The joy of having genius prodigy is the development of the mad scientist, although Daniel stops short of monster creations, concluding, “Dad’s enough Frankenstein for one family.”
“Thanks,” I’m thinking, “I love you too, son.”
However one can never stop Daniel scrounging for those gadgets for his “time machine” procured from garbage tips, garage sales, and op shops. To his mother’s disgust there’s always wire; greasy, rusted cogs, and foul smelling items traipsing through her front door to Daniel’s den. Finally the day came.
“I’ve done it dad,” Daniel enthused, “I’ve built my time machine.”
We proceeded to the front room to look at the contraption believed able to carry you through time, though you would not have thought so by its appearance.
“That will take you through time?” I was clearly not convinced.
“Yes,” Daniel enthused, “I have already been to the year eleven fifty where a young woman lay dying. I recognised her symptoms, came home, got the medicine and took it back to her. She was cured in a matter of days. A young boy complained of a headache and I gave him paracetamol, he was bright and happy in about fifteen minutes. The people thought I was a god who worked miracles so I got out of there fast. Look, here’s the goblet I gave her water for swallowing the medication.”
He held in his hand an earthen goblet anyone with a bit of knowledge could have made.
“Sigh,” what harm could come of it? “Ok, let’s play your game.”
“We’re going back to the year eight thousand BC,” he was excited; “We’re going to dress like they did so I got animal skins.”
He produced some horrible looking garments; oh how they scratched and itched. Where was my soft cotton? I must say the time machine was rather comfortable with arm chairs for the occupants. Grumbling about the skins I strapped in.
“Go,” Daniel yelled after some control adjustments slapping his hand down on the button.
There was an ear shattering explosion and I found myself lying in the charred remains of my skin clothes staring at the sky where the ceiling should have been.
“I wonder what happened there,” Daniel mumbled going to the time register.
“The year eight thousand BC did not exist,” he read, “Well so much for evolution.”
After extensive home repairs and more scrounging the “time machine” was restored.
“Um, Daniel,” Noreen cautioned, “Do you think this is wise?”
“Come on mum,” he responded, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“In your father’s bank account, I don’t think it could stand another explosion like that,” she replied.
“Into the future,” he cried, “Five thousand six hundred AD, Further than any man has gone.”
So into the chariot we climbed, all dressed in spandex with gold fish bowls on our heads. I would have preferred to just visit with my great, great grandchildren.
Once again the descending hand slap produced a resounding boom and there I lay: broken bowl sticking me in the eye and a second skin formed by melted plastic clinging to my legs.
“What happened?” Daniel was devastated.
The read out read, “This solar system no longer existed in that year.”
What had happened to the universe? It had burned with a fervent heat.
“Daniel,” I suggested to my ever loving son, “Perhaps we should just dress for God’s timeline and wait for it to unfold. All this dressing up for time travel with you really hurts.”
“What do you mean,” he enquired.
“Well the Bible encourages us to put on the garments of salvation and to clothe ourselves with humility. We can have your time travel fancy dress as we dress in the garments He has provided, and when His time unfolds we’ll travel through time and space into eternity and a new heaven and a new earth as he has promised,” I explained, “Please, no more time travel.”
“I guess you’re right, dad,” his shoulders drooped, “I doubt any time machine will ever get us there because it’s as Jesus said, no one comes to the Father but by me. Ok we’ll do it God’s way. No more junk in the house… that should make you happy mum.”
Noreen went over and gave him a generous hug and we began tidying up around our ruined home. I made a mental note to send a message to the Jetsons to give up on the idea of spandex and gold fish bowls. They’re an occupational health and safety hazard.
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