I was around six years old when my father said he needed to leave me home alone for a few minutes while he handled some business. He cautioned me to be on my best behavior, and I promised him I would.
As soon as he pulled out of the driveway, I went looking for trouble. Special trouble. The kind a child can only get into when left unattended for a substantial amount of time.
I found my father’s gun. It was a pistol, a six-shooter. That’s all I can say about it as I don’t know anything about guns.
I wasn’t sure where to aim it. I didn’t want to leave a hole or gash or any other evidence that I had tampered with it. I decided to stand at the top of the stairs and shoot into the living room. That was the best compromise my six-year-old brain could come up with it. I pulled back the safety and squeezed the trigger.
I remember seeing the fire come from the barrel and being jolted backward.
I went downstairs and searched for the bullet–the tattletale–but could not find it. I raced back upstairs to my father’s box of ammunition, hoping to replace the fired bullet so he wouldn’t notice it was missing.
I opened the cylinder (I just looked up that word. Seriously, I know nothing about guns) and much to my surprise, all six bullets were still inside.
Later, I told my sister what I had done. She fiercely scolded me, warning that the bullet could have ricocheted and killed me. Perhaps it was God’s Grace that kept the bullet from coming out.
I was reminded of that incident while recently watching The West Wing (yes, again). Usually, the media depict firing a gun as easy. You just pick it up and fire away. I love that this scene shows that it’s actually pretty hard to shoot a gun. Not just the aiming but the strong kick from it. In this scene, it literally knocked (tall ass) CJ to the floor. I appreciate the honesty.
