My daddy cursed me. Not with foul language, but a curse nonetheless. Years and years ago, he said two things: “I hope you have a child just like you,” and “I hope you have a kid that pays for your raising.”

 

I’m still a little bit miffed at that. I was not nearly as difficult as my brother and sisters. Nevertheless, his curse has mostly come true.

 

Sometime in the summer after my first or second grade, I attended Bible camp for the first time. My mother gave me strict instructions to brush my teeth and change my underwear every day—and I did. Unfortunately, she never mentioned anything about taking a bath.

 

I’m told that when they picked me up after a week of camp, riding back home with me on a two-hour trip was an entirely unpleasant experience. I had become a fragrant offering that was flagrantly bad. I’m also told that after my father gagged our way home, Mom gave me numerous baths until the water ran clean.

 

In case you are wondering, I’m not that odorous boy anymore. I have learned how to take frequent showers. In this Mississippi heat, sometimes twice a day, so there’s that.

 

But back to the story and parental payback. Years and years later, we drove to Grenada to watch a son play football. It was August, and global warming was in full effect—at least that day at that field.

 

Sitting in the stands was like staking out a place in the biblical fiery furnace. In case my imagery fails to convince you, it was indeed hot. As the old timers would say, it was hotter than blue blazes. I don’t know what a blue blaze is, but I suspect you are getting my point: it was hot. And if it was hot in the stands, those poor boys in full football combat gear were working up an onerous sweat.

 

Unfortunately, the game didn’t end until the fiery depths of Gehenna had depleted its fuel. And because it was a school night (and he was hungry), our son elected to ride home with us. Two things of import: I’m not sure we are allowed back into McAllister’s in Grenada without a full health inspection or a hazmat suit. I drove the rest of the way home with my head out the window. You could not convince me that a skunk and a buzzard were not unseen stowaways that evening.

 

Payback? That went beyond anything my father could have cursed me with. Some of my nose hairs never grew back. I lost my sense of taste for a week or two. My gag reflex was permanently lowered.

 

Yes, I’m having fun with this column. And yes, I hope you took a moment to smile, laugh and maybe remember your own odorous experiences.

 

But aside from the stinky business, consider your scent or what your life smells like. Is it one of joy, peace, mercy, and grace, or the smell of death and decay?

 

“For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing.” (2 Corinthians 2:15)