> and just about anything else you might want to name, I liked.  I
> liked to collect them, watch them, and see how they lived.  So,
> when I killed my most favorite pet of all, the chameleon, I was as
> crushed as he was laying on that living room floor.
>
>     This memory was not just mine alone; it was well known by my
> whole family.  It was often mentioned during family get togethers
> and it was talked about how upset I was and how I roamed around
> and around the outside of our home as I cried and repeated over
> and over again, "I killed my best friend."
>
>     this memory often came to mind, too.  I never disliked it as
> a memory but it was the deep sorrow I felt as a little boy killing
> the thing that I loved so much.  Still, I never thought there was
> anything wrong with this memory.  After all, it was just a memory
> and it had been an accident.  Then why did the memory return to my
> thoughts hundreds of times over the years?
>
>     Recently, this memory came to mind and it dawned on me that
> perhaps there was something there the Lord wanted me to see.  I
> briefly stopped what I was doing, and said, "Lord, is there
> something in this childhood reoccurring memory I need to know
> about?"  I watched the memory play out in my mind.  I saw the
> carnage I had created.  I felt the hot tears, the broken heart,
> and the horrible disappointment that it would be an entire year
> before I could get another pet lizard.  I let myself see the
> lifeless body of the tiny lizard.  I watched a little broken
> hearted boy walk around and around the house as he cried and cried
> wishing his little friend could come back.
>
>     Suddenly, as I viewed the memory in my mind, Jesus said in my
> thoughts, "How did you feel?"
>
>     "Broken and alone," I said in my own thoughts woodenly.
>
>     "Why?" I heard his question form in my thoughts.
>
>     I knew He was not accusing me or trying to point out it was
> just an accident.  That would not have, then, or now made me feel
> any better.  So I looked into the memory again and saw myself in
> the living room and felt the revulsion of the dead body of the
> little lizard.  In my thoughts, I whispered the little thoughts of
> a sadden boy, "Because I loved him."
>
>     I know most reading this story won't believe what I'm about
> to say now nor do I care.  What Jesus spoke to me at that very
> moment, however, broke some bondage in my life that I never knew
> existed and blocked the love Jesus has for me.  when Jesus asked
> me why, I realized the pain I felt as a little boy was a golden
> opportunity for the Enemy to plant bad seed, that is, a lie of
> some kind in a little boy's thoughts.  So I looked around in the
> memory and saw the truth for what it was.  I loved my little
> lizard as only a little boy could.  No one really cared how much I
> loved my pet lizard.  At least I thought no one cared.  When I saw
> what the Enemy was trying to destroy, the love a little boy had in
> his heart for something as ugly as a lizard, I heard Jesus say, "I
> loved him, too."
>
>     As you read this simple child's story of how one of his pets
> died, and for whose death he was responsible, it would be easy to
> miss the point of the story.  Yes, it is true that Jesus loves all
> his creation.  How could He not as the Creator of all things.
> When he spoke to me as I dug into the painfulness of this memory,
> I saw the little boy in the living room, his pet dead at his feet,
> but I also saw Jesus standing to the side of that little boy,
> bending over and saying, "I loved him, too."  He meant, of course,
> "I loved him, too, just like you loved him."  The words Jesus
> spoke in my mind, however, were far beyond His love for that tiny
> lizard.  Jesus was saying, "I love you, little boy, and I love
> what you love.  I want to be with you.  I want to do what you do.
> I want to be your friend.  I want to love you."
>
>     17  Herein is our love made perfect, that we may have
> boldness in the day of judgment: because as he is, so are we in
> this world.
> 18  There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear:
> because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in
> love,  (First John 4:17-18).